Sunset Trail Page 18

  He ran along the alley, then slowed up, reminding himself again that he didn’t want to stir up any dust. He mentally cursed Dick Miles for not believing him. He had never liked Miles and was well aware that Miles didn’t like him, mostly because Miles had courted Jean and lost.

  Miles was a fool for thinking Jean would love a man twice her age, but being a fool was beside the point right now. Miles had not believed him, and that had made the governor doubtful, so several minutes had been wasted. Even worse was the possibility that, after they thought it over, they might decide it was just scare talk and come on into town.

  Reaching the back of the barn, Corrigan slipped quickly around the corner, his revolver in his hand. Hugging the wall, he eased along it to the door, opened it, and stepped inside. He was following Matt’s orders. He hadn’t liked the idea in the first place and he still didn’t like it. What was he supposed to do while he was here?

  “Jerry, I sure am glad to see you.”

  Corrigan wheeled toward the far end of the runway. Bud Dugan was coming toward him, white-faced and trembling. He was covered with litter from the straw-covered floor of a stall. Corrigan, staring at him, was stunned by his appearance here in the Dugan barn.

  “How’d you happen to be here?” Corrigan demanded. “I thought they had. . . .”

  “The woman who was riding herd on me got scared and left after tying me up in Uncle Pete Fisher’s soddy,” Bud said. “I got loose and ran here as fast as I could, but I didn’t know what to do after I got here. I was going to hunt for you ’cause I knew you’d figure out what to do, but that Sammy came out and saddled their horses.” Bud swallowed.

  “I didn’t have a gun. Jerry, I never was so scared in my life. I figured he seen me come in and was gonna kill me. He hadn’t seen me, though. I hid in the last stall and he never went back that far, so he didn’t find me.”

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” Corrigan said. “Your dad’s been worried about you.”

  He turned to the window and stared at the back of the house. He didn’t see anyone. Nothing moved, but Jean was inside. She had to be. They wouldn’t turn her loose. He could only hope she was still alive and unharmed. Now that it was too late, he could blame himself for not doing something about it this morning when he’d been in the house with her.

  Bud gripped his arm. “What are you gonna do, Jerry? I wanted to get loose so I could come and tell you what was going on, but I guess you know.”

  “I know, all right,” Corrigan said dully, “but that don’t tell me what to do.”

  Here he was, fifty feet from the back door of the house, and he couldn’t risk showing himself until he knew where Jean was. He had to do something. For a few seconds he was sick with the agony of indecision. If he could slip through a neighbor’s yard until he was opposite the porch and then run to the back door . . . if he could just get inside so he could see Jean and know that she was all right, he. . . .

  He heard a rifle shot, the sharp, brittle crack coming from inside the house as he could judge. He had no idea what it meant unless Miles had come on into town with the governor and the outlaws had seen him and shot him.

  But it couldn’t be that way, he told himself. It couldn’t be. That was what Matt was trying to prevent.

  XXIII

  John Smith looked at his watch. One minute until twelve o’clock. He noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he shoved the watch back into his pocket. He had never really been nervous in his life before as a critical moment approached, but he was nervous now. He felt hollow all the way down deep into his belly.

  So much depended on these next few minutes, and yet it was a situation that could not be pinned down to an exact minute. There were too many variables. The big one, of course, was the time it would take the governor to drive from Burlington to Amity.

  Another point that bothered him a little was the time Dugan would arrive at the house with the money from the bank. He didn’t care if Dugan was late, or even if he didn’t come at all. The instant the governor was shot, the three of them would pull out in a hurry, but if Dugan got here before Ross Hart fired the fatal shot, someone would have to watch him as well as Jean. The simplest way to handle it would be to tie him up. It would take a few minutes for him to free himself and a few minutes was all they’d need.

  Jean was baking something in the kitchen. She was humming, apparently unconcerned about what was happening and might even happen to her. She glanced at him and smiled and kept on with what she was doing. She was a cool one, he thought, a lot cooler than her mother was.

  The morning had passed without any trouble once the young squirt of a sheriff was out of the house. Smith had been afraid he’d come back. He was the kind of man Smith feared because he was young and in love with the girl and likely to be jumpy. But he hadn’t returned. Jean hadn’t give them any trouble at all, and now the moment they’d been waiting for was here, or would be here any second and they’d be on their way.

  Smith turned and walked back into the front room. Sammy Bean was slouched on the couch, his legs stretched in front of him. He had just come back from saddling the horses. All clear in the barn, he’d said. Nobody in the alley. There wouldn’t be, of course. Anyone who could walk was in front of the courthouse by this time, waiting to see the governor.

  “We could take the girl,” Smith said. “That would be one way to keep the sheriff and Dugan from giving us a run.”

  “No,” Sammy said. “She’d slow us up. They won’t give us a run on account of the boy. If they do, we’ll take him along.”

  Smith nodded, knowing that Sammy was right. He wasn’t sure why he had even suggested it because he had thought of it before and discarded the idea for the very reason Sammy had mentioned. He guessed that he was more nervous than he had realized. The number one objective was to get out of Amity in a hurry once the governor was taken care of and he’d better remember it.

  “Keep an eye on the girl,” Smith said. “I’m going up to see Ross.”

  He turned toward the stairs and climbed to the hall on the second floor. He decided that it wasn’t nervousness that had made him suggest taking Jean when they left. The real reason was he didn’t fully trust Dolly. If the boy got away from her, or if she panicked and left him in the soddy, he’d get clear and they wouldn’t have a hostage.

  Even if that happened, Jean would still slow them up and the loss of even two or three minutes at that point might be fatal. No, they’d play it out just the way it had been planned. They had spent hours going over every move they would make. Now he was surprised at himself, the cold, calculating John Smith, for even suggesting the change in plan to Sammy Bean.

  Ross Hart sat close to the open window, his Winchester in his hands, his gaze on the crowd that was milling around in front of the platform. The band was playing a toe-tapping tune of some kind. Smith thought it was “Arkansas Traveler,” although he wasn’t sure. He’d never had much music sense and often had trouble naming a tune that was familiar.

  Hart glanced at him and quickly turned his gaze back to the crowd. He said: “The old booger’s late.”

  “It’s a long ways to Burlington,” Smith said. “They couldn’t call it right to the minute.”

  “No, guess not,” Hart said. “Well, one thing is sure. Old man Fisher picked the right house for us. I couldn’t miss at this distance.”

  He was a cold one, this Ross Hart. He looked as if he were actually going to enjoy killing a man. Smith took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. Hart didn’t notice. If he had, Smith would have passed it off with a remark about the day being hot. But it wasn’t the heat. Damn it, the thing was he wanted it over with and he wanted to get out of this stinking, one-horse town. For that matter, he wanted to get clear out of Colorado.

  He thought of all the years he had lived in Denver and walked the narrow line between the underworld and the world of legitimate business, with one foot in each. He had let himself be used by stronger, tougher men than he was, and
they were the ones who had made the profit. He was always the front man, the smooth-tongued one, the go-between.

  Smith reminded himself that he had never in his whole life made a really big deal, enough to get out of the country and stay out, enough to go to South America and live like a king. This time he had the big deal; he had bargained to kill a man. That was the reason he was able to force the size of pay-off that he had.

  It had been dangerous, damned dangerous right from the moment they had walked into the back of the Dugan house and made a prisoner of Nora Dugan. Because all of them knew it would be dangerous, he had been able to drive a hard bargain, and now he would have the money to go anywhere he wanted to.

  He wiped his face again, his thoughts coming back to the job that had not yet been done. Wyatt was indeed late. Too late, and now a new worry began working into Smith’s consciousness. Suppose someone had caught on and was keeping the governor out of town? No, it didn’t add up. Dugan or Corrigan might figure out what was happening, or make a wild guess, but both would play it out as ordered because neither wanted Jean to be harmed.

  “You haven’t seen a rig come into town?” Smith asked.

  “No.”

  Hart said the word sharply as if the waiting was finally getting to him. Then, seconds later, he leaned forward in his chair. He whispered: “There he is.”

  Hart brought the Winchester to his shoulder, held it there a moment, and squeezed off a shot. “Got him,” he said with satisfaction, and was up and out of his chair and halfway across the room to the door before Smith could move.

  They ran along the hall and down the stairs, boot heels cracking sharply on the floor. Sammy Bean was already in the kitchen, calling back: “I’ll get the horses!”

  For the moment Smith had completely forgotten about the money Matt Dugan was to bring to the house, but now, as he rushed across the front room, he saw Dugan standing in the hall doorway, staring at him as if he were completely bewildered. Asatchel was in his hand. Smith whirled to him and yanked the satchel away from him.

  “Don’t come after us,” Smith warned. “Don’t forget we’ve got the kid. If I see any dust behind us, I’ll put a bullet through his head.”

  He wheeled away and raced into the kitchen. He plunged headlong across it and on to the back porch, suddenly realizing that Jean should have been standing there beside the range, but she wasn’t in sight.

  XXIV

  Matt Dugan had hesitated about taking the money to the house for the simple reason that it was something he didn’t want to do, so he put it off. Once the outlaws had it, the chance of getting it back was pretty slim. The dam project would be finished. Done for. He had known it all the time, of course, but it hit him harder than ever now that the moment was here. It was like burying a cherished dream.

  He couldn’t do it. Pete Fisher had told him it was just an excuse, that the three outlaws had come to Amity to kill the governor, not to rob the bank. So the seconds dragged out, with Matt looking at his watch every minute until it was fifteen after twelve.

  He could not delay any longer. Maybe the $10,000 was only the frosting on the cake, but Jean and Bud were prisoners, he had been ordered to bring the money, and suddenly he felt guilty for not doing it.

  Matt opened a desk drawer, took out the .45 he kept there, checked it quickly and saw that there were five shells in the cylinder, then slipped it under his waistband on his left side, with the butt to the front. He buttoned his coat and, carrying the satchel that contained the money in his left hand, hurried out of the bank.

  The customers had finally cleared out. Fred Fol-lett had locked the front door and was working in the teller’s cage. He glanced curiously at Matt as he strode past, but asked no questions. Matt unlocked the front door, called to Follett-“Lock it after me!”-and stepped outside.

  He wasn’t sure that Follett knew what was in the satchel, but it didn’t make any difference. It would all come out soon enough. He hurried along Main Street toward his house, half running now that he was late because he had lingered so long in his office and he was afraid they would harm Jean because of his tardiness. But there was one good thing about his having wasted those fifteen minutes. Jerry Corrigan had been given time to stop Dick Miles and get back to town and be in the barn.

  Matt still didn’t know how it would work. Jerry might have been right in saying Matt would get himself killed, but at this particular moment Matt didn’t much care if he could take the outlaws with him. That was going to take some doing.

  He slipped his right hand under his coat, wrapped his fingers around the butt of the revolver, and pulled it out from under the waistband, then slipped it back. He had never been one to practice his draw, so he wasn’t a gunman, proud of his speed. Still, he was a good shot, and, if it worked out so Jerry could get into the fight, there was an excellent chance they could take the three men.

  Matt hoped he could see Jean and know she was all right before he opened up. He was a little sick when his thoughts jumped from Jean to Bud because he had no way of knowing what would happen to the boy if the outlaws failed to show up on schedule.

  Bud’s life might be sacrificed just as Matt’s might and possibly even Jean’s, and then for some reason that eluded him he thought of the Bible story about Abraham who had been told to sacrifice his son Isaac. He began to run, anger boiling up in him until he was filled with an unreasoning rage.

  He raced up the path to his front door, yanked the screen open, and plunged into the hall. That was when he heard the crack of the rifle from upstairs. He stopped, stunned, as he heard boots pound along the hall above him and down the stairs; he saw Sammy Bean jump up from the couch and run out of the house through the kitchen.

  All that Matt could think of was that Governor Wyatt had not stayed out of town in spite of Jerry Corrigan’s warning, and, because he had been too stubborn to take the warning, he had been killed. Ross Hart rushed past him toward the back door, Smith jerked the satchel out of his hand and warned him not to follow them, and ran after Hart.

  Matt came out of it then, thinking he had not seen Jean. She might be alive, or they might have killed or raped her, but they weren’t taking her with them. He drew his gun as he ran through the kitchen. When he reached the back door, he glimpsed Corrigan step out of the barn, with Sammy Bean only a few feet from him; he saw the burst of powder flame from the muzzle of Corrigan’s gun and he saw Bean go down.

  In that moment Matt Dugan felt a burst of exultation. They had the outlaws; they had them in a crossfire from which there was no escape. Ross Hart and John Smith were caught between the house and the barn, but they were closer to the house and both wheeled to rush back into the house.

  Even as Hart made the turn, he must have realized he was being stupid. He couldn’t outrun Corrigan’s bullet, so he whirled back and fired with his rifle that he held at his hip. Corrigan took a shot at him. Both missed, and then Matt, standing in the back door, pulled the trigger of his .45. He shot Hart in the back as coldly and with as little remorse as he would have gunned down a mad dog.

  Now John Smith, his face twisted by the terrifying knowledge that he was a dead man, must have realized he was caught here in the open between two men who had nothing but contempt and hate for him. He tried desperately to bring his gun into play, but time had run out for him.

  Matt and Jerry fired in the same second. Smith’s gun, half lifted, drove a slug into one of the steps below the back door. With one bullet in his chest and another smashing through his spine from the back, he was dead before he hit the ground, his lifeless body falling across the satchel of money that he had dropped when he had clawed wildly for his gun.

  For just a moment Matt stood there, with powder smoke forming a cloud in the back yard, then it drifted slowly away as the final echoes of the gunshots died. He saw Bud come out of the barn and for an instant he felt the weakness of relief that swept over him, then the thought came to him that this must be a crazy nightmare that suddenly was turning out all right. Jean
was beside him a moment later, an arm going around him.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I hid in the pantry and locked the door when I heard the shot. I didn’t know what was happening, but I was afraid they’d take me with them when they left and I had an idea they’d pull out right after that first shot. When I heard them run out of the house, I knew I was right.”

  Bud came walking across the yard toward Matt who stepped to the ground and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He said hoarsely: “Thank God you’re alive.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he shoved his gun under his waistband and put his other arm around Jean. Jerry Corrigan was there then, and Matt let him have Jean.

  He tried to smile at Bud, but the smile wouldn’t come. All he could say was: “It must have been bad, wasn’t it, boy?”

  And Bud said: “It wasn’t any fun and that’s a fact.”

  Matt picked up the satchel and they went inside. Corrigan asked: “Who do you suppose they shot? I stopped Miles and told them what was going on. Wyatt promised to wait a while. He wouldn’t say how long.”

  “We’d better see,” Matt said.

  “I’ll stay here,” Jean said, white-faced. “I got through the morning, but I’m at the end of the line. I think I’ll have a good cry. Just go away and leave me.”

  Matt tossed the satchel on the couch and went outside, jerking his head at Corrigan and Bud to follow him. They met Nora who was running to the house from the Methodist church. Matt said:“They’re all right, both of them.” She stopped to hug Bud, then hurried on into the house.

  “She’ll have a good cry, too,” Matt said. “It’ll make both of them feel better.”

  Corrigan said-“Yeah.”-as if he might indulge in the same. Suddenly Matt felt like laughing and wondered if he was hysterical. He looked at Bud and shook his head. The boy had come through it the best of any of them.