Spur found Ben in the livery barn. He was sitting in the straw cleaning his gun by feel. Spur squatting by him.
‘You’ve done it again,’ he said.
‘What I done?’ Ben enquired.
‘Saved my life.’
‘Aw, that. What happens now?’
Spur told him about the man who had been shot outside Miss Prayboy’s place and how he had escaped through her rear door. ‘You want that feller tracked,’ said Ben.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Spur told him. ‘An’ you watch out for yourself.’
‘Fust light,’ Ben said, ‘an’ I’m on the trail.’
Spur thanked him and walked back to his hotel, thinking about Ben. The Negro was bronco and he’d be the last to deny it. But some chord had been struck between the two of them way back along the trail when they had both been wanted men. Now they were both pardoned, but their reputations clung to them. The hardcase who killed Sam Spur or Cusie Ben could have drinks on the accomplishment for life. In Spur’s book, Ben was the straightest man he knew.
He reached the hotel and there was nobody in the lobby. He heard the murmur of voices from the rear, a man and a woman talking, but he didn’t stop. He reached down his key and, mounted the stairs. He opened the door of his room and dropped to the floor with his gun in his hand. He wasn’t taking any chances. He waited a moment and heard not the slightest sound. Then he got to his feet, found a match and scratched it into life. When the lamp was lit, a voice said: ‘I don’t have a gun.’
He didn’t know the voice. It was male and near. He dropped the cover over the flame and turned. A man stood behind the door. Fifty years old, gray-haired, lean. His eyes looked hopeless, He reached out and closed the door.
‘Who’re you?’ said Spur.
‘Milton Trask.’
‘Should that mean something to me?’
‘Not a thing. I’m not too important. Except that if I’m caught talkin’ with you, I could be killed.’
Spur smiled.
‘That makes you important enough,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’
The man pulled forward the one chair in the room and sat down. Spur sat on the bed. He liked the look of this man.
‘Could you turn the key in the door?’ Trask asked. ‘I don’t want anybody to come on us without warning.’
Spur crossed to the door and locked it. When he had settled himself on the bed again, Trask said: ‘I had a spread east of here. Ran a few cows in a smallish way. I was makin’ out. Couple of years and I’d be showing some profit. Also ran some sheep in the hills. That wasn’t too popular. Had a Basque herder. Started to do so well with the sheep that I thought about givin’ up cows altogether. But I had a hankerin’ to run cows. My daddy was a cowman before me. That Basque of mine, he didn’t speak any English, but he knew a little Spanish and I did too. We got along fine. He was fixed to get his wife and kids out from Spain. I was goin’ to build him a small place. He was a smart fellow. Had a fine feel for the land. Couldn’t read or write, but he never forgot anything he saw. He saw a whole lot. Too much maybe.’
The man’s impassive face broke a little. He passed a work-hardened hand over his face.
‘Just take your time,’ Spur said.
Trask went on: ‘You know these sheep-herders. They’re loners. Hardly speak to a human soul for weeks at a time. I used to ride up into the hills maybe once a week to pass a few hours with this man of mine. One day I rode up and I found the sheep scattered all over. I looked around and I found his two dogs. They were dead. Shot through the head. Now that Basque, he was a loyal man. He had an old single-shot rifle and he could use it. On more than one occasion he’d fought off Indians and big cats. So I reckoned if his dogs were dead, he was dead. They were family to him. Sure enough I found him under some stones in a dry wash. Shot through the back of the head.’
‘You know why?’
‘Well, at first I thought thieves had done it. Maybe Indians stealin’ a few sheep. But I went through his clothes and I found this.’
Trask reached into a pocket and brought out something that glittered in the lamplight. Spur readied out and took it. He was no expert, but it was about the biggest nugget of gold he’d ever set eyes on. He handed it back.
‘How do you read it?’ he asked.
‘He’d found it, an’ he was savin’ it to show to me when next I visited. He was honest. The way I see it, he’d found gold and he was killed by the men who wanted to keep the knowledge to themselves.’
‘Find any sign?’
‘Some. Looked like a half-dozen men had been there, all mounted. They headed out east into the hills.’
‘Does the story end there?’
‘No, sir, it doesn’t. Well, maybe it does. I can’t tell.’
‘Let me hear it all,’
‘There doesn’t seem any connection, but I’ll tell you just the same. I borrowed from the bank. Not a lot. If everythin’ had gone like I wanted it, I’d of paid off easily enough. But things started to go wrong after I found the Basque dead. First off, I had rustler trouble. Sure, everybody around here has a cow taken every now and then, but with me it got really out of hand. By God, they nearly cleaned me out. The notes fell due an’ I found I had to sell sheep to meet them. If I could of done that I might have pulled through. I got a Mexican to help me an’ I started gathering the woollies. Somebody ran the whole damn herd over a cliff. I never seen such a sight in my life. I was finished.’
‘So you sold out.’
‘That’s the size of it.’
‘Who to?’
‘That’s the funny thing. Somebody I never heard of. I haven’t even seen him.’
‘Name?’
‘Henry Arnold.’
‘Anybody else ever heard of him?’
‘Not that I know of and I’ve asked around.’
‘That’s interestin’, Trask. Glad you came to me. How’re you makin’ out now?’
‘Earning a boy’s wage in the hardware store in town.’
‘Which was your bank?’
‘The one right here in town.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘Oscar Wilton.’
‘Where’s his home?’
‘Lincoln.’ In reply to Spur’s question, Trask described the place.
Spur said: ‘You go on home, Mr. Trask. I’m grateful for your information. You’re suggesting the killing of the Basque is tied in with the other killings. You could be right. I have a hunch you are. You keep your ears open an’ I’ll find a way of contactin’ you quietly. I’d recommend you didn’t wait in my room again. You might get yourself shot. I’m a mighty nervous man.’
Trask rose. They shook. Spur unlocked the door and Trask went. Spur returned to the bed and sat for a while, thinking. He wasn’t doing too badly, all things considered. But there was too much danger around for his liking. He had the opposition pretty worried, but he still didn’t know who the hell the opposition was. He was as much in the dark as when he had first ridden into this place.
He rose, left the room, slipped the key into his pocket after he had locked the door and walked softly down the stairs. At the bottom, he paused. The murmur of voices had stopped. There was nobody about. He left the hotel and walked to Lincoln. There were few people about on the street He turned right down Lincoln and found the house Trask had described to him. The thought occurred to him that Trask was a plant and had set him up, but that was a risk he had to take: This was a lead and he was going to follow it. If he was walking into a trap he would have to rely on his speed and ingenuity. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done so and come out alive.
The house was well-cared for, flowers grew in profusion on either side of the path he trod to the door. Their scent filled the air. Lamplight glowed behind curtains to the right of the door.
He rapped with his knuckles on the white-painted wood. There was silence for a moment, then he heard the sound of footsteps. A woman. The door opened and revealed her faintly in the lamplight beyond. It fell on his face and almost silhouetted her. She was around thirty-five, small and neat, a woman who lived comfortably and was confident of her place in the community.
‘Good evenin’, ma’am,’ Spur said. ‘My apologies for callin’ at this late hour. I wonder if Mr. Wilton would spare me a few minutes.’
‘I… well, sir, it is late. Who …?’ She seemed a little flustered.
‘My name is Spur. I’m the Deputy United States Marshal.’
‘Of course. I’m Mrs. Wilton.’
Spur murmured that he was proud to know her.
She said: ‘Mr. Wilton is engaged’ at the moment.’
‘The matter could be urgent, ma’am. Would I be imposin’ myself if I waited? I would appreciate it.’
‘Why, yes. If you say it’s urgent, sir, Please come in.’
He followed her into the house, quickly, she led him into a room to the left of the entrance, brought a lamp in from the hall and asked him to wait, she would inform her husband. She left the room and Spur looked around him. A well-furnished room- nice pieces, books, a piano against the wall. Mrs. Wilton had brought culture to Crewsville. He slipped to the door and opened it a crack. The door opposite opened and a man stepped into the lamplight of the hall. His face was half in shadow, but Spur could see enough of it to recognize the man. It was Blaxall. He dosed the door and backed up from it.
So Blaxall was here to see the banker—what was so strange about that? A man could go and see a banker any time of the day or night he wanted. Maybe Wilton was a personal friend.
Just the same …
Spur waited for the street door to open and close. The sound didn’t come. He heard a door close at the opposite end of the hall. He didn’t doubt that Blaxall had left the house. He had gone out the rear way.
The door of the parlor in which he stood opened and Mrs. Wilton stood there. She was smiling in a soft and genteel manner.
‘Mr. Wilton will see you now,’ she informed him and turned to lead the way. Like being taken to royalty, he thought. He was curious to see this man Wilton.
He was led into a large room on the opposite side of the hall. The window was open and the curtains moved in the light evening breeze. It had been opened to get rid of the cigar smoke. The furniture was good and solid, there was a leathery smell in the air that mingled richly with the aroma of cigars. The man who rose from behind the leather-topped desk wore a velvet smoking jacket and held a meerschaum in his hand. He was smiling, showing a gold tooth, as he stepped around with a hand held out. Fifty years old maybe, almost white-haired and plenty of it, face ruddy and glowing with health. A man who lived well but somehow remained physically fit at the same time.
‘Marshal,’ he declared in a pleasant and cultured voice, ‘this is a pleasure which I could have wished for sooner.’ They shook. His hand was firm and dry.
From the door, Mrs. Wilton said: ‘I’ll leave you two gentlemen. If there is anything I can fetch you, Mr. Spur.’
‘Not a thing, thank you, ma’am.’ Spur bowed. Wilton beamed, gestured to a chair. Everything about the man showed good-will, well-being. He enjoyed life to the full.
Spur sat. The chair was covered in leather, well-padded and well-sprung. It was a pleasure to sit in it.
Wilton sat behind the desk, upright his eyes bright with intelligence as if he found it the most stimulating thing in the world to meet a lawman of Spur’s kind. He lit his pipe, puffed twice and said: ‘I take it you’re here on business, Marshal. Too late for a social call. So it has to be in connection with the reason for your being in our town at all.’
The man didn’t seem to fit, Spur thought. Why should he be out here in this wilderness cut off, from the niceties of the eastern cities? He would have been more at home in a New York club, a Boston salon. His wife, too, did not belong here. Men came West for different reasons of course. Mainly because they weren’t wanted in the East, because they couldn’t make good in the east or because they had been born out here. Which category did Wilton fit? He’d find out before he was through.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘it’s late. I’m here on business. I have some questions to ask. When I have the answers, I’ll leave you in peace. When I have the answers.’
That set the note for the proceedings. Wilton didn’t like it. He winced ever so slightly, He looked slightly disapproving as if Spur had acted in bad taste.
He tried to be brusque himself. All things to all men, Oscar Wilton.
‘Ask away.’
‘You own the local bank?’
Puff-puff, a nod—‘Certainly.’
‘Own, Mr. Wilton?’
‘I don’t follow you, sir.’ A little indignant.
‘Do you own it or manage it?’
‘I fail to see that’s either here nor there.’
‘It’s very much here,’ Spur said. ‘I suggest you answer me.’
‘I’m not at all sure I like your tone, sir. In fact—’
‘It doesn’t interest me one cent’s worth of damn, Wilton, whether you like it or not.’ He was going to rattle this man till his pants fell down.
Wilton forgot his pipe. He was frowning. The smile had quite gone.
‘See here,’ he said, ‘I am not without influence and I—’
‘All right,’ said Spur, ‘I take it you don’t own the bank. You’re a front for somebody else. Who?’
‘I really must object.’
‘You can object all you want when I have the killers in jail,’ Spur said.
‘What possible connection can there be between my bank and these terrible … I really fail to see …’The man was lost.
‘Who owns the bank?’
‘I refuse to give you that information. It is confidential.’
‘Blaxall,’ Spur said.
The name hung between them. Wilton’s mouth worked. His eyes protruded. Spur felt a little sorry for him. But not much.
Wilton tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out.
‘Now,’ said Spur, ‘I want to know who bought up Trask’s notes.’
The bank man was on his feet.
‘This is too much,’ he cried. ‘How dare you!’
Spur also rose. His face was tight, his eyes for the first time in the meeting showed the hardness that lay beneath the surface of the man. Only now did Wilton see that this man was dangerous.
‘Wilton,’ Spur said, ‘I came here to let you know that I know Blaxall owns you, he owns the bank and he foreclosed on Trask. There is a dead sheepherder to account for too.’
‘Are you accusing me?’
‘I’m not accusin’ anybody of anythin’. I’m just showin’ you what kind of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into. A couple of days’ diggin’ an’ I’m goin’ to tie that dead Basque in with the other killin’s in town. There’s somebody around here tryin’ to make himself a big man in this territory. I’m givin’ him warnin’ here an’ now, he ain’t big, he’s just plain greedy. An’ he’s insane.’
Wilton looked wildly around the room as if to find a way of escape from this madman.
‘These terrible accusations,’ he cried. ‘They’ll get you into serious trouble, Marshal.’
‘Trouble?’ Spur snapped. ‘You think I can have more trouble than I have? Man, there’s several killers loose in this town after my hide. They tried to kill me this evening. They’ll try again before long. They can’t afford to let me live. But I’m givin’ notice here an’ now. I’m goin’ to live an’ I’m goin’ to plant every last one of ’em. More than that—I’m goin’ to put a rope around the neck of the man behind ’em.’
He walked to the door.
Faintly, Wilton said: ‘What has this to do with me? I’m a respectable business man making an honest living. Your behavior is outrageous. Quite unbefitting a public official.’
Spur smiled.
‘If you don’t know what this has to do with you, Oscar, you sit and think about it awhile. It’ll come to you.’
In the hall, he passed the woman hovering there. Neither spoke. He let himself out of the street door and walked down the pleasant little path. The flowers still smelled sweet. That was about all that knelled sweet around there.
He walked down Lincoln and slipped into the dark maw of an alleyway. He waited for five minutes. Then he heard footsteps. A man hurried by the entrance of the alleyway. It was Oscar Wilton. The news would soon get around.
He walked back down the alleyway, going cautiously, reached the backlots and crossed them till he was near the livery corral. The moon was up now and the scene was bright. He followed the corral wall and entered the yard. The lamp was no longer burning outside the barn. The small cabin where the old man lived was in darkness. Spur reached the entrance to the barn and put his hand on his gun butt. This would be a good place for them to be waiting for him.
‘Ben,’ he called.
‘Here.’
He entered. He found Ben in the straw and said: ‘Room for two in here?’
‘I reckon.’
He settled down in the straw and soon fell into a deep sleep.