Sheriff on the Spot (6 page)

The clacking sound stopped, and the little dog whimpered loudly. Pat heard a faint chuckle from ahead in the blackness. Then the heavy sound of bootheels crunching toward the door—toward Pat Stevens.

Pat crouched against the wall with his gun ready. He strained his ears for further sounds to indicate how many men were inside the bank. He heard only that single pair of boots, rapidly nearing him. The owner of the boots was evidently a heavy man, completely without fear or contemptuous of any effort that might be made to stop him. His heels thudded down heavily on the floor, in measured cadence, as though he marched in time with an unheard drum.

Pat had to make a swift decision while the man went past. He could have touched him, could have thrust his gun forward and triggered it with the muzzle against the robber's body. But if there were more of them back there, that would give the alarm and give them some chance to escape—or to barricade themselves inside the bank building where they might be driven out only with a lot of gunfire.

In that split-second, Pat decided to let this one pass. The trap was well-laid outside. There was no possibility of escape if he was allowed to walk into it blind.

The man hesitated on the threshold. In that brief instant, his body and head were silhouetted against the moonlit sky—and Pat Stevens was looking at the huge bulk and scarred features of one-eyed Ezra, his long-time gun-partner and bosom friend.

There was no time for thought in that fleeting instant. No time to weigh friendship against duty. No time to consider what the consequences might be.

There was only time for Sheriff Pat Stevens to
know
that Ezra must somehow be saved.

Right and wrong did not enter into it. There was no time to declare himself. No chance to question
why
Ezra had suddenly turned to bank-robbing.

Pat only knew that he couldn't let Ezra be captured this way—just as he couldn't leave Sam Sloan's knife in the back of the dead man in the Jewel Hotel.

As Ezra took a forward step out into the night, Pat tilted the muzzle of his gun high and triggered it three times in rapid succession.

He heard a single grunt of astonishment from the red-headed man, then the lunging forward of a heavy body.

Pandemonium broke out then, in response to Pat's three shots. The overly nervous guards in the alley began shooting wildly, shouting to each other and running forward to close in on the unseen robber.

Pat stayed in the doorway. He heard the sudden thudding of hooves through the tumult.

Ezra was mounted and was driving straight ahead out of the trap so carefully laid. Up and down the alley, men were running forward, betraying the fact that escape was closed off in both those directions.

The thudding hooves drove straight ahead, and Ezra sent his mount crashing through a flimsy board fence into the Grubbs' backyard while behind him men fired futilely at the speeding shape.

Pat ran forward, shouting loudly and with authority as a rider came galloping up from the west end of the alley.

“I'll take that hawse!” His voice lifted above the incoherent shouts and curses of the others. “This here's the sheriff.”

The rider pulled up reluctantly and Pat grabbed the reins. “Out of the saddle, sonny. An' I'll take after that varmint.”

The rider was a boy in his teens, and he leaped from the saddle without hesitation. Pat vaulted into the saddle without touching stirrups, and drove spurs into the horse's flanks. The startled animal leaped forward on Ezra's trail, and Pat turned to shout back:

“Gather up a posse an' follow me.”

He leaned low on the horse's neck and guided him through the Grubbs' yard to the street beyond. He checked him momentarily to catch the sound of his fleeing friend, and nodded grimly when he heard two horses galloping away madly to the east.

He neck-reined his mount in that direction, gave him his head eastward to a point a quarter of a mile from town where the road forked northeastward and due south into the mountains.

He pulled his horse up at the forks and threw himself off, dropping to the ground with his head flat against the soil of the crossroads.

His ear caught the faint vibration of drumming hooves from the south fork. He got up slowly and brushed the dust from his clothes, remounted and turned his horse to face a group of angry, mounted men surging out from Dutch Springs.

“He went that way!” Pat shouted loudly, pointing in the direction away from the one he knew Ezra had chosen. “Up the north fork. You men ride after him. I got to get back to town on somethin' else.”

He sat slouched in the saddle at the crossroads and watched the determined posse sweep away northeastward on a wild goose chase. There was a bitter taste of overwhelming defeat in his mouth as he rode slowly back to town. He caught himself remembering that scene in Winters' store when he had been sworn in as sheriff and given the silver badge to wear as evidence of the confidence his fellow citizens had in his integrity.

His hand went up and crept inside his shirt pocket to touch the cold smoothness of that silver star. He jerked the badge out angrily and drew back his arm to throw it away into the night, but something would not let him commit that final act of sacrilege.

He slowly slid the star back in his pocket, though with a look of bitter loathing on his face. When a man took the oath of sheriff he was supposed to give up having friends. He was sworn to enforce the law, yet tonight he had deliberately gotten rid of murder evidence against one man, and had deliberately permitted another man to escape the consequences of robbing the local bank.

In his heart, Pat Stevens hated himself for what he had done; yet in his heart he knew, too, that under the same circumstances he would do the same again. Sheriff or no sheriff; silver star or no silver star, Sam Sloan and Ezra were his friends. No matter what they had done—they were still his friends. Nothing could alter that. It was something that happened to a man. You don't look for friendship, and you don't throw it away when it comes to you. It brings certain duties with it; and foremost of those is that you shall not forsake your friend.

Pat Stevens didn't put any such thoughts into words as he rode back to Dutch Springs, but they were in his heart in essence, and he knew they were there to stay.

6

A small group of excited men greeted Pat Stevens on Main Street when he rode slowly back into town after directing the posse away from the direction Ezra had taken.

They crowded around him, asking eager questions as he swung off his commandeered horse. No one knew exactly what had happened, and the small town was flooded with wild rumors.

Pat took time to explain the situation swiftly: “Some guy robbed the bank. Broke in the back door. We had him surrounded, but he got to his hawse an' got plumb away. I followed him to the crossroads east of town, an' there's a posse ridin' after him up the north fork. They'll get him, I reckon.”

“How-come you're not ridin' with the posse, Sheriff?” a curious voice asked.

“This hawse I was forkin' didn't seem none too fast,” Pat explained. “An' I had some important business back here in town at the Jewel Hotel. Some of you fellows see about gettin' that padlock an' chain back onto the rear door of the bank,” he went on hastily. “Don't know how much money's gone, but maybe there's some still left in the vault that ought to be locked up.” He turned away from them and strode up the street toward the hotel, feeling the weight of the towel-wrapped death-knife against his ankle with each step, a grim reminder of the role he had elected to play in concealing murder evidence.

Joe Deems and Kitty Lane were in the hotel lobby when he strode in. Kitty leaped up and demanded angrily, “Why have you got a guard posted at my door? What's all this mystery about, Sheriff Stevens?”

“What happened at the bank?” Joe Deems cut in. “We heard a lot of shooting but no one seems to know whether you caught the robbers or not.”

“We didn't. Not yet. But there's a posse after him.” Pat turned his gaze on Kitty and said slowly, “About your room, Ma'am. We'll go upstairs now an' take the guard off the door.”

She tossed her head and said, “It's about time you let us in on the secret,” and she and the hotel proprietor followed Pat up.

Along the upper hallway, Harold Morgan was disconsolately squatted on one heel with his back against the wall between the two rooms he was guarding. He looked up with a scowl, and slowly got to his feet when he saw the sheriff. “Sounds like I missed a lot of fun,” he grumbled. “What's in these two rooms that you want guarded, Pat?”

“We'll find that out just as soon as Miss Lane opens her door,” Pat promised him. “I want you right here, Morgan, for a witness to testify what's inside these rooms.” He stepped aside politely and motioned to Kitty's door. “Go ahead an' open it up.”

Kitty hesitated in front of her door with a heavy hotel key in her hand. Light came through the keyhole from inside the room. She threw Pat Stevens a frightened look, then caught her underlip between her teeth and slowly inserted the key in the lock. There was a loud click as she turned the key. She took hold of the knob with a trembling hand and opened the door. She took one step inside the lighted room, and then swayed back with a little cry of anguish, throwing one hand up to cover her face.

Pat caught her by the shoulders and drew her aside gently to let Deems and Morgan view the huddled body of Fred Ralston on the floor.

Harold Morgan whistled shrilly. “A dead un, by God!” He stepped forward to look down at the body wonderingly.

Pat's gaze was concentrated on Joe Deems. The hotel proprietor stood very still, his yellowish eyes slitted downward at the corpse. First there was a fleeting look of triumph, then of slow puzzlement on Deems' face. He wet his lips and said hoarsely, “What kind of game is this, Sheriff? What's that dead man doing in Kitty's room?”

Pat said, “That's what I'm wondering.” He took hold of Deems' arm and drew him forward. “Take a good look,” he urged. “See if you can identify him.”

The faint sound of Kitty's sobbing filled the hotel bedroom as Joe Deems looked down steadily at the dead man. He wet his lips again and muttered, “Looks like the Denver man that came in on tonight's stage. What was his name?”

“Fred Ralston,” Pat supplied grimly. “As you know plumb well.”

“That's right. That's the name he signed to the hotel register.”

“Knifed,” Morgan grunted. He was on his knees examining the body. “Right through the heart, looks like.”

“Where's the weapon?” Deems demanded explosively. “You can't stab a man through the heart without using a knife.”

“I reckon we better ask Miss Lane about that.” Pat turned to the sobbing woman and demanded harshly, “What'd you do with the knife when you stuck him?”

She didn't seem to understand. She shook her head in bewilderment. “The—knife?” she repeated stupidly.

Pat moved to her side and gave her a little shake. “The knife you killed him with. It ain't here.”

“It—isn't?” She sounded disbelieving, but somehow glad. She steadied herself, then went on rapidly. “Why do you think I know anything about it? You don't think that I—that I—” She faltered with a look of horror on her expressive face.

“He's here in your room. Locked in from the outside. An' you've got the key,” Pat pointed out grimly.

“I don't—I don't understand. Who is he? How did he get here?”

“Maybe he came in through this side door,” Morgan offered eagerly. He got up and opened the door into Ralston's room. “Yes sir,” he reported. “Door's unlocked. And there's a suitcase and hat here on the bed.”

“That's the room that was assigned to Mr. Ralston,” Deems put in sharply. “Number fifteen. I remember Tom Forrest told me he asked for that number particular.”

“Now, I wonder why he'd do that?” Pat mused. “Bein' a stranger in town an' all. I expect lots of men would like to move into the room next to yours, Miss Kitty, but how did this man from Denver know which one to ask for?”

“How do I know?” she cried wildly. “I never saw him before. I don't know anything about all this.”

Deems' expression hardened. He circled the body, went to stand in front of the two chairs with the table between them. He pointed to the whisky bottle and two glasses on the tray. “You'd better tell the truth, Kitty,” he said slowly, with his back to her. “You're likely to get into real trouble if you try to protect someone. This is murder. It's serious.”

She took a step forward with flashing eyes. “I don't know what you mean, Joe. If you think that I—”

Deems stepped aside and lifted his eyebrows. “You can see for yourself, Sheriff. Kitty was in here drinking with some man before supper.”

Pat nodded slowly. “Looks like it. Mr. Ralston, I reckon.” He sighed. “Sure looks like Miss Kitty isn't tellin' the truth. 'Pears to me she had it fixed with Ralston for him to come here from Denver an' rent the room next to hers. Then he came in an' they started drinkin' an' got into an argument. So she knifed him an' ran out and locked the door. That the way it looks to you, Morgan?” he asked the rancher who was looking on with wide-eyed interest.

“Sure does look that way,” Morgan said importantly. “He must have known her, all right, to've asked for room fifteen. And this here door was unlocked. And she was sure in here drinking with him while he was still alive.”

“Don't you see, Kitty?” Deems' voice was like a savage whiplash across the entertainer's face. “This hick sheriff is going to hang this murder on you if you don't tell the truth and tell it fast.”

Kitty Lane's eyes clung to those of her employer for a long moment. Then her gaze wavered down to the body of the dead man. She shook her head and said, “I don't know what you mean, Joe.”