Sunset Trail Page 13

  He reached the Dugan gate, opened it, and cursed softly when it squealed loudly enough to wake everyone in the house. He walked up the path, aware that someone was standing on the front porch. He smelled cigar smoke, and, when he reached the steps, he saw the red glow of the cigar.

  “Who is it?” the man asked.

  Corrigan dropped his right hand to the butt of his gun, suddenly realizing that if this was Ross Hart, he might be a dead man in another second. He stood there, looking up, not saying anything for a moment. He tried to make out the man’s shape, but he remained back in the shadows. The voice was familiar, so it wouldn’t be Hart’s. Corrigan hadn’t seen or heard him. This must be John Smith. He didn’t sound the way Corrigan remembered Sammy Bean’s voice.

  “Say, you’re the sheriff, aren’t you?” the man on the porch asked as he stepped down into the moonlight. “I didn’t recognize you. A man just naturally looks different in the moonlight than he does inside the house in the lamplight.”

  Corrigan sighed in relief. It was John Smith. He said: “I didn’t recognize you, either, standing back there in the shadows.”

  “Sorry.” Smith laughed softly. “After all, I’m a visitor and I’m not familiar with the local custom of the sheriff calling on his sweetheart in the middle of the night.”

  Smith was needling him and he didn’t like it. He hesitated a moment, not wanting a row with the man, and then he began to wonder why Smith wasn’t asleep. He decided he might just as well ask straight out.

  “How do you happen to be awake?”

  “Not that it’s the sheriff’s business,” Smith said, “but it was so hot in the house I couldn’t sleep.” He hesitated, then added: “To tell the truth, I’ve been more worried than I cared to tell Nora. I had hoped to borrow money from the bank, but Matt was saying his bank is in pretty deep financing this dam project, so I didn’t even ask him. I just haven’t made a damned nickel since the panic hit last fall. That’s why I came over here. I thought cattle might be cheaper than they are on the Grand.”

  “I see,” Corrigan said, thinking it sounded logical enough. “I want to see Matt. I’ll go on in and wake him.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Smith said. “Matt needs all the sleep he can get.”

  “I know that,” Corrigan said, “but this is important. I’ve got to see him.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what it is?” Smith said. “I’ll pass it along as soon as he gets up in the morning.”

  This wasn’t right, Corrigan thought. He was a lot closer to Matt Dugan than this cousin of Nora’s who happened to drift in to spend the night. Why should Smith not want him to talk to Matt? Corrigan tried to stay calm, to tell himself that he was just boogery over all the things that had happened and would happen tomorrow, and the things that might happen. Anyhow, he was sleepy and tired. He wasn’t going to stand here all night arguing with John Smith.

  “I’ll wake him,” Corrigan said.

  “No, I will,” Smith said, and swung around and disappeared into the house.

  Corrigan knew it wasn’t right at all. The notion worked into his mind that John Smith and Ross Hart might be in cahoots on something that wasn’t open and above board. Sure, it was ridiculous, and it would be stupid to push too hard tonight. Maybe Matt wouldn’t want to tell him and maybe he didn’t know that something was up.

  He waited, deciding he’d wait till morning, but he heard Matt and Smith cross the front room to the porch, and Smith saying: “There he is, Matt. I told him you needed sleep, but he was bound to get you up.”

  “It’s all right,” Matt said, and stepped down off the porch. “What’s on your mind, Jerry?”

  Smith remained on the porch not more than fifteen feet away. Corrigan lowered his voice, asking: “What does this man Ross Hart look like?” He had an idea Smith heard, but he’d have to whisper into Matt’s ear to keep him from hearing. Maybe it was just as well that Smith knew he was suspicious.

  “I haven’t seen him real good,” Matt said. “He’s been upstairs ever since I got home, but I went up to Bud’s room and he was in the hall. He’s a big man, real dark. Maybe thirty years old.”

  Corrigan took a long breath that was almost a sob. He had never felt so relieved in his life. He said: “I guess he couldn’t be about twenty-one, red-headed, and small?”

  “Hell, no,” Matt said. “I saw him well enough to be sure he didn’t look like that.”

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” Corrigan said. “Go back to bed.”

  He wheeled and strode down the path.

  Matt called: “What was eating on you, Jerry?”

  “A mistake,” Corrigan said. “Tell Jean I’ll see her early in the morning.”

  He went on, walking fast, but after he was back in bed in his hotel room, he couldn’t go to sleep. He was relieved to know that Ross Hart was not the outlaw Ross Hart, but actually he was more disturbed than ever because now he had a hunch that there was something false about John Smith. He’d find out from Jean in the morning.

  XIV

  Corrigan slept very little that night. He dropped off sometime before dawn, then woke an hour or so later. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it would be in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t get breakfast at this hour, so he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling as the dawn light steadily deepened.

  He couldn’t go back to sleep. This was the biggest day in the history of Amity and he didn’t want anything to go wrong, for his own sake as well as that of the community. For Matt’s sake, too.

  He thought about the governor and wondered if he would be in any real danger after he arrived. In any case, it was too late to stop him now. All that Corrigan could do was to keep moving through the crowd, keep his eyes open, and watch for anything that might be a threat to the governor’s life.

  Corrigan decided he would turn the Owl Creek men loose after he had breakfast and tell them to get out of town and stay out. He’d need the cell space for drunks by evening and he didn’t think the threats he’d heard the night before were serious. Then his mind completed the circle and returned to John Smith and Ross Hart, but he still had no answer, just the question.

  No use to stay in bed any longer. The lumpy mattress had become unbearable. He put his feet on the floor and rubbed his eyes. They felt as gritty as if they were full of sand. He shaved in cold water, the uneasiness in him growing. A phony John Smith who claimed to be a relative and a man with an outlaw’s name staying the night in the Dugan house was enough to make a man uneasy.

  He strapped his gun belt around his waist, put his hat on his head, and went downstairs to the dining room that had just been opened. No one else was there. Folks had celebrated too much the night before to get up early, he thought. When he finished eating, he left the dining room and crossed the lobby to the street, which was deserted at this hour.

  He turned toward the courthouse, thinking that the town would be jumping within an hour or so. For the first time since he had pinned on the star, he wished he had a dozen deputies to patrol the town, particularly the area around the courthouse where the crowd would soon be gathering. But he didn’t have even one deputy.

  What happened this day would be Jerry Corrigan’s responsibility no matter what kind of tragedy took place or how it came about. If he wanted to see Jean this morning, he’d better do it now or he’d be so busy he wouldn’t see her all day.

  The day would be another scorcher, he told himself as he turned into the courthouse. Even inside the building the air had cooled very little during the night. Outside the burning sun would add to people’s tempers. If the governor said the wrong thing, with folks feeling the way they did. . . . Then he told himself that nothing bad was going to happen. Not today. He wouldn’t let it.

  He unlocked the big cell that held the cowboys he had jailed for drunkenness or disturbing the peace and told them they could go, then advised them to behave themselves. This was a big day for the entire county and he didn’t want any more trouble. They promised they’d be
on their best behavior and scurried out of the courthouse as if afraid Corrigan might change his mind and lock them up again.

  After they were gone, he turned back to the cell that held the Owl Creek men. He stared at them through the bars, wondering if he should keep them locked up. They were the meanest-looking trio he had ever seen in his life, and his conviction that the threats they’d made the night before weren’t serious began to waver.

  “The snot-nosed sheriff is back, boys,” Vance Yarnell said. “Ain’t he an ugly devil?”

  “He sure is,” Harry Mason agreed. “I don’t see how he can stand hisself.”

  “Ugly ain’t the right word,” Zach Lupton said. “He’s wearing a mask, ain’t he? That can’t be his real face.”

  This kind of hoorawing was typical of them. He decided again that their tough talk last night had been the whiskey talking and had not meant anything. He’d let them out and start the day with an empty jail.

  “I’m laughing,” Corrigan said as he unlocked the cell. “Now I’m going to tell you a joke, but it ain’t funny. Not even a little bit. You boys get on your horses and ride out of town and stay out all day. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. If I see any of you after that fifteen minutes is up, I’ll throw you back into that cell and I’ll lose the key.”

  “That’s a joke?” Yarnell asked as he followed Corrigan along the corridor into his office. “If it is, it ain’t funny, for a fact.” He took his gun belt that Corrigan handed to him and strapped it around his waist, then he asked: “What did you hit me with last night? Zach and Harry claims it was your fist, but I know damned well they’re lying. Nobody could hit me that hard with just a fist.”

  “Come on.” Mason was already through the door. “Vance, ain’t you had a belly full of this stinking hole?”

  “More’n enough,” Yarnell said bitterly. “That star-toter will never get me in there again.”

  Yarnell followed Mason and Lupton out of the courthouse. Corrigan watched from the window of his office until they rode out of town. He still wondered if he had done right turning them loose, but he wouldn’t know the answer for sure until the governor had made his speech and was safely back on the train at Burlington.

  He had known the Owl Creek men for a long time. They were a no-good lot, but they had never made any trouble worse than getting drunk and fighting and making nuisances out of themselves. He hoped they’d take his advice and stay out of town and he thought they would.

  As he left the courthouse and turned toward the Dugan house, he heard someone call: “Jerry! Wait a minute, Jerry. I want to talk to you.”

  Corrigan turned and swore softly. Uncle Pete Fisher was hurrying toward him as fast as he could make his rheumatic body move. He was the last man in town Corrigan wanted to talk to. He’d had enough of him last night.

  He couldn’t handle the old man in the rough way he’d handled the Owl Creek bunch. Fisher was almost a legend in the community. He had done a great deal for the town and the county in his time, and he deserved respect, but it was difficult to respect a man who had become as crotchety and perverse as he was.

  Now, watching Fisher as he approached, Corrigan realized he was a little drunk. That was surprising this early in the morning, but far more surprising was the fact that his beard and mustache were white with just a trace of black shoe polish or dye or whatever he used.

  “I’ve got to talk to you.” Fisher placed his gnarled hands on Corrigan’s wide shoulders and gripped them as hard as he could, his whiskey-sour breath turning Corrigan’s stomach. “You’ve got to do something. You’ve got to keep the governor out of Amity. I don’t know how you can do it, but you can figure something out.”

  Corrigan jerked free of Fisher’s grip and stepped back. “Uncle Pete, you’d better go to bed. I’ll bet you haven’t slept any all night.”

  “By glory, that’s right,” Fisher said. “You know I hate that damned Ben Wyatt for what he’s done to me and my town and the whole state of Colorado, but I don’t want anything to happen that will hurt Amity. That’s why I ain’t slept, and it’s why I’m telling you that you’ve got to do something . . . anything . . . to keep him out of town.

  “I just turned the Owl Creek bunch loose,” Corrigan said. “Are you trying to tell me I should have kept ’em in jail?”

  “No, no, no.” Fisher wiped a hand across his eyes. “Everything will be all right if you keep Wyatt from making his speech. You’ve got to keep him out of town. That’s all. Just turn him around and head him back to the railroad.”

  Fisher was almost crying. The corners of his mouth were trembling and his voice was barely audible. Corrigan backed up another step, not wanting to quarrel with Fisher, but he didn’t have all morning to stand here and argue with an old man who had lost every nickel he had and, blaming the governor for it, hated him with a passion that was almost insanity.

  “Look, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said, “I’ve got to run “Look, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said, “I’ve got to run over to Matt’s house. I want to see Jean a minute before the shebang starts. I’d like to oblige you, but this has gone too far. There’s nothing I can do to keep Wyatt out of town.”

  Fisher began to shake. He tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come for a time. Finally he blurted: “Damn it, Jerry, when a man makes a mistake . . . I mean, there must be some way to stop. . . .”

  His throat seemed to close up and he wiped a hand across his eyes again. Then he had control of himself. He hurried on: “Jerry, you’re the only man I can turn to. Matt won’t do anything. Seems like nobody will even listen to me. I reckon I’ve had a drink or two more’n I should, and I know I’m old and I don’t amount to much any more, but I know what I’m talking about. You’ve got to keep Ben Wyatt off that platform. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry as long as you live.”

  “Uncle Pete, this is going to be a long day,” Corrigan said kindly. “Now, why don’t you go home and get a little sleep, and then, when you wake up, take care of your beard and mustache. I guess you’re awful worried about something because they’ve turned white in just the last few hours.”

  “No,” Fisher said sharply. “It’s going to stay white from now on. I’m tired of trying to be something I’m not. All right, you go see your girl, but you think about what I’ve told you. Talk to Matt about it. Between you, I guess, you can think of some way to stop Wyatt.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Corrigan said.

  Turning from Fisher, he strode away toward the Dugan house. He wondered what had changed the old man. He hadn’t talked this way last night. Then Corrigan put Fisher out of his mind. He had greater worries than the warnings of an old exbanker who was just drunk enough to kick up a cloud of dust trying to keep a man he hated out of town.

  XV

  Matt Dugan did not sleep during the long night. He’d had his share of worries as a husband, a father, a rancher, a lawman, and finally as a banker, but in his active and sometimes turbulent life he had never had to face anything like this. He felt helpless. That was a new feeling and one he didn’t like.

  The bedroom did not cool much during the night even with the windows open. By the time it was daylight he felt as if the last bit of oxygen in the room had been used. He had to get out of here and into some other part of the house.

  Nora was still sleeping. She lay on her back breathing regularly, her mouth slightly open. He slipped out of bed, being careful not to wake her, and, picking up his boots, tiptoed out of the bedroom.

  Sammy Bean was sprawled out on the couch, snoring loudly, his parted lips fluttering with each breath. Ross Hart had called him an idiot, and now with a vacant expression on his face he looked like one. Smith sat in a chair across the room from Bean, his eyes as bright and sharp as they had been the night before.

  Matt sat down on a chair and pulled on his boots. Smith smiled and said pleasantly: “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “No,” Matt answered.

  He got up and went into the kitchen, expectin
g Smith to follow him. He built a fire in the range and filled the teakettle and set it on the front of the stove. Smith didn’t appear. Matt made coffee, filled the wash basin, and scrubbed his face and hands and combed his hair, but still Smith did not leave the front room.

  He didn’t need to, Matt thought bitterly. Nora was in the bedroom. Jean was asleep upstairs. Bud was being held as a hostage. Sure, Matt could walk right out through the back door and go after a gun or he could fetch Jerry Corrigan and a dozen other men; he could prevent the money in the bank from being stolen and thus save the dam. All three outlaws would be killed or captured, and in the process Matt would lose everyone in his family.

  Matt stood beside the range, listening to the wood snap and pop. He had told Nora they would play it out, and now, hours later, he knew that nothing had changed. It was still the only thing they could do. He filled the firebox with coal and set the scuttle on the floor, and then he was aware that Smith was standing in the doorway.

  “Is your wife asleep?” Smith asked. “Or is she reluctant to wait on her guests under the circumstances?”

  “She was asleep when I got up,” Matt said.

  “Wake her,” Smith said. “We want our breakfast. You want yours, too. You’ll soon be going about your business as usual. Don’t forget that for a minute.”

  Smith stepped back and Matt walked through the door and went on into the bedroom, his pulse pounding in his temples. It would help relieve his tension if he gave Smith a verbal cursing, but that was a luxury he could not afford. Play it out, he told himself again. Wait for them to make a mistake. Don’t do anything to make the situation worse.

  Nora woke when he came into the room. She didn’t move or speak. She looked at him, her eyes questioning. He said: “I built the fire and started the coffee. Smith wants you to get up and cook breakfast. I guess it’s time. I have to get to the bank and you have to be at the Methodist church at eight to help Hannah Talbot make sandwiches.”