The two men sat in the Parson’s office at the hotel, the Parson himself smoking a cigar, the other, Doc Black, chewing rhythmically. The Doc’s face was as pallid as ever, even in the strong afternoon sun which slanted through the office window, the expression as saturnine. He sat with his back to the front window, so that the sun silhouetted him, throwing into relief his sagging shoulder, picking out the grotesque lines of his crippled body.
It was the afternoon following the killing of Dave Brand up at the Bar X. As a result of that the Parson had been given plenty to think about; and right now he was doing some thinking. He and the Doc had been talking for some time.
‘What you know ’bout this dame callin’ herself Bluebell?’ asked the Doc after a pause which followed the lengthy discussion of the murder of Dave Brand. ‘I guess she pulled a fast one buyin’ up old man Graw.’
At the mention of the negress who had busted into Grant’s River so dramatically on the previous evening, the Parson drew back his lips. He’d had plenty to think about since Dave’s killing, but that hadn’t prevented him taking steps with regard to Bluebell, as she called herself. She sure had pulled a fast one, buying up Bill Graw’s general store which was situated right opposite the hotel. The Parson hadn’t even known Graw was pulling out. According to Bluebell she’d bought the property through a Phoenix solicitor. Bill Graw had sold furtively and had cleared.
The Parson didn’t like it. He’d been aiming to get his hands on the store for a long time but Graw wouldn’t sell. The Parson had reckoned to force him, but he’d put it off, and now he’d missed his chance. The store belonged to the negress, all legal, as the Parson had discovered, and Bill Graw had cleared, escaping retribution.
The Parson turned and stared out of the window. Bluebell, still clad in vivid yellow, with the scarlet bandana round her frizzy hair, was standing on a ladder busily engaged in repainting the legend over the shop. Bill Graw’s name had been obliterated and the negress had nearly completed a new sign. Even as the Parson watched she finished the name BLUEBELL and started drawing in decorative lines underneath. Half a dozen loafers were standing around watching her, but it was noticeable that they weren’t shooting off any wisecracks. They were mighty courteous when they did speak.
The Doc followed the Parson’s eyes, taking in the scene framed by the window.
‘They tell me she’s tough,’ he said.
The Parson growled in his throat. On the previous evening Bluebell had startled Grant’s River, even making the inhabitants who witnessed her arrival in the stage forget for the time being about the fire at the saloon. They hadn’t expected a stranger to come busting in, they hadn’t expected the store to change hands; and certainly they hadn’t anticipated a negress with a gun in her hand. It certainly seemed that Bluebell was tough. Snake had been along to talk to her since then, and according to him she’d refused to play ball over the mutual protection scheme.
The Parson stubbed out his cigar. He’d get around to dealing with her pretty soon. The store was a good proposition, no doubt about that. Bill Graw had made a packet out of it; and the Parson had aimed to do the same when he got hold of the place. He’d been hi-jacked, though. If he could get his hands on Graw, who had pulled a fast one, clearing without anyone knowing he was going, he’d teach him a thing or two. He couldn’t touch Graw now, but he could get at Bluebell. She’d pay up, all right, and she wouldn’t be staying in Grant’s River, the Parson would make sure of that.
But first there were other matters to be attended to, one in particular. He brushed aside the subject of the newcomer. Like Tex on the previous night he reckoned she wasn’t all that important. And also like Tex that was his mistake.
‘I guess we got somethin’ else to talk about,’ he grunted.
The Doc got to his feet. He was short and his crippled shoulder made him seem even shorter, so that even when he was standing he didn’t stand so much higher than the Parson still seated at the desk. But for all his lack of stature there was something about Doc Black, more than a suggestion, of power.
‘That’s settled, ain’t it? There ain’t nothin’ else to talk about. It’ll work out. I got to be goin’.’
He went towards the door and then turned back for a moment.
‘I ain’t thanked you for the dough. We’re doin’ all right.’ And then, slowly, ‘We got to make sure o’ this guy Scarron this time, Parson.’
The Parson didn’t answer. When the Doc had gone he continued sitting at the desk, fingering a fresh cigar but not lighting it. He was thinking about good dollars spent out, a heck of a lot of dollars; he was thinking about Tex Scarron and the murder of Dave Brand … he was thinking about Doc Black, who was a clever guy, no doubt about that. Sure, a clever guy, who’d brought working undercover to a fine art.
His glance travelled to Main Street again. Bluebell had come down from her ladder now, was standing there with a paint-pot in one hand, a brush in the other. Round her capacious waist was a belt containing a Colt, very prominent. As he watched the Parson saw her hand the pot to one of the loafers, who took it and went into the shop with it. Bluebell stood laughing with the others, her shining ebony face wreathed in smiles. The Parson couldn’t hear what she said, but the guys were laughing, too. It seemed like she was getting on the right side of the River residents.
She’d better be happy while she could be, reflected the Parson sardonically. He’d attend to her and he hoped pretty soon. Then he saw somebody come into view down the hotel steps, standing for a moment watching the group on the other side of the street and finally move away out of sight. The Parson watched the retreating back of Pop Dwight until the guy disappeared from view. He sat quite still, and now he wasn’t thinking about anyone but Pop, owner of the Gazette. Involuntarily the Parson’s eyes narrowed. One hand clenched, the other, holding the cigar, moved restlessly, twisting it to and fro. He knew Pop had been in the hotel, sure he knew, because he’d talked to him. And even when he was talking to the Doc, when he was thinking about other matters, including the murder at the Bar X and the fire at the drinking saloon, the thought of Pop Dwight had still nibbled at his mind.
For a long time after Pop had passed from sight the Parson continued to sit at his desk, sorting out his thoughts and his plans. Things had begun to go wrong since the guy Scarron had blown in. On the previous evening the Parson hadn’t been sure about Tex. He’d thought that maybe he was on the level with him, but he knew better now. He’d had word, sure word that the guy had been bluffing, must have been. He wasn’t in these parts aiming to cut in on the rackets. He was here to bust them wide open … and he was dangerous, pretty well-known. He’d got to be liquidated. The scheme to do this seemed OK to the Parson, even though given his head he’d have gone about it another way, using more direct methods. But thinking it over he reckoned that the more subtle manoeuvre, put up to him during the last hour, would be better. Sure … the guy who’d put it up had brains, that was certain.
OK then Scarron could be liquidated. That would leave the Parson sitting pretty again … except for the fifty per cent cut he had to pay out every quarter. It hurt him every time he thought about that. He’d just paid out the last quarter’s cut; maybe there wouldn’t be another payment made. Once Scarron was out of the way the Parson could get down to something he’d been thinking about for some long time. Fifty per cent was too much … anything was too much. He reckoned he could work it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. When it opened there was the rat-faced Snake, with Werner of the Block Diamond behind him, towering over Snake, a tall lath of a man, sullen of face, furtive of eye.
‘You got a visitor, boss,’ said Snake.
‘OK, beat it … come in, Werner, I’ve been expectin’ you.’
Werner shuffled into the room, closing the door behind him. He thrust one hand into his pocket and brought out a wad of dirty dollars.
‘Your dough,’ he muttered, putting the dollars down on the desk.
The Parson took the dollars and checked them through. Then he looked up.
‘You’re a hundred short,’ he said.
‘I know, but I ain’t got any more to spare.’
The Parson fiddled with the bills, thick underlip protruding.
‘That’s OK, Werner, I guess it don’t matter to me if the Governor hears what you were doin’ one night ten years ago … there’s a new Governor, guess you’ve heard that? He don’t go big they say for …’
The man interrupted him violently.
‘You ain’t goin’ to talk, Parson. I’ve paid up regular until now … you got to give me a break. I tell you I ain’t got the dough. You don’t leave me enough to live on, Parson.’
The Parson was thinking pretty fast. He’d done well out of Werner; a hundred dollars didn’t make much difference to him. Werner could be useful.
‘OK, we’ll forget the hundred,’ he said. ‘I guess I’ll be wantin’ your help, though.’
Werner fell for that, as the Parson had known he would. A few minutes later the Parson was alone again, one small detail of the scheme to liquidate Tex Scarron settled.
He wasn’t alone long, though, for Snake came sliding in, closing the door behind him.
‘What you want?’ demanded the Parson. ‘I don’t reckon I sent for you.’
‘That’s right, boss, but I got somethin’ to say. I guess you ought to listen.’
The Parson stared at him. He’d always known that Snake had more brains than the rest of the bunch of hoodlums he kept employed. Lately he’d been wondering about Snake. It had seemed to the Parson that the guy had something on his mind. Now maybe he was going to let out what it was.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Snake looked at the door, went across to it and turned the key.
‘It’s kinda private,’ he murmured. The close-set eyes were bright and intelligent, the thin lips curved in a half-smile. ‘Sure, kinda private,’ he repeated. ‘I been thinkin’ about the fifty per cent cut you hand out.’
That brought the Parson up standing. He stood motionless, eyes not leaving Snake’s face.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked at last.
Snake shrugged his shoulders.
‘I reckon we can forget that, boss. I know you hand out a cut to the guy who’s in with you. I been usin’ my eyes. You got somebody in with you … and it costs you plenty, don’t it?’
The Parson took time off to light his cigar, giving himself a long interval while he thought. His mind was moving quickly. Snake wasn’t bluffing, he dismissed that idea almost before it was formed. Snake knew that he had a partner … OK, maybe that fact could be used to advantage. The Parson’s mind wasn’t as quick as the guy’s who had been behind him ever since he came to Grant’s River, who had put up the cash necessary to buy the Double K and finance the various rackets, but he had a brain and could use it. He was using it right now. Snake’s entrance had come pat on his own thoughts that fifty per cent was too much; that anything was too much. Snake might be useful.
The Parson didn’t try any bluffing. He got straight down to business.
‘So you know ’bout that? Who else knows? Jeb, maybe?’
Snake’s thin lips drew back farther.
‘Jeb don’t know nothin’. Nobody don’t know but me.’
The Parson nodded. Jeb was useful for his strength, but he was about as dumb as a beeve.
‘OK, Snake, you know a lot … you know who my partner is?’
Snake didn’t hesitate. The Parson reckoned he was telling the truth. There wasn’t any reason he could see why he should lie.
‘That’s somethin’ I ain’t got around to yet. I worked it out maybe we could do a deal.’
They were getting somewhere now.
‘What sort o’ deal?’
Snake rolled himself a cigarette. Nobody smoked in the office without the Parson’s permission, but now he let it go. He wasn’t falling out with Snake.
‘You like payin’ out all that dough, boss?’ asked Snake, when he had lit the cigarette. ‘I guess I wouldn’t go big for it. Seems kinda wasteful, don’t it?’
The Parson agreed – he’d been thinking along the same lines for quite a while. By now he knew just why Snake had brought up the subject. He was hoping there’d be something in it for him. How he’d got on to the truth the Parson didn’t know. Snake knew that there was somebody behind him and that was all that mattered – to the Parson. Snake could be used and then discarded.
‘Sure, kinda wasteful,’ he repeated. ‘I been thinkin’ that, Snake. What’s your proposition?’
Snake blew a stream of smoke.
‘I reckon maybe we could get rid o’ the guy? Sure, why not … you cut me in, boss, an’ I’ll give him the works. I reckon maybe he takes precautions with you,’ he added shrewdly, ‘but not knowin’ I’m on to him maybe he won’t worry about me.’
Again he had repeated the Parson’s thoughts. Sure, Snake could be useful.
‘Cut you in? I ain’t payin’ out fifty per cent to nobody else.’
‘Sure you ain’t. My proposition is ten per cent, I ain’t greedy, boss, not like some guys.’
The Parson inhaled cigar smoke. Snake’s proposition was OK for the time being. Once the job was done, though, he needn’t think he was going to cash in for the rest of his natural. He could be got rid of at leisure.
To use him to get the guy who had taken fifty per cent cut for so long was OK. The Parson had played around with the idea lately, but like Snake had said, his partner didn’t take any risks when he was with the Parson. For all the fact that nobody else in Grant’s River reckoned he was dangerous, not knowing he was in with the Parson, the latter knew just how dangerous he was. He wasn’t scared of many guys, but this one was dangerous. The Parson wanted him out of the way but so far he hadn’t worked up the nerve to try it on. He hadn’t thought of recruiting anyone to help him; but now Snake had done the thinking for him.
‘OK, that’s a deal,’ he said at last.
‘Fine, you goin’ to put a name to the guy?’
That wasn’t the Parson’s idea, not yet. Later he’d have to, but he was aiming to leave that until the last moment. He wasn’t running the risk of Snake getting along to the guy and maybe making a deal with him.
‘I’ll come to that later,’ he said. ‘You keep your mouth shut … we got to settle with this guy Scarron first.’
Snake didn’t press the question of the unknown’s name. He could bide his time and knew the Parson didn’t mean to talk yet. He agreed that Scarron had got to be liquidated. Snake knew a dangerous guy when he saw him.
‘You goin’ to bump him off, boss?’ And then, ‘What about Dave Brand? Who used a knife on him last night?’
The Parson smiled slowly.
‘I guess that was Scarron,’ he said. ‘He was down here last night. Sure, an’ he fired the saloon … he had plenty o’ time after leavin’ here to attend to Dave up at the Bar X.’
Snake’s eyes were like slits as he stared back at the Parson. Word had come to the River that Dave Brand had been knocked off, knifed. The sheriff had ridden up to the ranch that morning, as Snake knew, had come back and reported to the Parson. Snake knew also that Tex Scarron was up at the ranch, had apparently been lying up there. But it was a new one on him that he’d killed Dave. It didn’t make sense, he reckoned.
‘Sure, he did the killin’,’ said the Parson easily. ‘Lucky he did, maybe, it’ll put him where he belongs.’
Snake nodded slowly. He was getting there now.
‘I reckon so, boss. It’ll put him away nice an’ neat. You reckon you can work it?’
He obviously wasn’t swallowing the tale that Tex had killed Dave, but the Parson wasn’t worrying. He reckoned his partner had been right in working it this way to get Tex. He was a very slick guy, this newcomer; ordinary murder might not come off. He knew how to look after himself. But he wouldn’t be expecting the sort of move which would be taken, nor the way it would be initiated. The trap would be sprung cleverly.
There was another advantage, as the Parson had to admit. Arresting a guy on a murder charge, with evidence against him, and then shooting him when he tried to get away, was better than bumping him off without any excuse. Sure, anyone was entitled to shoot in self-defence against a murderer trying to escape. The incident could be made all neat and tidy – and legal.
‘You got it taped, boss?’ asked Snake. ‘How you know the timin’ is OK? Maybe the guy’s got an alibi.’
The Parson wasn’t worrying about that, nor about Snake being let in on the scheme. Snake was in with him now, aiming to get his ten per cent cut. He was to be trusted … while it suited him, which would be for a bit yet.
‘I got it taped,’ he said. ‘I get information OK.’
Snake thumbed out his cigarette. He’d got brains all right. The Parson was getting information – from the Bar X obviously, or from somebody who knew what had happened up there.
‘Maybe Brady’s been earnin’ his dough?’ he suggested.
‘Sure, Brady’s useful.’
Brady was a cowhand at the Bar X. Snake knew he’d been on the Parson’s pay-roll for some time. Another thought occurred to Snake. He wasn’t swallowin’ the tale that Scarron had put out Dave Brand; that meant that somebody else had. It couldn’t have been the Parson, because according to Doc Black, who had been taken up by Poston to view the body, Dave had been killed during the time the Parson was at the settlement, the fire still smouldering. Snake himself had been at the fire, had seen most of the Parson’s boys there.
‘What you know?’ he asked briefly, watching the Parson.
The Parson understood what he meant but he wasn’t talking.
‘I told you – Scarron did the killin’, Snake. We got evidence. Don’t you go thinkin’ this is a frame-up, that wouldn’t be sensible, I guess. An’ maybe it wouldn’t be safe … get me?’
Sure Snake got him. He didn’t underrate the Parson. He’d struck a bargain with him but Snake wasn’t taking any risks. Maybe it would be more important to the Parson to shut his mouth about the Scarron case than use him against the unknown partner. Snake wouldn’t talk. Scarron was dangerous and he was all for putting him away.
‘I get you boss,’ he said. ‘I’m mighty glad you got evidence against Scarron, we don’t want no murderers around here. He ain’t got wind o’ what’s intended?’
‘He’s sittin’ tight up at the Bar X … there’s somethin’ else, Snake. He gets the property now Brand has handed in his checks. That’s a strong motive, I reckon. Don’t you worry, he’s up there an’ he’ll stay there. The sheriff’ll be ridin’ to get him along with a posse before long. He’ll be there, he don’t know he’s been rumbled. You keep your mouth shut.’
‘Sure, boss….’
He was interrupted by a commotion from outside. Then somebody rattled at the door of the office.
When the Parson opened it he was confronted by a group of his boys in the passage outside. Jeb was there and Rocky Schultz and half a dozen others. Somebody else was there, too – Bluebell, held by Jeb and Rocky. She looked dishevelled, the bandanna all awry, yellow dress crumpled. Jeb was holding a gun in his hand.
‘Gee, boss, this dame came bustin’ in,’ said Jeb, ‘I guess….’
Bluebell broke into a torrent of words, her face shining with anger.
‘Ah’m a respectable woman,’ she screamed at the Parson. ‘Let me tell you Ah’m not in the habit o’ bein’ mishandled by a set o’ these hoodlums you keep around the place.’
It was some time before the Parson could get to the facts. Then he found that Bluebell had busted into the hotel demanding to see the Parson. She’d pulled a gun. It hadn’t been so easy to get her under control.
‘I reckon she’s loco,’ said Jeb, fondling his face where her black fist had struck him.
‘Ah’m not loco,’ stated Bluebell. ‘Ah’ve come to tell you, mister,’ to the Parson, ‘that Ah ain’t payin’ no protection dollars. You get that straight … Bluebell don’t pay nothin’ to nobody.’
She stuck her arms akimbo, fists on massive hips and faced the Parson, contemptuous of the guns now menacing her.
‘You got that? You start sendin’ any more guys like him,’ jerking her head at Snake, ‘and Ah’ll riddle ’em. Ah can look after myself without no protection … you’ll find that out, mister, if you try anythin’ on.’
The Parson stared at her balefully. Then, as she suddenly raised one ham-like hand, he backed away swiftly.
A great grin cracked open Bluebell’s face.
‘That’s better, Ah guess a lot o’ guys have felt my fist.’
From the back of the crowd now in the office there came a laugh. The Parson swung round, face dark with anger.
‘Any other guy who cracks his face won’t have no face to crack,’ he snarled. Then to Jeb, ‘Get her out o’ here….’
They hustled Bluebell out, but not before a few of them had felt the weight of her fists. The Parson was left alone. It took him some little time to recover his self-possession sufficiently to have Poston brought in and make final arrangements with him to take a posse up to the Bar X.
That posse would be made up mainly of the Parson’s boys, but there’d got to be a few others to make it look on the level. Doc Black would be one of them, and Werner another. It was an easy way to earn a hundred bucks, the Parson reckoned.
Strangely enough, or maybe not strangely considering how many other things he had to think about, the Parson hadn’t taken any time off to wonder whether the Kid was still around the place and if so what he was doing. That was his mistake, the second at least that he’d made.