Sheriff on the Spot (11 page)

“Yeh. Sam was lookin' forward to that like a kid at Christmas time.” Pat turned the coffee cup round and round in his hands and kept his eyes lowered. “There's one other thing I ain't told you yet. I got a sort of clue, I reckon you might call it.”

“A clue? What kind?”

Pat reached in his jacket pocket and awkwardly drew out the upper length of white lisle stocking. He blushed as he dropped it on the table in front of his wife. “See what you make of it.”

“Why it's a stocking. Part of one. It's beautiful.” Sally's fingers caressed the soft sheer material. “Where did you get this, Pat?”

“In Miss Kitty's room.”

“Oh! It's hers. But why is part of it cut off?”

“That's what I wondered,” Pat mumbled. “Thought maybe you'd know why a woman'd cut the foot off a pretty stocking like that.”

Sally's fingers continued to caress the material. “I never had a nice one like this. If I did have, I certainly wouldn't cut them up. They cost an awful lot, Pat. I've seen them in mail-order catalogs.”

“The mate to this'n is in her drawer,” Pat told her, his face reddening again. “The bottom drawer of her bureau,” he added hastily as if that was important. “It ain't hurt a bit.”

Sally shook her head and looked mystified. “I don't see what kind of a clue it is.”

“I don't either. Not yet.” Pat got up and picked up his rifle. He tried to be casual as he said, “Well, old lady, I guess I better be moseyin' along. When Dock wakes up in the mornin' tell him that I'm out huntin' bank robbers. No need for him to know the truth—yet.”

“I'll tell him,” Sally promised in a steady voice. She got up and took her husband's arm, walked to the door with him. “You taking a pack-horse?”

“Yeh. Curly's getting him packed.” Pat stooped and picked up the gunny sack of food Sally had fixed for him to take along. “I'll let you know—soon's I can,” he promised.

Sally stood on tiptoe and put her soft rounded arms about his neck. She smiled into his eyes and pressed her lips against his. “Fix a place for me, Pat, if you don't come back.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

He said, “I will, honey.” His arm tightened about her briefly, then he turned and strode away down to the corral.

Sally leaned against the door frame and watched his tall figure disappear in the misty moonlight. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks now. She didn't care. Once more she had triumphed, sending Pat out into danger with a smile and a kiss—holding back the tears until he could no longer see her.

10

The big roan gelding had an eager, springy stride; and he tossed his head and snorted impatiently as Pat held him to a trot along the creek trail leading eastward from the ranch. The bay mare, laden with a pack-saddle, trotted along docilely at the end of a short lead rope. Like Pat, she was a veteran of many long rides and she had long ago learned to conserve her strength at the beginning to have a reserve left at the end.

At the right of the creek-bed, low foothills rose upward toward the jagged peaks of a mountain range beyond. Knowing the entire country as he knew the palm of his hand, Pat planned to cut sharply south through those foothills on an old abandoned ranch road that swung westward along the base of the higher mountains until it struck the main road south from Powder Valley near a point where the main road began to climb through one of the few passes leading over the mountains.

He didn't hope to reach that pass before Sam and Ezra, if it was their objective, but he could learn from a rancher near the foot of the pass whether the fugitives had passed that way, and would then know how to plan the chase.

If they did strike due south over the high mountain pass, it would be a difficult matter to overhaul them. Pat knew they would be well mounted, and they were two of the best horsemen in Colorado. That's why Pat had taken time to ride home and pick up a fresh horse and a lead animal. If the ride developed into a long chase, this would give him a terrific advantage over the two fleeing men with only one mount apiece. Tired horses have to be rested and fed, and hard-riding men have to eat. With his camping equipment and his extra mount, Pat was positive he could overtake his friends within a couple of days if they headed down into New Mexico.

On the other hand, they were likely to realize their handicap in a straightaway ride, and turn off the main road before they reached the pass. In that event, Pat knew pretty well where to look for them, for the trio had ridden all that mountainous country together in years past, and Pat was familiar with every trail known to the other two.

What they did depended largely on whether they expected Pat to take out after them or not. Without Pat on their trail, he knew they'd feel fairly safe in turning westward off the main road and making their way at a leisurely pace toward another little-known pass far to the west and thence on to the Border. There were isolated range cabins scattered along that route where they could safely hole up for days at a time, and devious back trails where they were unlikely to meet any riders.

What
would
Sam and Ezra expect him to do? That was a problem that caused Pat to knit his brows fretfully as he rode on at a brisk pace through the night. He tried to put himself in their place. The way that farewell note had been worded, it didn't sound as though Ezra thought he would try to follow them.

But they knew him well enough, Pat reasoned, to realize he'd feel duty-bound to ride on the trail of money stolen from the bank. Again, he realized that they didn't know Ezra had been recognized as the bank robber. He was certain Ezra did not know it was Pat who fired those warning shots over his head in the bank doorway. So they probably felt safe enough on that score. They knew Pat wouldn't bring them back for a hanging, no matter what they had done.

It was all pretty much mixed up, and Pat gave up trying to untangle it after a time. When he reached the foot of the pass, he'd know which course they had chosen. Until that time, any speculation was utterly useless.

The monotonous thudding of hooves and the even motion of the roan lulled Pat's thoughts into a sort of drowsy lethargy after a time. He gladly welcomed the surcease from active thought. He'd done too damn much thinking without getting anywhere already: There were too many things he didn't know about the whole set-up. He wasn't used to dealing with men like Ralston and Deems. He couldn't figure them out. For the life of him, he couldn't see what they had in mind when Fred Ralston came on from Denver. He tried to recall exactly what Ralston had said, thinking he was talking to Jeth Purdue, but his best recollection didn't make any real sense.

There'd been some sort of plan to get hold of Sam and Ezra's money, but that's all the sense Pat could make out of it. It was quite evident that the plan had miscarried somehow, and Ralston's death had resulted. He still couldn't see for the life of him why Jeth Purdue had been killed. Ezra
might
have committed the act in a sudden fit of rage. There was a ruthless streak in the big one-eyed man that showed up sometimes when he became very angry. His reactions were almost childlike when it came to matters of right and wrong.

If Ezra honestly felt that Jeth Purdue needed to be killed, he'd be capable of doing the job just as he would calmly put a bullet in the head of a crazed coyote—or a beloved horse who'd broken his leg and had to be put out of pain.

It might not be right according to civilized standards, but Pat had always had a lot of difficulty making Sam and Ezra believe in civilized standards. He'd never been able to make them see that it was best to bring a criminal to trial for his acts. In their forthright way, they believed that the best way to dispose of a guilty man was to shoot him at the first opportunity; an efficient method of keeping order, but a little bit old-fashioned even for Powder Valley.

In this way, Pat's thoughts went around in ceaseless circles as though they were inside a vacuum while he dozed in the saddle.

The roan had gotten rid of his coltish ideas after a few miles on the old ranch road, and had settled down to a steady and seemingly tireless lope which put distance behind him at an amazing rate.

When Pat finally shook himself out of his drowsiness and sat up in the saddle to look around, he was surprised and pleased to see that dawn was already beginning to break over the rough foothill country through which he rode.

There was a faint red glow in the cloudless eastern sky, and near-by objects were beginning to emerge from the enveloping dark that had come when the moon disappeared behind the high peaks on the western horizon.

Pat stared around him thoughtfully for a time, trying to place his exact position on the old road. His direction, now, was a little south of west, which meant that he was veering around the base of the southern mountains and was only a few miles from meeting the main southern highway which Sam and Ezra had taken out of Dutch Springs.

Daylight came on with amazing speed in the high country after the night-blackness reluctantly gave way to dawn. The red blush spread swiftly over the sky, deepening to violent crimson near the horizon and sending out lances of yellow as the sun moved up to the very rim of the world.

Then there was a blazing ball of fire, and the tall feathery tops of pine trees caught the flame of a new day. His horses tossed their heads approvingly and moved a little faster as the smell of water came to them, and Pat quickly decided to stop for a brief breakfast when they reached the small stream ahead.

He was really in no great hurry. If Sam and Ezra had followed the southern road this far, they would already be well up on the pass; and if they had swung off westward as he suspected, he would surely be able to come up to them by nightfall. In either case, Pat knew it was smart to break his ride into short stages, with a brief rest and feed for both himself and horses before either became too weary to keep up the pace.

He reined off the road under a pair of aged cottonwood trees on the bank of a gurgling stream, and swung out of the saddle lightly. He loosened the girth and pulled the heavy rig off, stripped the blanket from the sweaty roan and looped a rope about his neck. He pulled the bridle off and gave him a slap on the haunches to send him trotting down to the stream for a drink, then went back to the patient bay and slid the pack-saddle off her back. He tethered both horses where they could get water and graze in the lush grass along the stream, then built a tiny fire of dry sticks gathered along the bank, carefully laid on larger sticks to build up a bed of coals and took his smoke-stained coffee pot to the stream above the horses and filled it half-full of clear water only a few degrees above the freezing point.

He threw a man-sized handful of coffee into the pot and placed it on the fire with burning sticks piled up around it, cut two thick slices of fat salt pork from the slab Sally had provided, and put them on the fire in the frying pan with a small quantity of water to boil out the excess salt before frying. There were cold biscuits in the gunny sack to complete his breakfast, and Pat squatted on one heel to roll and light a cigarette while the sow-belly boiled gently and the coffee pot began sending out its appetizing aroma.

After he'd smoked one cigarette, he poured the water off his fat meat and put it back on the fire to fry. The coffee was boiling merrily, so he raked a few glowing coals to one side of the fire and set the pot on them to simmer and settle, then began turning his meat with a long-handled fork.

Not more than twenty minutes after he had reined aside under the cottonwoods, Pat was munching a cold biscuit with a slice of crisp pork between the halves, and washing it down with huge drafts of strong, steaming coffee.

And not more than forty minutes had elapsed in all when he was back in the saddle with his few camp things again packed securely on the bay mare, headed westward to the junction with the southern road.

He didn't bother to try and read any trail signs when he reached the road an hour later. Too many riders rode this route to make it feasible to try and pick out the tracks of any single pair. The ranch of Lon Estis was only a two-hour ride up the pass, and with the road running right through Estis's yard it was impossible for anyone to pass that way without being seen.

Lon came out of his barn to greet Pat Stevens when the sheriff got off to open his back gate two hours later. Lon Estis was a big man with a sweeping black mustache and a completely bald head. He looked appraisingly at the dust-streaked roan and the pack-saddled mare, and drawled out, “'Pears you figger on makin' a long ride, Sheriff.”

Pat said, “That's what you're goin' to decide for me. Heard anything about the trouble in town last night?”

“The bank robbin'?” Lon Estis nodded placidly and backed up to a fence post to scratch his back. “Harry Tyler rode past 'bout an hour after sun. Said there was sure hell a-poppin'.”

“Anybody else pass before Harry?”

“Well now, I don't reckon so, Pat. I wasn't up till most daylight, but I didn't hear Jigger barkin' none durin' thuh night. An' Jigger never misses walkin' me when anybody rides through.”

Pat knew Jigger was Lon's dog, a huge, rough-haired brute counted one of the finest watchdogs in the entire Valley. Pat nodded his relief and said, “I reckon maybe it won't be such a long ride then, if no one rode through.”

“Harry tol' me 'bout the posse losin' that feller,” Lon said. “Seems like there was a killin' or two in town too, wasn't there?”

“Two of 'em,” Pat said curtly.

“They tell me you're still wearin' the sheriff's badge, Pat. You on the trail of something?”

“I will be,” Pat told him briefly, “after I've rode back a ways. I figure they turned off west.”

“Know who they be?”

“I've got a good idea.” Pat met Lon's inquiring eyes squarely.

Lon nodded and picked up a twig and began chewing on it. It was evident to him that Pat didn't wish to discuss either the bank robbery or the murders. After a brief period of mastication he said earnestly, “I'm shore lookin' for'rd to that Pony Express comin' through here. Gonna be sorta less lonesome-like.”