The Floating Outfit 17 Page 8

  The senior peace officer of Holbrock County was a tall, lean man in his early forties. Tanned, strong, his face had a neatly trimmed reddish-brown moustache which gave a firm set to his lips. Although he was wearing a white collarless shirt, the trousers and vest of a brown suit—with its jacket hanging over the back of his chair—and Hersome gaiter boots, there was much in his posture to indicate he had served for several years as an officer in the United States’ Cavalry. His gunbelt, a walnut handled Colt 1860 Army revolver in its fast draw holster, lay on the desk within easy reach of his right hand. However, despite having discovered the identity of his visitor and knowing what he had to do, he made no move to pick the weapon up.

  ‘Something I can do for you, Dicks?’ Morton Lewis inquired, knowing the sheriff had no liking for the Christian name he had been given by his parents and feeling they were on sufficiently good terms to be able to dispense with more formal greetings.

  ‘You’ve been away for a spell, I hear?’ the peace officer said, his accent that of a Kansan and making the words more of a statement than a question.

  ‘Just over a month,’ Mort confirmed. ‘Took a young luff from the Second Cavalry and his sister hunting back of Sanchez Riley’s.’

  ‘Where’s Pete at?’

  ‘I sent him off to hunt him a couple of jack rabbits while I came in. You know what he’s like for whupping town dawgs. Which I reckon I’ve got some folks hereabouts riled up enough at me without him starting to chaw up their pets.’

  ‘Are you still riding that big claybank?’

  ‘He’s standing outside at the hitching rail,’ Mort replied, wondering why the normally laconic peace officer was asking the questions and subjecting him to such an intense scrutiny. ‘Have you had him shod lately?’ Dickson asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then he’s still got that near front shoe with the cross shaped ridge on it?’

  ‘Yep. It doesn’t fuss him none, or I’d’ve had it changed.’

  ‘How long have you been back?’ the sheriff wanted to know.4

  ‘Just now rode in,’ Mort answered. ‘Had to pass through town, so I reckoned I’d best drop by and see what you know about ole Dexter Chass.’

  ‘I’ve just now come back from looking at him,’ Dickson said somberly. ‘Both him and his son are dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Shot in the back. It happened at least three days ago, according to Doc Benett. I found a couple of empty shells from a Spencer carbine in the bush and some real clear hoof prints, with a cross shaped ridge on the near front.’

  Even as the full import of the words began to impress itself upon Mort, heavy footsteps pounded along the sidewalk. The door of the office was thrown open and, led by Brenton Humboldt, several well-dressed men came in hurriedly. Big, heavily built, with a thick mane of white hair, the florid state of his features and heavy breathing indicated he had come to the jailhouse in a hurry.

  ‘I see you’ve got him, sheriff!’ Humboldt boomed.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it “got”,’ Dickson corrected. ‘He just now walked in of his own accord, I didn’t have to “get” him.’

  ‘He’s here, that’s what counts,’ the banker snapped, his position of authority in the town having accustomed him to greater deference than was ever shown by the peace officer. ‘Arrest him for murder!’

  ‘Murder—!’ Mort began, swinging around to look at the speaker who withdrew a hurried pace before his cold stare.

  ‘I’d want to know for sure he’d committed murder before I made an arrest,’ Dickson interrupted.

  ‘Sure?’ Humboldt snorted, alarm at what he believed he had read in the scrutiny from the young rancher forcing him. to speak. ‘According to what that Mexican, Salar, was saying at the Golden Hind Saloon, you found spent cases from a Spencer carbine where the killer shot from at poor Mr. Chass and his son, and you found tracks with a distinctive horseshoe like one on his horse out there.’

  ‘Salar talks too much,’ the sheriff grunted, the man in question and two other hands from the Standing DMS ranch having brought news of the double killing and accompanied him to investigate.

  ‘Are you saying he was lying?’ the banker demanded.

  ‘Just that he talks too much,’ Dickson corrected.

  ‘He told me when I asked in my capacity as justice of the peace,’ Humboldt asserted. ‘And it is in that capacity I have come to see you. Was Mr. Salar telling the truth, or not?’

  ‘That’s what we found—!’ the sheriff began.

  ‘Then what more proof do you need to make the arrest?’ the banker snapped and his companions, all citizens of importance and influence in their own right, muttered a sycophantic concurrence.

  ‘I haven’t been given time to ask Mr. Lewis any questions yet,’ Dickson pointed out, refusing to be daunted by the realization that the assembled group formed a powerful force in the town and could make his work difficult if they wished. He was too experienced to continue using “first name’’ terms when referring to the rancher under the present circumstances and his voice remained just as impersonal as he went on: ‘Where were you three, four days back?’

  ‘Hunting with Lieutenant Thatcher from the Second Cavalry and his sister back of Sanchez Riley’s,’ Mort replied, refraining from mentioning he had already given the information.

  ‘That’s Comanche country!’ Humboldt put in. ‘Are you saying you took an Army officer and a young lady there?’

  ‘Why not?’ Mort inquired. ‘Jim—The lieutenant wasn’t in uniform and I can go in any time with friends. Fact being, three, four days back, we were at Grandpappy Wolf Runner’s village.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’ Humboldt challenged, once again before the peace officer could speak, looking disappointed as he realized what an answer in the affirmative would mean.

  ‘Clay Morrison knows we went there,’ Mort told Dickson.

  ‘Your cook?’ the banker sniffed. ‘He’s hardly what I would call an unbiased witness.’

  ‘The lieutenant and his sister can tell you we was there,’ the rancher said, continuing to direct his words to the peace officer and struggling to control his rising temper.

  ‘I’ll get word to ask them,’ Dickson promised.

  ‘That’ll take time,’ Mort declared and, remembering something else, he continued, ‘Hey though! I can nail down one day we were there real good. Miss Thatcher did a real good drawing of her brother, Grandpappy Wolf Runner and me. She’s signed it and put the date on and that was four days back.’

  ‘Let me see it!’ the sheriff commanded, his tone impersonal in spite of the relief and satisfaction he was experiencing.

  ‘I don’t have it with me,’ Mort admitted. ‘She gave it to Grandpappy Wolf Runner and he’s got it at the village. I can easy enough go fetch it for you.’

  ‘I daresay he would like to be given the chance!’ Humboldt snapped, making it obvious he was speaking to the peace officer. ‘Well, sheriff, are you going to do your duty and arrest him?’

  ‘How long would it take you to go fetch the drawing, Mr. Lewis?’ Dickson asked, without so much as a glance at the townsmen.

  ‘Three days,’ Mort estimated, paying just as little attention to the mutters of protest which arose from the banker and his cronies. ‘Two, should I ride relay on fresh hosses from the spread.’

  ‘That’s out of the question!’ Humboldt stated, striding forward to halt just in front of the desk. ‘If he goes, what guarantee do we have that he will come back?’

  ‘You’ve got my word on it, sheriff!’ the rancher stated, his face turning darker with suppressed rage despite the effort he was needing to exert in preventing the growing anger from becoming apparent in his voice. ‘The quicker I can clear myself with you, the better I’ll be pleased. I’ve got a right nice lil spread and I know there’ll be no living there for me until I have.’

  ‘I can’t allow it, sheriff!’ the banker warned, waving an admonitory right forefinger in front of the peace officer’s face. Then he
indicated the men behind him with a gesture of his left hand, continuing in a pompously authoritative tone. ‘And I’m speaking as chairman, on behalf of my fellow County Commissioners here, as well as in my capacity as justice of the peace. You have a man here who the evidence points to as having committed two cold blooded murders—!’

  ‘I’ve got what I reckon would be called “circumstantial evidence” in a court of law where he’s concerned and nothing more,’ Dickson corrected, also requiring to exercise restraint as he knew to do otherwise would only make the townsmen more set upon supporting Humboldt. There’s more than just his Spencer around, in fact I’ve not even had time to check what caliber shell it uses.’

  ‘And the hoof prints you found?’ the banker challenged. ‘They could match those of that horse of his outside,’ the sheriff admitted. ‘But, should he have shot the Chasses, I don’t reckon a man with his knowledge of scouting and cutting sign would have ridden a horse which could be traced back to him so easily, much less cross ground that was soft enough to leave real clear prints.’

  ‘You’re making a very good case for your friend!’ Humboldt asserted.

  ‘I’m figuring on looking at things from all sides,’ Dickson answered coldly. ‘Isn’t that what I’m hired to do?’

  ‘You’re hired to uphold the law!’ the banker declared, to the mumbled agreement of his companions. ‘And, under the circumstances, I fail to see how you can justify allowing this man to go where he will be safe from arrest should he decide not to return.’

  ‘You can send one of the boys from the spread, sheriff,’ Mort offered, realizing Humboldt was expressing a point of view which would be shared by many people in the town and having no desire to place the peace officer’s appointment in jeopardy. ‘They can do it easy enough.’

  ‘But they would hardly be what I would consider unbiased witnesses,’ the banker commented in a judicial fashion, attempting to display complete impartiality and the impression that he was solely interested in ensuring justice was done. He refused to so much as glance at the tall young man who had aroused his animosity, ‘Nor, as you know, sheriff, would a court of law consider them to be.’

  ‘Could anybody else go and fetch it?’ Dickson asked, conceding there was some justification in the point he hack just heard.

  ‘I’d give you my medicine pouch,’ the rancher offered. ‘That would get you to Grandpappy Wolf Runner, happen you carried it in plain sight and rode in the open.’

  ‘Or whoever I sent?’ the sheriff inquired.

  ‘Sure,’ Mort confirmed. ‘Any Kweharehnuh they come across would know they’d been sent by me and take them to Grandpappy.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ Dickson decided, starting to stand up. ‘So I’ll take your gunbelt for starters.’

  ‘Why?’ the rancher demanded.

  ‘I’ll have to hold you here until I’ve got this settled,’ the sheriff replied, glancing at the barred door which gave access to the cells in the rear section of the jailhouse.

  A cold sensation bit through Mort on hearing and realizing what was meant by the words and involuntary gesture. Remembering the warning given by Healing Hands, even though he felt sure Dickson was not the enemy he believed to be a friend, his every instinct suggested he had walked into a carefully prepared trap. Nor, after a moment’s thought, did he consider it was laid by Humboldt. While the banker apparently felt enough hatred to behave in such a fashion, the rancher doubted whether he would set about obtaining revenge in such a roundabout manner. Furthermore, he had never been on such good terms—even prior to the association with Rose Humboldt—to be regarded as a friend.

  One thing the rancher concluded was certain. The enemy who had set up the clever trap was certain to have covered all contingencies, and steps would be taken to prevent him proving he had not killed the Chasses. Therefore, whoever was sent to collect the drawing would have to run the gauntlet of men under orders to stop it being brought back. Furthermore, once word got out that he had such a strong alibi, his unknown enemy was unlikely to sit back and wait for his innocence to be established. Competent as Dickson undoubtedly was and backed by two reasonably efficient deputies, there were far too many ways in which a prisoner held in the cells could be killed.

  In addition to the assumptions he had drawn, there was something else compelling Mort not to want to do as the sheriff suggested. As a result of his upbringing, he had a hatred of being confined in any way. The prospect of being held in a cell for an indefinite period, even without the danger of there being attempts upon his life during the incarceration, was more than he could bear to contemplate.

  With Mort, right or wrong, to think was to act!

  ‘Stay put, sheriff!’ the rancher commanded, grabbing Humboldt by the scruff of the neck with the left hand while the right brought out the Colt 1860 Army revolver, cocked its hammer and thrust the muzzle at his double chin.

  ‘What the—?’ Dickson began, but did as he was told.

  ‘I’m going out of here—!’ Mort stated.

  ‘Don’t be a fool—!’ the sheriff commenced.

  ‘I’d be worse than a fool was I to let you put me in a cell,’ the rancher claimed, feeling the banker trembling with what he suspected was a mixture of fear and rage. ‘You know it wasn’t me made wolf bait of the Chasses, but I’m not going to be given the chance to prove it.’

  ‘You’ll get a fair trial,’ Dickson promised, throwing a prohibitive glare at the men who had arrived with Humboldt and relieved at knowing that none of them were the kind to take some ill-advised action which could place his life in jeopardy.

  ‘Only if I live long enough to get it,’ Mort replied, moving until he too could keep watch upon the banker’s cronies as well as the sheriff.

  ‘Nobody will ever lynch a prisoner I’m holding!’ Dickson asserted, directing his words as much to the town dwellers as the rancher.

  ‘I don’t have lynching in mind,’ Mort pointed out. ‘But you and your deputies can’t guard me twenty-four hours a day, nor cover every place I could get shot at from. No sir, sheriff, I’m not about to make it that easy for who-all it is’s’s got me into this tight. I’m going to Grandpappy Wolf Runner and’11 wait there until you send word by one of my boys, nobody else, that you’ve got Lieutenant Thatcher and his sister here to speak for me.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Mort,’ Dickson warned.

  ‘You can’t do a whole heap to stop me, way things stand,’ the grim-faced young rancher countered.

  ‘Come on now,’ the sheriff said quietly, standing like a statue and not even so much as glancing at the revolver in his gunbelt on the desk. ‘You know you won’t use that gun!’

  ‘You ask Mr. Humboldt here whether he’s game to chance it,’ Mort suggested, pressing the Colt a little deeper into his captive’s throat.

  ‘D—Do what he says, sheriff!’ the banker gasped, trying to move his head away from the cold rim of steel which was gouging into his flesh.

  ‘Is that the way you want it?’ Dickson inquired, determined to make sure the responsibility for the decision was established before acting.

  ‘Y—Yes!’ Humboldt confirmed, spitting out the word as if hating the taste of it in his mouth and, judging Mort by his own standards, convinced he would be killed without hesitation should there be the slightest suggestion of resistance on the part of anybody in the office. ‘D—Do whatever he says!’

  ‘Back away from the desk slow and careful, sheriff,’ the rancher instructed, being sufficiently diplomatic to avoid reminding the rest of the men that he was formerly on good terms with the peace officer and delighted that the banker had overlooked how he would be left without protection should he use his Colt to enforce a demand. ‘The rest of you, go through into the cell block and make sure you keep your hands where I can see them all the time.’

  ‘You—You aren’t helping yourself this way!’ Humboldt pointed out querulously, rather than in the fashion of one delivering a warning of repercussions in the fut
ure, as his companions were obeying.

  ‘They do say the Good Lord helps them’s help themselves,’ Mort answered and, after the last of the party had gone through the barred door, continued, ‘Now you, sheriff. Soon’s you’re inside, reach through, lock the door ’n’ toss the key over this ways. Should nothing happen, I’ll send Mr. Humboldt back to let you out.’

  ‘Shall I do it, Mr. Humboldt?’ Dickson asked, deriving some satisfaction from the discomfiture of the banker, even though no suggestion of it showed on his face or in his voice.

  ‘Of course!’ Humboldt authorized, even before there was need for Mort to use the muzzle of the Colt as an inducement.

  ‘So be it,’ the sheriff said. ‘Seeing’s that’s how you want it, I’ll play along your way.’

  ‘I’m right obliged to you, Mr. Humboldt,’ Mort declared, watching the peace officer carrying out his instructions. ‘Now all you have to worry about is if whoever’s trying to have me hanged for murdering the Chasses doesn’t have nobody waiting outside to stop me. ’Cause, should there be, likely they won’t be as careful as the sheriff about what happens to you when they cut in.’

  Nine

  Running Proves He’s Guilty

  Never had time dragged by so slowly for Brenton Humboldt than it appeared to be doing as he and Morton Lewis crossed the office towards the front entrance of the jailhouse. He was all too aware that his life was in the hands of a man who had no cause to feel the slightest well-being towards him. Furthermore, from all he had heard and believed, the possession of such a mixture of bloods as was the lot of his grim faced young captor created a completely cold blooded disregard for the sanctity of human life. He believed that his only hope of survival was to ensure that every wish expressed by the ‘half-breed’ was carried out immediately and to the letter.

  ‘All right now, Mr. Humboldt,’ Mort said, deliberately pitching his voice in a coldly menacing timbre, as they arrived at the door. ‘We’re going out here just like we’re the best of friends. sabe?’