Sunset Trail Read online

  Henry stared at his hands that were fisted on his lap. “I guess I’m a coward, Governor. I wanted to spare you this and I kept hoping that something would happen that would prevent you from going to Amity in the morning. I guess I’d better show you a letter that came today.”

  Henry reached into his inside coat pocket and drew out an envelope and handed it to Wyatt who glanced at the address. The words Tom Henry, Secretary to the Governor, Denver, Colorado, were printed in pencil. He looked up. “Tom, we’ve had death threats before, if that’s what this is.”

  “Go on,” Henry said. “Look at it.”

  Wyatt shrugged and took the folded sheet of paper from the envelope. He had always looked upon any death threat as the work of some crackpot who thought he could be scared into withdrawing from the race. He refused to think this was anything else.

  The message was printed in pencil on a sheet of cheap tablet paper similar to the kind any child would use in school. Wyatt read: Plans are complete to murder Governor Wyatt in Amity when he arrives to speak on Dam Day. It is too late now to call it off, so see that he does not come.

  “I know,” Henry said when Wyatt looked at him.

  “I should have showed it to you hours ago, but we were in a hurry to catch the train. I grabbed up several letters just as we left my office and didn’t look at them until we were on the train. Then it was like I said. I hoped to spare you this.”

  “Another crackpot,” Wyatt said with feigned indifference.

  “I don’t think so,” Henry said. “For one thing, we know that Amity is one of the centers of hostility to you. The second thing is that I’m guessing someone in Amity helped to make these plans and now he’s running scared and hoping it doesn’t happen. This was all he could think of doing.”

  Wyatt handed the envelope back to Henry. “You may be right. In any case, we’ll go ahead as planned.”

  “But damn it. . . .”

  The train had begun to slow. Wyatt made an impatient gesture. “Take our bags down, Tom. We’re right on time.”

  Henry, fully aware that Wyatt could be a very stubborn man at times, stepped into the aisle and took their valises from the rack just as the shrill, long drawn-out sound of the whistle came to them.

  “We’d better get out there on the platform,” Henry said, “and be ready to step off the minute the train stops or we’ll wind up in Kansas.”

  “The Populist vote in Kansas will not elect me in Colorado,” Wyatt said as he rose and moved into the aisle.

  He followed Henry to the end of the car, the bell clanging steadily as he went onto the platform and down the steps where he joined Henry.

  The conductor shouted-“B-o-a-r-d!”-and Wyatt saw the lanterns swing and the coach start to move. Am oment later smoke from the engine rolled in around them and the bell was sounding again. He remained there on the cinders beside the track until the train was far away, the rear lights growing smaller. The thought came to him that this would be an excellent spot to murder him while he stood in the thin light from the depot lamps.

  Wyatt took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. The night air was hot and without a trace of a breeze. He shrugged his shoulders, telling himself he had never been stampeded into panic by death threats. Still, as Henry had said, this was different. More than that, he was disappointed in Matt Dugan.

  He had never been in Burlington before; he did not know where the hotel was or how far it was from the depot. He had assumed that Dugan would have someone to meet them.

  “We’d better start walking,” Wyatt said. “I guess we can find a hotel.”

  “I have a rig to take you to the hotel,” a man said as he appeared around the corner of the depot.

  “Sorry I’m slow getting here. I got into a poker game and the last hand took longer’n I figured. Usually the train’s a few minutes late, but it was right on time tonight.”

  “I suppose a poker game’s more important than meeting the governor,” Henry said sulkily.

  “It’s all right, Mister . . . ?” Wyatt began.

  “Miles,” the man said. “Dick Miles. I work for Matt Dugan.”

  Wyatt caught the movement of the man’s hand in the thin light as he held it out. Wyatt shook it, then said: “Mister Miles, this is my secretary, Tom Henry.”

  “Howdy, Mister Henry,” Miles said, and offered his hand.

  Henry put the valises down and grunted something as he shook hands. Wyatt thought he would have to remind his secretary of his manners again. For some reason he always expected the red carpet treatment, which was seldom forthcoming.

  “This way,” Miles said, and led them around the depot to the hitch rail.

  Wyatt took the seat in the hack behind the driver’s. Henry dropped the valises in the back and sat down beside the governor.

  In less than five minutes they pulled up in front of a hotel, the lights in the lobby and those from a saloon across the street the only signs of life anywhere in the business block.

  “They’ll have breakfast for us at five,” Miles said. “We’ve got to leave here at least by six if we’re going to make it to Amity by noon.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Wyatt said.

  Henry lifted the valises from the back of the rig and set them on the boardwalk. Miles hesitated, looking down at Wyatt, who sensed he wanted to say something.

  “Let’s get to bed,” Henry said. “I’ll see if they have any rooms reserved for us.”

  “They do and they’re paid for.” Miles waited until Henry disappeared into the lobby, then he leaned forward. “Governor, there’s something I want to say, but Matt will fire me if he knows I said it. He’s banking on you being there tomorrow.”

  “I intend to be there.” Wyatt could not see Miles clearly in the dim light from the hotel lobby, but he had the impression of a bronze, strong-jawed man, and, knowing that Matt Dugan was a rancher as well as a banker, he suspected that Miles was a cowhand. He added: “If you can get me there.”

  “Oh, I can get you there, all right,” Miles said, “but I ain’t real sure you want to go. What I mean is, you won’t get a single, solitary vote out of the bunch that’s going to be listening to you tomorrow. It may turn out to be purty unpleasant on account of a lot of people lost their farms and ranches and even some business in town because of the panic last year.”

  “And of course they blame me and the Populist party.”

  “They sure do,” Miles said. “Now I ain’t claiming they’re right, mind you, but that’s exactly how they feel.”

  “And some of them hate me enough to take a shot at me,” Wyatt said.

  “How did you know that?” Miles demanded. “Did anybody tell you?”

  “Oh, no,” Wyatt said, “but it’s an old story. I aim to be in Amity at twelve tomorrow, Mister Miles. Good night.”

  “Good night, Governor,” Miles said, and drove away. Wyatt turned and went into the lobby, thinking he had lived his three score and ten years and he didn’t really care if he lived any longer or not. You never knew what forces pushed a cause toward fulfillment, but sometimes an assassin’s bullet did more good than anything else to achieve that fulfillment. If that was his fate, then so be it. Then, for some reason, he wondered if Dick Miles was the man who had sent the death threat to Tom Henry.

  III

  John Smith and Ross Hart reined up in front of the sod house a few minutes before midnight and dismounted, Smith stiff and sore after the long ride from the Kansas border. He called: “Hello!”

  The door was flung open, and lamplight fell past a slim man who stood in the doorway. He asked: “John? Ross?”

  “Right,” Smith said, and, leaving the reins dragging, stepped into the soddy, Hart following. “I see you found it.”

  “Sure, we found it.” Sammy Bean closed the door. “No trouble.” He motioned toward the woman standing on the other side of the table. “John, this is Dolly Aims.” He jerked his head at Hart. “And Ross Hart.”

  Both men took off their hats,
Smith saying: “It’s a pleasure, Miss Aims.” Hart grunted something that sounded like “Howdy” and openly stared at the woman, with the naked lust of a sensual man.

  “I’m happy to meet both of you,” Dolly said. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d like it,” Smith said, and Hart grunted again and kept on staring.

  “Sit down,” Sammy said, motioning to a bench beside the table.

  “Hell, no,” Smith said. “I’ve had all the sitting I want for a while.”

  He watched Dolly walk to the stove and bring the coffee pot to the table and fill two tin cups and return to the stove, her buttocks flowing from side to side with the rhythm of her walk. Sammy was young, not over twenty, Smith knew, and he was surprised to find that Dolly was considerably older.

  Smith sipped his coffee, wondering about that. He had known Sammy for more than two years and he did not have the slightest doubt about the boy’s willingness and ability to carry out his part of this undertaking. He was not sure how many murders Sammy had committed, but he had heard of three.

  Smith knew Ross Hart better than he did Sammy, their association going back for ten years. Hart had a number of killings to his credit-at least five, not counting the Indians and Mexicans. His principal asset was his sharpshooting ability with a rifle, and it was that asset that had given Smith his reason for calling on Hart to take part in the operation. With Sammy, it had been a simple proposition of needing one more man who could be depended upon to carry out orders. This, he knew, was something Sammy Bean would do.

  What about Dolly? She had turned to stand with her back to the stove, her hands folded in front of her, a forced smile on her full lips. She was not particularly pretty, but she wasn’t ugly, either. She was big. Not fat or out of proportion, but she was taller than Sammy, and big-boned. Her pink blouse was pulled tightly across her breasts.

  More than once Sammy had told Smith that Dolly was the best bed pardner he’d ever had and he aimed to hold onto her. From her point of view she probably had reason to want to hang onto Sammy. He had done very well the last year or so and Dolly loved money.

  “By God,” Sammy burst out, glaring at Hart, “you’d better get that idea out of your head. Dolly belongs to me and not to nobody else.”

  Hart looked at Smith. “What the hell’s the matter with him? I haven’t said anything.”

  “You don’t need to,” Sammy said. “I can read you every time you look at a woman.”

  Hart pretended that his feelings were hurt. He was a big man, six feet three inches and better than 200 pounds with long muscles and long bones and the easy grace of a man who has spent most of his life in the saddle. He had been in Arizona for the last three years except for short visits to Denver. The desert sun had burned his face a deep bronze so that anyone who didn’t know him would have taken him for part Indian.

  “I apologize if I looked at you wrong, Miss Aims,” Hart said, his tone indicating he didn’t mean a word of it.

  “That’s enough,” Smith said. “You’re so jealous you’re a little crazy, Sammy. Now, how about it?

  Dolly’s going to have the Dugan boy out here for twelve hours. Can you trust her?”

  “I can trust her, all right,” Sammy said. “I’m all the man she needs. It’s this damned stud horse I don’t trust.”

  “He won’t see her again,” Smith said. “Now, forget it.” His gaze returned to the woman. “Dolly, this is a very delicate operation. It’s been planned as exactly as it can be. Alo t depends on you. I never saw you before, but I have heard about you.”

  “I’m flattered, Mister Smith,” she said, making no attempt now to smile. “If you have heard that much of me, you know I’ll do exactly what I say I will.”

  “Yes,” Smith agreed. “That is one of two reasons I let Sammy bring you into this deal. The other reason is that I thought you were in love with Sammy. If anything goes wrong, I guess you know he’ll get strung up with me and Ross.”

  “Both of your reasons are good ones,” she said gravely. “I can promise you that nothing will go wrong out here.”

  “Good.” Smith put his empty cup on the table and turned to Sammy. “What time did you get here?”

  “After dark,” Sammy said. “You gave us good directions. We rode along the ridge north of here and spotted the soddy before sundown. As soon as it was dark, we moved in.”

  Smith fished a cigar out of his coat pocket. He had been here before, so he knew where he and Hart were headed, but Sammy had never seen the place and Smith had been concerned that someone would notice Sammy and the woman ride in. He bit off the end of the cigar, struck a match, and lighted it, then he said: “All right, Dolly, what are you going to do?”

  “Stay inside this stinking dirt house till noon tomorrow,” she said. “We brought enough sandwiches and water so I won’t have to go outside for anything. Sammy will fetch the boy here after a while and I’ll see to it that he stays inside the soddy as long as I’m here.” She turned to a shelf behind the stove and picked up a small revolver. “I’ll kill him if I have to, but I don’t think I will. I’m stout enough to handle any fourteen-year-old kid I ever saw.”

  “Fine,” Smith said. “And after you leave here?”

  “I’ll tie him up before I leave so it’ll take him a while to get loose,” she said. “I’ll saddle up and head back to the soddy where we stayed last night. I’ll wait there for Sammy.”

  Smith nodded. “All right. Now, remember that our job is to kill the governor, which we will do exactly at noon tomorrow if everything goes on schedule. And it will, because the Amity bunch has a big program, and they’ll have to run it tight if they’re going to get everything in. Besides, the governor has to get back to Burlington in time to catch the eight o’clock train, so he’s not going to be late showing up in Amity.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a lot of people in Colorado who would like to shoot the governor,” Hart said. “Maybe the Amity sheriff will be looking for something like this.”

  “Looking for it and stopping it are two different things,” Smith said. “As long as we’ve got the boy out here, we can be clean gone before Dugan or the sheriff make a move. Whatever happens, Dugan won’t sacrifice the life of his kid just to chase us.”

  “The last time we went over this, you hadn’t made up your mind about it.”

  “Robbing the bank is the excuse we’ll give for moving in on the Dugans,” Smith answered. “If it works out so that Dugan gets back to his house with the money at noon, we’ll take it. I see no reason to throw ten thousand dollars away if it drops into our hands. If it works out so Ross gets a chance to rub the governor out before noon, we’ll get the job done and light out. Once we’re in the sandhills, they’ll never find us. We’ve got a relay of horses, so we won’t be held up between here and Kansas. You have fresh horses at that soddy where you and Dolly stayed. By night we’ll all be a long ways from here.”

  Sammy scratched his nose. “I hate to overlook ten thousand dollars,” he grumbled. “Seems to me we could work the timing so we’ll get it for sure.”

  “It’s not important,” Smith said harshly. “We are hired for something else. That ten thousand is a plum that might fall into our laps. If so, good. If not, we forget it. The surest way to get ourselves hung is to be too greedy.”

  “All right, all right,” Sammy said. “You’re the boss.”

  “And you’d better remember it,” Smith said. “Now then, we know the layout of the Dugan house. Ross and I will go in through the back door. Sammy, you will stay in the barn long enough to take the saddle off my horse. Ross’s, too, but not yours. Then you come in, but stay in the kitchen unless I call you. From here on we play it by ear. Dugan has a meeting that will keep him from getting home early, but we don’t know whether we’ll beat him into the house or not. If we don’t, we may need you for a reserve.”

  “I savvy,” Sammy said.

  “One other thing,” Smith said. “We don’t know where the girl, Jean, will be. The b
oy, Bud, will be in bed asleep, or should be unless something has gone wrong, but Jean’s eighteen and engaged to the sheriff. They may be out buggy riding or something.”

  “Ross, Sammy’s right about you,” Smith said angrily. “You’re a damn’ stud horse. Now get this through your head. For the next twelve hours you’re going to forget about women. We don’t want a local crime to make these pumpkin rollers get any meaner than they will be after the governor’s shot. You’ll make enough out of this to hire all the women you want afterward.”

  “Sure,” Ross said, “but don’t expect me to forget about women for twelve hours. I can’t do it that long.”

  “You’d better try damn’ hard,” Smith said.

  “Who’s hiring us?” the woman asked.

  “That’s something you’ll never know,” Smith said. “Neither does Sammy nor Ross. I don’t know all of them myself. Well, it’s time we got started. Sammy, saddle up. Ross, you go outside and look at the stars or something. I want a minute with Dolly.”

  Sammy hesitated, apparently not sure he could trust Smith with the woman, then he wheeled and left the soddy. Hart grinned and winked at Smith. “The kid’s got it bad.”

  “So have I,” Dolly said. “You’d better be damn’ sure you don’t let anything go wrong on your end.”

  “It’s not our end I’m worried about,” Smith said. “It’s yours. As long as the boy is out here, we’re in good shape. If you let him slip away and get into town, we’re in trouble. It’s that simple.”

  “I won’t,” she said sharply. “I keep telling you that, but you don’t believe me.”

  Hart was gone now. Smith shut the door and turned to the woman. He said: “Dolly, I don’t believe you because I know you might get scared being here by yourself with the boy. Well, I’ll give you something to chew on that had better scare you. I know enough to hang you. If you bungle this and they catch me, I’ll talk.”

  “Oh, hell.” Dolly threw up her hands. “I’m not going to bungle it. Anyhow, I think you’re lying.”