Sheriff on the Spot (10 page)

“I ain't rightly sure. But I'm takin' out after 'em. An' you can tell the people in town that Pat Stevens promises 'em he'll have the money stole from the bank when he comes back.”

“You got a line on 'em, Pat? You know where to go?”

“I got a line on 'em. And I'm goin' alone.” Pat spurred his horse and slowly pushed through the group of riders.

They didn't hold him back for any more questions. Pat Stevens' word was good with those men and they were willing to let him ride on alone if that was the way he wanted it.

Pat put his horse to a steady lope after he left the posse behind him. His body was slumped in the saddle, welded to the easy movement of his mount. He met no one along the road, held the same even pace until a light in the front window of his ranch house came into view.

The sight of that lighted window brought a lump into Pat Stevens' throat. It meant that Sally was waiting up for him, as she had so often waited up for his return in the turbulent past. He dreaded what he had to tell her tonight. Not that Sally wouldn't understand. She always understood. That was what amazed and humbled Pat. In the past, he'd made the mistake of trying to hide things from her, things that he thought a woman would be happier not knowing. Always, though, she had managed to get the truth from him somehow, and he'd always been glad in the end that she had.

He slowed his horse to a trot, and headed down past the big barn and corrals to the unlighted bunkhouse. Pat was not the kind of a rancher who expected a hired man to care for his horse when he came in, but tonight was different. He had a lot of things to do, and he'd already wasted too much time.

He swung off at the door of the bunkhouse, opened it and called in a low voice, “Anybody awake?”

“Yeh. That you, boss?” a young voice responded almost instantly.

“Curly?”

“Yeh. It's me, Pat. Somethin' wrong?”

“I've got some hard ridin' to do,” Pat said quietly. “Wish you'd get up an' help me, Curly.”

“You bet.” There was a creak of bedsprings. “What you want I should do?”

“Unsaddle this hawse an' turn him in the corral. Then catch out—lemme see, Curly—is that big roan in the corral tonight?”

“Big Red? Yeh. He ain't been rode for a week. You want him saddled?”

“Sure do, Curly. An' pick out a good lead hawse to go along. One that'll trail with a pack-saddle an' carry me if I have to change. Throw a pack-saddle on him an' tie on that bedroll behind my saddle. Then gather me up some campin' stuff, Curly, a frypan an' coffee pot—not much, but enough to keep me goin' a few days. I'll bring down some grub from the house an' be ready to pull out in half an hour.”

“Look, boss. If you want some company—”

“Nope. I'm ridin' alone, Curly.”

Pat turned and strode away from the bunkhouse, up the gentle slope leading to the pleasant ranch house which Sally had turned into a real home during the ten years they had lived there.

Sally jumped up from a low rocking chair by the huge stone fireplace when Pat opened the door. She spilled some sewing out of her lap onto the floor, but disregarded it as she turned to smile at Pat.

Her years of marriage had been kind to Sally Stevens. Her hair was still bright golden, and her eyes danced as eagerly at sight of her husband as those of a young girl might dance at sight of her lover. Her face was unlined, a little fuller than when Pat first met her, and much more beautiful. The slim, girlish slenderness of her body had rounded into soft maturity with the passing years, but her step was elastic as she came toward him holding out both hands, and her voice was vibrant and strong. “I almost went to sleep by the fire waiting for you, darling. What kept you so long in town?”

Pat tossed his hat on a chair and caught his wife up in his arms. He put his cheek against her golden hair and muttered, “Gosh, you smell good, Sally. No perfume neither.”

She twisted away from him, laughing gaily. “What would I want with perfume? Soap and water is best.”

He said, “Some folks think they need perfume,” and went past her to poke a smoldering log into flame in the big fireplace.

“I've got some hot cookies in the warming oven. And I'll get a glass of cold milk. We'll have a little party, darling, to celebrate your becoming a private citizen again.”

Warming his hands over the fire, Pat said, “Hot cookies will taste mighty good, Sally. But, how about coffee instead of cold milk.”

“You know coffee keeps you awake, Pat.”

Without turning from the fire, he said gently, “That's why I want coffee tonight, old lady.”

Sally paled a trifle and caught her underlip between white teeth. When Pat called her “old lady” in that gentle tone, she knew she was going to dread what he was going to tell her. She started to reply, then shook her bright head resolutely and said, “All right. I'll put the coffee pot right on.”

She went into the kitchen quietly and began to put kindling on the hot coals in the big wooden range. Pat waited until she had left the living room, then went through another door into the rear bedroom they occupied together and lifted his saddle gun in its leather boot down from a nail in the wall.

He carried it back into the living room and pulled the short rifle from its leather sheath, was examining the loading mechanism carefully when Sally re-entered the room.

She stopped in the doorway, and her eyes filled with fright when she saw what her husband was doing. She hesitated a moment, then came forward with a forced smile on her lips. “What is it, Pat? I thought you'd be done with night-riding when you turned your sheriff's badge over to Jeth Purdue.”

Satisfied that the carbine was in perfect condition, Pat restored it to the leather boot. He said, “I've still got my badge.” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled it out, let his eyes brood down on it. It seemed to him that it didn't shine as brightly as it had earlier in the evening, as though the insensate metal itself had somehow become tarnished by what he had done that night.

Sally's eyes dilated when she saw the badge. She asked sharply, “Why didn't you give it to Mr. Purdue as you planned?”

Pat said, “Jeth Purdue is dead.” He slowly slid the badge back in his pocket.

“Dead?” Sally reached out to catch hold of his arm. “Tell me, Pat. Something dreadful has happened.”

“Pretty bad.” He nodded. “Wait'll you bring the coffee an' cookies in, Sally. Then I'll tell you all about it when we're settled.”

As she turned to go back into the kitchen, he raised his voice to add, “An' you might be gettin' a little chuck together, old lady. A piece of sow-belly an' some beans. Coffee an' flour an' sugar. Enough to last a few days, maybe.”

She said, “All right, Pat,” and her voice did not falter though she was amazed to find she could speak past the burning lump that was choking her.

Pat sat down at a small table in front of the fireplace and pulled up the right leg of his pants above the top of his boot. He reached inside and drew out the knife that had murdered Fred Ralston, laid it on the table and unrolled it from its towel wrapping. The firelight glinted evilly on the red stains of a dead man's blood on the sharp blade. He stared at the knife for a moment, then pushed it back, leaving it in plain sight on top of the towel.

Sally came hurrying in with a platter of sugar cookies. As she placed them in front of Pat, she gave a horrified exclamation. “Why that's Sam's hunting knife. All covered with blood.”

Pat said, “That's part of what I've got to tell you, Sally.” He picked up a warm sugar cooky and bit into it.

Sally went slowly back to the kitchen without asking any questions. Pat thoughtfully munched the cooky and licked the crumbs from his fingers, then turned to stare into the firelight while he rolled a cigarette.

He could hear Sally moving around briskly in the kitchen, getting together the few necessities he would need for a few days' pack-trip.

She came in presently and set a partially filled gunny sack down near the front door. She said composedly, “There are all the things you'll need,” and went back to the kitchen.

When she returned next time she brought two cups and a big iron coffee pot with her. The pot was steaming, and exuding the invigorating odor of strong coffee. She filled two cups and set the pot on the hearth near the coals to keep warm, then sat down opposite Pat and said, “You'd better tell me all about it.”

“It all started when a dude got off the evening stage from Denver.” Pat took a sip of hot coffee, then went on with a straightforward and completely truthful account of the events of the evening, omitting none of the facts, offering no excuses for his own conduct, laying the entire affair in front of his wife for her own clear judgment.

Sally listened to him without comment. She sat very still for a full minute after he finished. Then she said softly, “Poor Sam—and Ezra.”

“I've got to go after them, Sally.”

“To arrest Sam for killing a man—when you can see it was a put-up job?”

“Not that so much, Sally. There's the money they stole from the bank.”

“Are you sure it was Ezra you saw? It was dark in the bank,” she reminded him. “Mightn't you be mistaken?”

“No. It was Ezra. The crazy galoot!” Pat went on angrily. “What'd he do that for? Stealin' money that me an' all the rest of the folks in the Valley have trusted in the bank! He shouldn't have done that.”

“He was bewildered and frightened, Pat. You know how Ezra is. He was dead-set on getting Sam out of danger. And I suppose
their
money was in the bank, too. He didn't want to go off and leave that.”

“I've got to get it back,” Pat told her heavily. “I just the same as helped 'em steal it when I shot over Ezra's head to warn him so he could get away. An' then I sent the posse scootin' off on the wrong road. But I don't see what else I could do, Sally. I couldn't let 'em get caught robbin' the bank. Not with that dead man back there too. I had to help 'em get away—an' now I've got to go get that money back.”

“Do you think they killed Jeth Purdue also?”

“I don't know,” Pat confessed. “I don't know what I think. They might've. You know how that red-headed Ezra is when he gets riled up. What do you make of it, Sally?” he appealed to her. “What do you reckon Ralston had planned with Kitty an' Purdue when he came to town? That's what I don't understand.”

“At least you know it was some scheme to get Sam and Ezra's money from them,” she told him with spirit. “Whatever it was, Sam must have seen through it. He and Ralston got in a fight and Sam killed him.”

“That's not the way Kitty told it.”

“Kitty?” Sally laughed scornfully and tossed her bright head. “That woman! Do you think the truth could be in a woman like her?”

“You don't know her, Sally.”

“I know her kind. Singing and dancing in the saloons with men!”

“I don't know. I'd like you should meet her. Damn if I didn't feel sorry for her.”

“You men are all alike. Just because a woman is pretty and goes around half-dressed.”

“If it was like you think,” Pat argued, “if they were trying to get Sam's money an' he killed Ralston for that—why did Ezra get him out of town so fast, and rob the bank to boot? Why didn't they just stay an' tell the truth? No jury would blame Sam for killin' a man that way.”

Sally wrinkled her smooth forehead and shook her head. “I don't know,” she confessed. “Except that you know Ezra isn't terribly bright. If Sam
did
pass out like Kitty said—that must be it, Pat. Don't you see? Ezra wasn't in there. He doesn't know what happened. Only what Kitty told him. And she made it look bad for Sam—told Ezra her husband had come in and caught them together and Sam had murdered him in cold blood. Not knowing anything about what the fight was really about, Ezra believed her.”

“Yeh,” Pat agreed thoughtfully, “that might be it, all right. But, what about Jeth? Shootin' him that way through the jail window looks mighty bad.”

“I don't know but I'll bet there's some explanation,” Sally said stoutly. “You'll find out when you talk with them.”

“I hope so.” Pat finished his cup of coffee and cleared his throat. “You know—if there ain't some good explanation like that—I won't be ridin' back this way, honey.”

“You won't—be riding back home?” she choked out.

“How can I, honey? I'm not goin' to bring 'em back if it means a hangin'. You know I can't do that. Not to Sam and Ezra.”

“No,” she whispered. “I guess not.”

“You know not, Sally. I can't judge my friends. If it means them takin' the owl-hoot trail—well, I reckon it means the same for me.”

“But why, Pat? Why couldn't you come back?”

“Because I'd never be able to look any man in Powder Valley in the face again,” he told her sternly. “You can see that, Sally. I'm sheriff. If I let a murderer go because he's my friend, I'm just as guilty as him.”

“But what about the bank money? You said you'd get it back.”

“And I will. I'll find a way to send it back if things turn out wrong. I'm sorry, honey.” Pat's voice wasn't very steady. “But that's the way it looks to me.”

Sally got up and poured more coffee. Her eyes shone softly in the firelight. “Before I ever married you,” she reminded him, “I chose to go with you when it looked like you were turning against the law. Things haven't changed any since then—except that I guess I love you a lot more.”

Pat choked over a sip of hot coffee. “You mean—”

“I mean that I'll join you wherever you go,” she told him steadily. “You have to do what you think is right. I want you to. But, oh! Isn't all this dreadful, Pat? And Sam was going to begin his new job tomorrow, wasn't he? Riding the Pony Express mail route.”