Flaming feud, p.14
Flaming Feud, page 14
Nick's cherubic features creased into a mirthless smile, "Hell, no. An accident, maybe."
"Surely there must be some other way, something less drastic?"
"You tell me another way!" Nick's feelings broke through the mask of his mechanical smile with a snarl, "You ain't kidding yourself that I'll let that dumb skirt breeze in from nowhere and euchre the sweetest hand I ever held? If she squawks, we go to the pen. Wallington will ace out of it—he got pull. Sudden will hightail. That leaves the fall guys—me and you. Hell, Nick Dardon ain't taking the rap for no man, not with a hundred thousand jackpot." He swung back to his desk, "Beat it, Dude, I gotta think—fast."
Creighton-Caldwell stepped out onto the saloon floor. He moved like a sleepwalker to the bar. "Whisky!" he said tonelessly.
"You look like you need it!" Sam set bottle and glass before him. Without reply, the Englishman took both to a table, dropped woodenly into a chair and poured—to the brim. He drank, and poured again. The raw spirit stimulated his brain but it didn't dull the specter of a girl's lifeless body—and he a party to her murder. Slumped in the chair, he considered his dilemma. If Priscilla Halliford lived, he went back to the penitentiary. That prospect, chilling as it was, faded into insignificance before the thought of her murder. He had no illusions about Nick. The saloon man was not the type to allow a killing to stand between him and a fortune.
For the first time in his life, the Dude forgot his own interests. The girl came first. He had to save her somehow. Time was too short to bank on the law. Deputy Sheriff Ferlow was up at the county seat. A telegram to the sheriff was useless, he couldn't reach Adobe within twenty-four hours. The Englishman groaned in agony of spirit. He alone stood between the girl and death, and he couldn't devise a means to save her. He eyed his slim fingers with disgust—they could manipulate cards, but they couldn't handle a gun. Always he had relied upon his wits, and now, at the crucial moment, his wits had failed him… patrons began to trickle into the saloon. The bottle of bourbon was emptying. Lurching slightly, Creighton-Caldwell crossed to his corner table, set out cards and chips. The chairs around the table filled. Like an automaton, he shuffled and dealt, shuffled and dealt, paid out and pulled in. Muddled by the fiery bourbon, his mind was a maelstrom. Even his vision became blurred, every face around took the shape of Priscilla Halliford's—everyone looked at him with her eyes, blank eyes, dulled by death.
At the far end of the bar, Nick sat on his stool, features clothed with the same mechanical smile.
David, the white rat, scampered up to its usual place upon the brooding Englishman's right shoulder. His head turned at feel of its tiny feet and he stared into its beady eyes. The whisky was clouding his brain. His befuddled senses told him that here was Nick—gloating. With a growl, he slapped at the rat with his left hand, knocking it to the floor. Terrorized, the creature streaked across the saloon. A puncher roared and threw his hat at the fast-moving white body, others hilariously stampeded in chase. The rat ran up upon the bar. Sam slapped at it with his towel. Eluding the flapping rag, the rat ran straight down the bar towards the comparative quiet of the back end, where Nick sat solitary upon his stool.
Despite his mask of smooth assurance, Nick's nerves were ragged, too, and he had a holy horror of rats. His derringer whipped out. Twice the sharp crack of its report ripped through the smoke-shrouded saloon. The slugs gouged the bar and a tiny mutilated mess of white fur and flesh botched its polished top.
The reports hammered through the alcoholic haze that fogged the Dude's brain. He kicked back his chair. His glazed eyes dwelt on the remnants of his pet, then sought Nick's smoking gun. Grasping the chair by its back, he hurled across the saloon, colliding with tables and shouldering patrons to right and left, his eyes aflame with berserk fury. Men watched with slack-jawed amazement. Nick's gun came up again as the crazed man charged at him. For a third time the derringer spat lead. Impact of the slug twirled the Englishman around. Unbalanced, he fell, the chair splintering. Blood stained the shoulder of his tweeds and his right arm hung limp when they hauled him to his feet. Dishevelled, and dazed from the shock, he teetered, staring stupidly at Nick's composed features.
"Pack him to the doc's and get that hole plugged," purred the saloon man. "He's drunk!" Then, to the barkeep, low-voiced, "Clean that blasted rat off the bar and send word for Manuel—pronto!"
Window wide open in a vain hope that the faint evening breeze would dissipate the stale odor of cooking from the eating house below, Priscilla sat in her stifling room, writing tablet upon her knee, and scribbled a letter to her mother. She paused at her writing, unconsciously following the progress of shuffling feet along the uncarpeted corridor. They stopped outside her door. Someone banged heavily on the panel.
For an instant the girl was panicky, then the thought that Main Street was beyond the open window and men were passing and repassing overcame her fears. "Who is it?" she cried.
In answer the knob turned, and Creighton-Caldwell stood in the doorway, a sorry figure. His hair was tousled and dirt smudged his forehead. A tweed coat, stained with blood, was thrown loosely across his shoulders and his right arm was bandaged tightly across his chest.
"Why, Mr. Caldwell, whatever has happened?" The girl sprang up, moved swiftly forward. Then she checked with quick distaste, nose wrinkled, "You've been drinking!"
Without speaking, he lurched past her, closed the window, pulled down the shade. Too amazed to speak, the girl watched.
"Miss Halliford!" His voice was hoarse with urgency, "Forget my condition! You must get away from this town—at once!"
"Why?"
"Your life is in grave danger."
"Suppose," she said precisely, careful to keep her distance, "You tell me exactly how and why."
"Sudden is the tool of Nick Dardon, who runs the saloon. Nick knows that you are aware of Sudden's imposture. He'll kill you to close your mouth."
"Mr. Caldwell," she said contemptuously, "I think that you have been drinking, become involved in a brawl and are mentally overwrought." She circled him, lifted her bonnet off a peg. "I intend to lay my complaint with the authorities immediately."
"Death lurks outside!" He rocked on his feet.
"Is it necessary to be so melodramatic?" She jerked her bonnet strings angrily as she tied them.
"Good heavens!" he groaned, "Can't I make you realize that this is stark reality? Nick stands to lose around thirty thousand dollars if you live to see the sheriff, and he'll go to the penitentiary. He's as cold-blooded as a snake. You must hide—God knows where!"
"I have no intention of hiding from this Nick person, or anyone else," she informed him primly. "I'm going down to the telegraph office, and you better get some sleep."
Creighton-Caldwell dragged across to the doorway, blocked it, "You're not going outside!"
"Let me pass, I'm not a child!" The girl tried to squeeze through the doorway, but the Dude pushed her back with his good arm.
"If you don't cease annoying me," she panted, "I shall scream for help."
"It's right here, ma'am!" drawled a voice from the passageway. A blocky form emerged from the shadows.
"Fiddlefoot!" ejaculated the Dude, fervent relief in his voice. "Thank heavens!"
"Ef she's beating you up," commented the newcomer, with amusement, as he took in the Englishman's battered form, "she's doing a right good job."
"I'm merely trying to prevent Miss Halliford's leaving this room without adequate protection." The Dude's voice was tense. "Nick will kill her out there in the dark."
"Yeah!" Fiddlefoot sniffed, "You feeling all right, Dood?"
"I am in full command of my faculties," snapped Creighton-Caldwell. "Now listen, Fiddlefoot!"
He told of Nick's scheme to grab the Boxed H and the girl's exposure of Sudden earlier in the day. "You see!" he concluded, "Nick just can't allow her to live—and escape the penitentiary."
"Howcome you know so much about Nick's business?" inquired Fiddlefoot curiously.
"That is neither here nor there," responded the Dude hastily. "Let us concentrate upon our problem, that of saving Miss Halliford."
"We will!" promised Fiddlefoot curtly. "You stick around, ma'am!"
"I shall do exactly as I please," came back Priscilla. "You men treat me exactly as if I were an helpless infant."
Fiddlefoot stood square in the doorway, preventing exit. Ignoring her, he addressed the Dude, "Hightail f'r the livery, you should find Weary setting around. Head him thisaways, pronto. And watch yore step, Dood, you know too much. Nick woulda beefed you in that saloon fracas, ef you'd been heeled. I'll watch the gal."
He stepped aside to allow the Englishman to pass. Priscilla would have followed, but Fiddlefoot thrust between them, closed the door behind the messenger and leaned against it, effectually preventing the girl's exit.
"If you think you're going to imprison me in this room," she told him stormily, "you are very much mistaken."
"You go out, you'll never come back." Fiddlefoot built a smoke, eying her intently.
"I'll go to the window and scream!"
"Go ahead!" he invited, without interest.
She whirled, stepped quickly to the window and jerked up the shade. From across the darkened street, brilliant orange stabbed through the night. She flinched at the menacing drone of a bullet. Broken glass tinkled to the floor. The report hit their ears as the slug split the door casing above Fiddlefoot's head.
Petrified by astonishment, the girl stood staring at the jagged fragments of glass jutting out from the window frame. Fiddlefoot dove, flung her roughly aside as another bullet zipped through the broken window. With one hand he held her against the wall, with the other he rolled down the shade.
Beneath her black bodice, the girl's bosom rose and fell spasmodically. "Someone—shot—at—me!" she gasped. She sank slowly onto a seat, wonderment in her eyes, "But it's not possible, it would be murder."
"You ain't in Boston," he grunted, hunkering against the opposite wall. "This is Adobe. You'd be surprised what kin happen in Adobe."
For awhile, Priscilla sat silent, her mind grappling with this amazing new threat. Fiddlefoot stolidly smoked. Then the girl began to laugh, not the high-pitched accents of hysteria, but an amused, uncontrollable giggling. At the blocky rider's inquiring look, she explained, with quivering shoulders, "I was just thinking how shocked mother would be if she could see me now—shot at in a strange room, with an armed man guarding me and a sinister stranger threatening death. It sounds like the plot of a dime novel."
Footsteps again shook the outside stairway. Hand on his gun butt, Fiddlefoot eased open the door, peered out, flung it back. The Dude hurried in, breathing hard. Relief flooded his eyes at sight of the girl. "I heard two shots!" he exclaimed jerkily.
"You locate Weary?" inquired Fiddlefoot sharply.
"No, he was not in the saloon or the livery."
The blocky rider frowned, "Heck, we'll need more guns afore the night's out. Stick around, and stand clear of thet window."
Probing the gloom of Main Street for movement, he cautiously eased down the stairway. Edgy as a wolf upon a strange trail, he moved along the plankwalk. He could scent trouble, plenty trouble—right ahead.
Chapter 19
When Fiddlefoot stepped into the big livery barn, a restless pony stamped in its stall and rats rustled the straw pile, but there was no sign of Weary. A glimmer of light through chinks in the planking drew him to the rear. He opened the door of the feed room. Wan light from a smoking stable lantern revealed Weary, Dave Winters and the four former Boxed H punchers, silent as graven images, engrossed in the mystic rites of stud.
"Weary, Dave!" ejaculated the blocky rider, "Rattle yore hocks! I got urgent business."
"And I jest hit a winning streak," groaned the tall puncher, "after these hyenas cleaned me to the pants."
Outside in the livery barn, Fiddlefoot gathered the two close in the gloom and told them of Priscilla Halliford's discovery and her danger. "Tonight Nick u'll strike," he wound up. "Come sunrise, his chance to close the gal's mouth is most gone."
"Wal what's the plan?" inquired Winters.
"Le's all bed down in Guts' joint overnight. Then if Nick starts a fracas she'll have three guns to side her."
"I got a better idea," grunted Winters.
"Such as?"
"Le's bust into the Longhorn and gun Nick. Then we kin all sleep sound."
Fiddlefoot made a gesture of dissent. "Gun him f'r what?" he demanded. "We got no proof he's after the gal, nothing beyond the Dood's word, and two shots we can't pin on him. Beef him, in front of witnesses, and we'll swing. Nope, you old Apache, we gotta play this hand close to our vests."
"Mebbe we could bring along the boys," suggested Weary hopefully, nodding towards the feed room, "and deal a hand or two tuh pass the time away."
"Three's plenty. Le's go!"
They emerged from the barn and jingled along the deserted plankwalk. Ahead stretched Main Street, a canyon of darkness, except where the lights of The Longhorn pooled on the rutted road.
In single file they mounted the stairway. Priscilla was sitting in her room, wide-eyed with excitement, while the Dude stood beside the smashed window.
"Meet Dave Winters, Rock's foreman, and Weary," said Fiddlefoot. "Now lissen, ma'am! You sleep in the room across the passage and don't come out afore sunup. Ef guns start barking, crawl under the bed. I'll stay right here. Dave and Weary sleep in rooms either side of you. The Dood can pick his own."
"Want I should take first watch?" asked Weary.
"Heck no, I figure we got Nick hogtied. All his tame greasers kin do is take pot shots through the windows. You can gamble they won't climb thet stairway, with three guns at the top."
"Then I'll lie down," declared Priscilla, gathering her belongings. "I'm too excited to sleep, but perhaps I can rest. Is my room locked?"
Fiddlefoot chuckled and removed the key from the door behind him, tossed it to the girl, "Any key opens every door," he explained, "Thet's cowtown style."
"I should be outraged," returned Priscilla, "but after tonight, nothing will ever surprise me."
The room cleared, Fiddlefoot carried a straightback chair down the passage, set it at an angle beneath the handle of the outside door so that the door was securely jammed shut.
Back in his room, he turned out the lamp, raised the shade and stuck his head out through the broken window, scrutinizing the street. The Longhorn had closed and silence blanketed the sleeping cowtown. Overhead, a million stars pricked through a velvet pall. Like an uneasy whisper, the wailing of a peevish child drifted faintly through the still air. It was hard to believe that death could be abroad.
Fiddlefoot left the window, sat on the bed and yanked off his boots. He hung his gunbelt on one bedpost, his hat on the other, then stretched out. In less than six hours, he reflected sleepily, Nick's chance would be gone… he came awake with a start and sat up. Through the window he could see the weathered facades of the buildings across street, silvered by moonlight. Then his head jerked around at a gentle, insistent tapping on the closed door.
Silently, he lifted the gunbelt off the bed post and buckled it above his hips, slid off the bed and moved towards the door in his sox. Pulling his gun, he flung the door open and jumped aside. His gun arm dropped and he smothered an exclamation of astonishment. Priscilla Halliford stood in the corridor, fully dressed.
"What's the trouble, ma'am?" he asked quietly.
"I can smell smoke in my room," she whispered.
He smiled, "Dreaming maybe?"
"Come!" She grasped his arm and turned back to the open doorway of the room opposite. He followed her, up to the open window—and his amusement evaporated. It was plain—the rank, raw scent of smoke.
He looked out, drew back with a startled oath. Below, along almost the whole length of the building, flames were licking up the tinder-dry siding.
"Grab yore bag!" he flung at the girl and rushed back into the corridor. Banging upon doors as he passed, he ran for the blocked exit at the head of the stairway, wrenched the chair away and flung open the door. Smoke billowed in. Coughing, he slammed the door shut, but not before he had seen that the stairway was an inferno of crackling flame. He charged for the window at the far end of the corridor, checked. Escape was blocked that way. The glass reflected a red glow, while tongues of flame licked at the frame. Even as he watched, the glass shattered from the heat and a draft of hot air swept in. He spun around and hit for his own room, facing Main Street. If the front of the building was aflame, too, they were doomed. In ten minutes the entire sun-dried structure would be a roaring furnace.
A rifle spanged from a roof top on the far side of the street. The bullet buzzed past his head like a hornet as he glanced down at the plankwalk canopy not six feet below. Again the rifle cracked and the window frame quivered.
Then another invisible gunman began whipping out slugs. Fiddlefoot pulled back, grabbed his boots and charged back into the corridor, where the others were gathered. "There's two jaspers throwing lead from across street," he ejaculated. "You hold 'em Dave and you Weary, while I get the gal out."
He grabbed Priscilla's wrist, ran her down the corridor. "Dog us!" he shouted to the Dude.
The low, ever-mounting roar of the flames was plain in their ears and the thickening smoke gripped their throats. At the end of the passage, Fiddlefoot threw his weight against the door of a room that fronted Main Street, smashing it open. The air was clearer inside.
Beside the window, the rider paused, Priscilla panting and coughing behind him. "Listen," his voice was thick from the choking fumes. "They're shooting tuh pin us down. You gotta go through that window fast. It's a sixfoot drop to the canopy. Lay flat when you hit it." With that, he flung up the window. Before he could turn, she had scrambled through and lowered herself, clutching the window sill with small, white-knuckled hands. He gripped her wrists, lowered her until her feet touched the canopy and her weight slackened. A bullet screeched over his head. Further down the hotel front the guns of Weary and Winters thundered in reply. Half-clad men and hastily dressed women were scurrying around below, bewildered by the gunfire. The flames lit Main Street like a mighty bonfire.
