Parson Dean, thus nicknamed with the sardonic humour of the West, for he was about as unlike a clergyman, both in appearance and habits as any man could be, sat at his desk in the private office of the Grant’s River Hotel. A cigar, half-smoked, was gripped by his firm white teeth, set between full, fleshy lips; without removing the cigar he drew at it strongly while engaged in the occupation which pleased him the most. His little eyes, pillowed in folds of flesh, gleamed as his thick fingers rustled the piles of dollar bills on the desk.
The Parson was counting his money, for today was pay-day, the first of a calendar month. It was the day when the Parson was paid off; the day when ranchers of the Grant’s River territory paid out. The piles of bills on the desk were imposing.
Shifting his plump body the Parson reached for a ledger, being careful when he placed it on the desk not to cover the gun which lay there ready to his hand. Parson Dean rarely took risks; never when he was checking over the contributions to the mutual protection society, a criminal racket which though flourishing in many large cities was a new one in ranching country. The gun was loaded and cocked.
Near at hand was a window which gave on to Main Street, the principal thoroughfare of the dilapidated, unsalubrious township of Grant’s River. The place had sweltered through the hot day; at this time of night, for it was gone eleven o’clock, it lay uneasily under the moon, lit also here and there by patches of brilliant naphtha light.
The hotel, enjoying one of its peak hours, was spilling out a broad splash of light on to the sidewalk and the dusty street which was really only a continuation of the trail running down from the Black Hills pass. The gambling saloon not far away was also illuminated – and full of ranchers and cowhands busy losing money. Farther down Main Street was another drinking establishment, like the hotel and the gambling joint, owned by the Parson. It was at this secondary saloon that Dean kept the women he had imported into Grant’s River to attend to the pleasures of the husky cowhands, and incidentally bring him more profit.
Even in the deceptive light of the moon and the naphtha flares, the township was hardly attractive. It consisted only of Main Street, lined with wooden buildings weatherbeaten and stained, the paint peeling off all those which were not owned by the Parson. Behind the buildings stretched waste ground, with here and there shacks rising, with heaps of debris and rubbish which attracted flies and gave off an aroma to which the inhabitants had become accustomed but which did not attract strangers.
Not by any standard was Grant’s River a pleasant spot, but it suited the Parson well enough. It was the centre of a rich ranching country where there was money, a district moreover where the ranchers formed a self-contained community cut off from the rest of Arizona by natural boundaries, with a tradition of keeping themselves to themselves. Arizona itself, until very recently, had been governed by a man slack enough to suit the Parson’s ends.
He had alighted upon Grant’s River five years before and had struck lucky, very lucky. As a result of that stroke of fortune he’d brought Jeb Callahan over the border from Mexico and a tough bunch of hoodlums, including the man Snake, had been recruited. The Double K had been bought, the mutual protection racket started. As profits increased the hotel and the other concerns had been purchased. The territory was being systematically milked. At first it had been hard going, but after a bit of initial trouble the set-up had made out.
There came a knock at the door. The Parson’s hand closed over the butt of his gun.
‘Who is it?’
‘Poston….’
The Parson pushed back his chair and lumbered to the door. His bald head gleamed grotesquely under the light of the swinging oil-lamp. He didn’t rely on his appearance to persuade others to accept his leadership, and it was fortunate for him that he didn’t need to, for his fat, often jovial face gave no clue to the ruthless purpose which lurked in him. He relied on personality and deeds.
Sheriff Poston, a nondescript guy of middle-age, whom the Parson had experienced no difficulty in buying, came into the room when the door was unlocked.
‘No sign o’ Brand yet,’ he stated. ‘He’s runnin’ it late, ain’t he?’
The Parson went back to the desk, ruffled the pages, stared at one headed Dave Brand, Bar X. When he looked up at Poston again his little eyes were like pebbles, opaque and dangerous.
‘Sure … if he don’t come I reckon we’ll have to see him.’
The Sheriff fingered the brim of his Stetson. Nobody ever entered the Parson’s private office without uncovering.
‘How, boss?’
‘How? What you mean? I’ll put the boys on to his joint and prove he needs protection. It’s been quite a while since I had to do that to any o’ the guys around here, maybe Brand has forgotten what happened to those I attended to at the beginnin’.’
The sheriff said nothing for a bit, but obviously he was uneasy. Subordinates in any organization are usually conditioned by their superior. Poston was no exception. The Governor of Arizona had for years been slack and they whispered corrupt; Poston, his subordinate, took after him. What was good enough, or bad enough, for the Governor, was OK by Poston of Grant’s River. The Parson had bought him three years before. That had been an essential step in setting up his racket.
But now the man who nominally was sheriff, though he took his orders from the real boss of the territory, shuffled his feet and looked ill at ease.
‘Well, what’s biting you?’ snarled the Parson.
‘I guess maybe we ought to lay off,’ was the muttered reply. ‘They say this new guy, York, is a go-getter, aimin’ to clean-up. I don’t reckon I want any trouble that’ll bring him down here.’
The other drew back his thick lips. He’d noticed a change in manner ever since it had become known that York had taken over as Governor. Poston was a rat, and like a rat easily scared.
‘Cut it out. There ain’t no danger, this guy York has got plenty to do without interferin’ with us … we’re quite a way from Phoenix.’ He paused and then added with meaning, ‘And if there is danger, I guess it ain’t nothin’ compared with what there’ll be for you if you don’t do what you’re told, Poston … understand?’
Poston did understand. He was remembering the times when at the beginning of Dean’s operations, when he’d first started his mutual protection society, he’d proved just how ruthless and dangerous he could be. The ranchers had laughed at the idea of a guy rustling in on the territory setting up a cock-eyed society and demanding subscriptions from property owners to finance the set-up he proposed starting to protect members from bandits and hoodlums. They hadn’t laughed long, not after two ranches were burned down, a third was robbed, cattle were rustled and one guy was murdered. All that the Parson had done, with the aid of his hired gang. He’d proved that the territory needed protection. After that the ranchers had come round. Now the Parson ran the district – and there was no trouble so long as the dues were paid on the first day of each month.
Poston was remembering. He hastened to make his peace.
‘Aw, boss, I didn’t mean nothin’, I only thought maybe …’
‘Don’t think, buddy, I’ll do that for you. If Dave Brand don’t pay up I’ll look after him.’ Then, after a slight pause, during which he packed up the dollars and put them in the heavy safe, he turned back to the sheriff. ‘What’s this about the Kid rustlin’ in?’ he asked. ‘What you know ’bout it?’
‘Nothin’, boss. I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ in it. The Kid knows you’re runnin’ this area, I guess, he wouldn’t take the risk o’ ridin’ this way. Some folk’ll say anythin’.’
Parson Dean grunted. Maybe Poston was right; but maybe he was wrong. The Parson had heard as much about the Kid as anyone. He didn’t under-rate him. If he took it into his head to come to the River district, if he was already here, there’d be trouble. Dean wasn’t standing for interference, nor for cutting two ways with any other guy. The Kid worked alone or with not more than one buddy, it was said. OK he’d find himself outnumbered – if he came.
The Parson glanced out of the window. Jeb and Snake were due by now. What the heck was keeping them?
He didn’t know it but though there didn’t seem to be any connection between their absence and the notorious Kid, no reason why he should have thought of them so quickly after talking of the Kid, there was a link all right. Maybe Parson Dean was telepathic without realizing it.
Poston didn’t know anything about Jeb or Snake. He had something else on his mind, to him of more importance.
‘Reckon I came for my cut, boss,’ he muttered. ‘I can do with it.’
There was one thing about Dean – he never stalled when it came to paying out. He’d found that it was to his advantage to keep his assistants happy. Poston was on his pay-roll; today was pay-day, for others as well as for himself.
He went back to the safe, swung open the door and reached for the packet of dollars put aside ready. As he did so his eyes rested for a moment on a heavy steel box which contained exactly fifty per cent of the last quarter’s profits from the various concerns, including the mutual protection society. A flicker of emotion crossed the Parson’s face as he looked at the box; then it was wiped away. He picked up the small wad of bills and relocked the safe.
‘Here’s your cut, Poston. Now get out … if you see those two guys o’ mine, tell ’em to get down here pronto.’
The sheriff cleared, tucking the dollars into his pocket. The more dough he had the more he needed. The Parson watched him go with a sardonic expression in his eyes. He knew that most of the money would find its way back into the safe via the gambling tables. Poston was a heavy gambler. Most nights he was down at the joint; and most nights he lost.
When he’d gone the Parson went back to the desk, sat there smoking, staring out of the window. Part of his mind was occupied with Dave Brand, owner of the Bar X; with the fact that Brand hadn’t yet shown up to pay his dues as a member of the mutual protection society. Maybe he was aimin’ to make trouble? The Parson blew a long streamer of smoke … and dismissed the idea of Dave getting above himself. He was running to seed and letting the Bar X run downhill badly. According to what the Parson had heard Dave had been pretty tough in the old days, before his wife had died. Well, maybe he had been tough, but he wasn’t that way now. He wasn’t the guy to go looking for trouble. There’d be no showdown with him. He’d pay up all right.
The Parson dismissed the subject. His glance travelled to the safe … now he was thinking about the steel box with the dollars inside, thinking also about the stroke of luck he’d had when he first came to Grant’s River. But he wasn’t so sure now that it had been such good luck; or rather that he hadn’t already paid highly enough for it. It was a thought which had occupied him more and more lately, growing stronger.
He was sitting pretty here at Grant’s River. He didn’t pay any attention to the rumours that the new man, York, was a go-getter. Arizona was a mighty big state; it would take a long time for York to get around to Grant’s River, even if he ever did. There was no reason why he should. Poston was OK and on the surface the mutual protection set-up was legal enough. There was no law that said guys weren’t allowed to band together to protect themselves or spend their own dollars hiring unofficial bodyguards. There was maybe a law that stated ranches shouldn’t be burned down, sheriffs bribed or guys murdered, but there was no proof any of these crimes had been committed.
The Parson wasn’t worrying about the new Governor. He wasn’t worrying about Dave Brand or the Kid, either. He was sitting pretty all right … his worry was concerned with whether he couldn’t work it that he made even more dough. He reckoned the time had come to do something about that fifty per cent of the profits lying there in the safe.
After a bit he stubbed out his cigar and left the room. Across the narrow passage outside was a door leading into the saloon, now full, with a piano blaring. The Parson passed this door and moved down the passage to another room. He stood for a few moments unnoticed in the doorway, watching the card players hunched round a table. Facing him was Buck Forbes of the Lazy Y, a smart, youngish guy, smart in his own estimation that was. He was sitting now, his attention entirely concentrated on the cards, his sharp, foxy face slightly flushed. The Parson noticed that his hands were trembling ever so slightly.
He was a guy who bluffed nobody but himself. He reckoned he was pretty good at poker. The more he lost down here at the hotel or in the gambling joint the more he cursed his luck. It never occurred to him that the cards might be stacked.
The Parson waited, watching. Two minutes later Buck’s hand was down. He had four kings, just about what the Parson had reckoned.
‘Guess that’s OK?’ said the young man, face now even more flushed. ‘I reckon that’ll pay me back for what I’ve lost tonight.’
All but Spike had thrown in. Spike’s sallow face exhibited no emotion whatever.
‘Your mistake, Buck,’ he drawled.
He showed his hand – it was a straight flush with the ace high.
Buck Forbes stared at the cards and then abruptly pushed back his chair.
‘Heck, this ain’t my lucky night.’
‘You’ll make up tomorrow maybe,’ murmured Spike. ‘Want another?’
Then he saw the Parson and swivelled round in his chair. The others looked up but said nothing. They were guys who did as they were told.
‘Want us, boss?’ asked Spike.
‘Sure, I’ve been expectin’ Jeb and Snake, but they ain’t turned up. I reckon maybe you’d best get up to the ranch, Spike and find out …’
He was interrupted by hurrying footsteps on the bare boards of the passage outside and then in the doorway appeared Rocky Schultz, about the quickest guy with a throwing knife anywhere in the cow-country. He was small and lithe and in spite of his name with more than a drop of Mexican blood in his veins.
‘Say, boss, Jeb and Snake have shown up….’
The Parson grunted. That was OK then, Spike needn’t go up to the Double K.
His satisfaction didn’t last long, though. Rocky was talking again, hurriedly.
‘Boss, they met up with the Kid on the trail … the bum held ’em up, lifted five hundred dollars.’
There was a stunned silence in the room. Spike, by now on his feet, stood by the table staring unbelievingly at Rocky. The other three stopped fiddling with the cards, faces blank with astonishment. Buck Forbes forgot about how much dough he’d lost.
The Parson himself broke the pause. He took a step forward and grabbed Rocky.
‘What you givin’ me?’ he rasped. ‘I ain’t in the mood for jokes, Rocky.’
‘It ain’t no joke, boss. I tell you Jeb an’ Snake got held up by the Kid. Jeb says there ain’t no doubt it was the Kid. If it hadn’t been for some guy called Scarron maybe they’d have been bumped off … and the skirt was there, too.’
‘The skirt? What skirt?’
‘Linda …’
At that Buck moved. He thought a mighty lot of himself did Buck. He wasn’t having any cowhand talking about his cousin this way. His gun appeared in his hand as he moved across the room.
‘You can cut that out,’ he snapped. ‘You talk respectful … Linda ain’t no skirt and to you I reckon she’s Miss Forbes.’
The Parson turned on him, face dangerous.
‘Put up that rod, Buck, don’t you start no trouble here, it looks like I’ve got enough. I got somethin’ better to do than listen to kid’s stuff from you.’
Rocky Schultz grimaced, his leathery face puckish.
‘That’s right, boss, you got to think about the other Kid’s stuff, I guess.’
The Parson was in no mood for this sort of play with words. He put out an arm and brushed Rocky aside.
‘Where’s Jeb?’ he demanded. And then, as he reached the door he swung back on Rocky, remembering something. ‘What’s that you said about a stranger? Who is this guy Scarron?’
It wasn’t Rocky who answered. The Parson heard footsteps in the passage and turned back to the door again. A man came into view who had evidently heard the last question.
‘I reckon I’m Scarron,’ he drawled, ‘Tex they call me. You the guy they call the Parson? I’m mighty glad to meet you.’