Gambling Man (16 page)

Few persons ever thought of the marshal as a sensitive man, but now he felt a vague horror growing within him as he considered what violence circumstance could build. How could you fight a thing as irrevocable as fate? How could you change the direction of destiny?

People saw Elec Blasingame as a logical, plodding man whose job it was to hunt down, capture, or kill those who ran off the one-way track of conventional standards. Few guessed that he was often filled with rage and futility, as he was now, because he was helpless to change the inevitable. In his job there were no human switches to be thrown, no means of sidetracking passion, or hate, or anger. His job was to wait patiently and then shoot down those who left the rails.

Elec sat heavily behind his desk, his big fists knotted. He had been in this job long enough; he felt old, he had lost his zest for the work. He knew from experience that it was only a matter of time, and not much of that, before Jeff Blaine left the rails. The job of stopping the boy would be his, and he did not relish it.

Several seconds had passed since she had spoken, and now Amy said quietly, “May I see him, Marshal?”

“Now?”

She nodded, and there was a finality to the gesture that Elec could feel to his bones. “You have the right, if that's what you want. Are you going to ask him to make up with his aunt?”

“It's the only chance he has, isn't it? If there's no forgiveness in him, I might as well know it now.”

“And if he won't listen?” Elec asked.

There was no need of an answer.

“Go to bed,” the marshal said. “I have all the trouble I need tonight.”

“I'll take my gun before I go,” Jeff said icily.

Sighing, the marshal took the Colt's from the desk drawer. “I don't suppose you had sense enough to listen to Amy when she tried to talk to you this afternoon.”

Jeff glared and did not answer. He buckled the cartridge belt around his waist, turned stiffly on his heel, and headed up the stairs.

The air outside was clean and sweet, and he dragged deep gulps of it into his lungs when he reached the sidewalk. All around him were the Saturday night sounds of a western town. The clang of the Green House piano, the sound, of bawdy laughter from the Paradise and Surratt's. Above him, fiddles sang in the Masonic hall, and the building trembled with the heavy tramping, of count dancing. Jeff wondered bitterly if Amy was up there she often came with Todd when Jeff was busy or had forgotten to ask her.

He headed toward the outside stairs and gazed angrily up at the splash of lamplight on the landing. His pockets were empty; he did not have the door price, even if he had wanted to go. He turned and walked quickly away.

He hated the thought of going back to the blistering heat of his room, but there was nowhere else to go. And he had to think, he had to plan. The stench of the jail cell was still in his nostrils and his anger was a hard knot in the pit of his stomach.

Crossing the street, he gazed into the night and ached to break away from this place that he hated, and which hated him. He longed to escape, as his pa had done, and yet he knew that he couldn't leave.

More than a lack of money kept him here. His craving for vengeance was strong—but even more important, there was Amy. This was the second time that she had seen him behind bars, and that knowledge angered him. As always, she had asked the impossible of him, wanting him to make up with Beulah. He would have taken a thing so unthinkable as a joke if he had not glimpsed that blank look of finality in her face. He tried to put it from his mind, telling himself she would get over it. But this time he could not be sure. Uncertainty gnawed at his nerves. He had never seen her look at him the way she had looked today. It was as though shutters had been drawn behind her eyes; that she had erected an invisible, impenetrable wall between them.

She had said quietly, “I'm sorry, Jeff,” and turned away from him and left. It had never been that way before, no matter how angry she got, and the memory of how she had looked and sounded set his nerves to jumping.

He did not see the stranger until he had almost reached the outside stairs at the side of Ludlow's store. A tall, big-boned man in his late thirties, he loafed quietly in the darkness under the wooden awning. Jeff gave him only a brief glance, took him for a drifter, and turned toward the stairs.

“Blaine?” the man asked quietly.

Surprised, Jeff turned toward him. “Yes?” '

“Then you're Nate Blaine's kid. I'm a friend of your pa's.”

“Sure, we hired out to the same bunch in Mexico for a while.”

“Is he still down there?”

The stranger shrugged. “Far as I know. My friend can tell you all about it; he just came from Mexico.”

Jeff frowned. “Who's your friend?”

A match suddenly blazed in the stranger's hand. He held the flame to the end of a thin cigarette and shot the matchstick into the street. “He's your friend, too, kid,” he said. “You saved his neck yesterday when you turned that posse off his trail.”

Amazement was in Jeff's voice. “Bill Somerson? The one that shot Costain?”

Smiling thinly, the tall stranger nodded. “He's got a message for you—from your pa.”

Jeff shot quick glances up and down the street. “Maybe we'd better go somewhere else to talk.”

The man shook his head. “I've got nothin' else to say. Somerson does his own talkin'. If you want that message from your pa, you'd better hightail it down south. Do you know where Rifle Creek forks with Little River, across the county line? About a mile north of the fork there's a shack, and that's where Somerson's waitin' for you.”

Jeff shook his head, not in rejection of the proposition, but because it was hard to believe. “Can't you give me an idea what the message is about?”

“Just that it's important; that's all Somerson would tell me. Straight from Nate Blaine to his kid, he said. Bill's kind of taken a personal interest in the matter, I guess, after the way you steered the posse off him. Have you got a horse?”

When Jeff shook his head, the stranger laughed. “I guessed as much, seein' the way they cleaned you in that stud game. Take that claybank at the rack; it's mine. If I have any ridin' to do, I can hire one at the stables.”

Jeff looked closely at the stranger, seeing hardness in the bony face, a kind of brutal humor in the pale eyes. As the man talked, Jeff instinctively tensed up, not liking what he saw. He didn't trust the stranger's words any more than he trusted his smile.

Jeff said bluntly, “It seems like you're going pretty far out of your way to do me a favor. Why?”

The smile disappeared; blankness took its place. “I told you Somerson wants to talk to you, kid. If you don't want to know what your pa has to say, then I'll go back to where I come from.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeff said quickly, knowing that he had to go. He had to know what message Nathan had sent that was so important. “A mile north of the fork. All right, I'll go.”

The stranger nodded shortly. “Be careful nobody trails you. I'll take the claybank around to the alley and you can take it from there.” Jeff stood in the shadows as the man went to the horse and rode lazily around the corner of the bank building. Jeff felt that hand of caution firmly upon his shoulder; a vague uncertainty nagged at him as rider and horse disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

Common sense told him that a wanted man like Somerson would not expose himself simply to relay a message for a friend. And this tall stranger was branded a hard-case in every move he made. Still, five long years had passed since he had had direct word from Nathan. He was sick of the town and would be glad enough to put it behind him for a while. He headed for the alley.

“Remember to cover your trail,” the stranger reminded him, as Jeff stepped up to the saddle. “The name's Milan Fay,” the tall man added as Jeff was riding away. “Somerson will want to be sure who sent you.”

As he rode to the south, the lights of the town grew small, the singing of fiddles became threadlike whispers of sound, the laughter of drunken cowhands dissolved in the night. Soon the town and its sounds had disappeared and a blanket of silence enveloped the prairie.

A vague uneasiness mounted within him as he rode deeper into the darkness.

But in the bigness of the night, details did not seem important, and he soon put uncertainty behind him and rode at ease. Nathan had not forgotten him—that was the important thing. Nathan's strong hand could still reach him and comfort him, even from Mexico.

Jeff could almost imagine that Nate himself was waiting for him somewhere to the south, in the darkness, and he urged the claybank to a quicker gait. He let himself smile as he remembered Nathan throwing back his head, holding the world at bay with the violence in his eyes— and for a little while he forgot to be angry and loosened the band of hate that squeezed his brain.

In this new light Jeff paused for a moment and studied his backtrail; then he nudged the claybank through a thicket of salt cedar, crossed the dry bed of Little River and headed north.

This was a raw, red country of eroded clay and dwarfed trees and sage, as barren as the floor of a dried ocean. Not many men would pass this way, not even drifters.

Soon Jeff saw the weathered outline of an abandoned shack, a sorry affair of sod and scrub oak logs with the roof half gone, the chimney crumbling. Cautiously now, he eased the claybank forward. Suddenly the doorway of the shack was filled with the thick-set form of a man.

“Somerson?” Jeff called.

“Who wants to know?”

“Jefferson Blaine. Nate Blaine's my father.”

Somerson stepped through the doorway, a snub-nosed carbine on his hip at the ready. “Who sent you?”

“A man called Fay. Milan Fay.”

Somerson laughed and slung the carbine in the crook of his arm. “I would of knowed you anyway, kid; you've got the Blaine mark stamped all over you. Tie your animal to a brush and climb down.”

Somerson waited by the corner of the shack as Jeff left the claybank in a thicket of blackjack. He held out a big hand as Jeff came up to him. “By hell, you're Nate all over again. I'm proud to shake hands with you, son; that business of turnin' the posse just about saved this dirty neck of mine!”

Jeff studied the man quietly, his hand smothered in Somerson's bearlike fist. “I didn't know who they were after,” he said.

Somerson laughed again. “No matter. It showed clear enough whose side you're on, and that's good enough for Bill Somerson. Yes sir, you're Nate Blaine all over again. Come on in and we'll have breakfast.”

Somerson turned abruptly and lunged back through the doorway. Jeff followed him inside and was hit by the pungent smell of frying salt pork. The shack itself had the powdery smell of bleached bones about it; the dirt floor had grown up in weeds which had been tramped down. A small smokeless fire of carefully selected hardwood was going in the fireplace, where fat pork sizzled in an iron skillet.

Jeff turned his attention on Somerson, who was turning the meat with the point of his pocket knife. He saw a florid man in his early forties, bulging and heavy with hard fat; his long, pale hair was as fine as silk, flowing and drifting about his head with every slight breeze within the shack.

Jeff squatted beside the fireplace, putting his back against the sod wall. “The man called Fay said you had a message for me.”

“That's right.” Somerson opened a can of hardtack and dumped the rocklike biscuits onto a saddle blanket. From a scant store of provisions in the comer of the shack, he found some coffee. “Me and Nate rode for the same bunch down in Chihuahua. When he heard I was headed back this way, he wanted me to look you up.” He poured coffee into the hardtack can and added water from a canteen. “This ain't much of a way to live,” he said blandly, putting the can on the fire to boil. “But I figure to do better before long. Is that fat marshal still lookin' for me?”

“Elec Blasingame doesn't give up easily.”

The outlaw laughed. “He'll never find me here. Wouldn't do him any good if he did; I'm out of his county.”

“I wouldn't count too much on that,” Jeff said. “Elec's just a town marshal; doesn't have any legal authority outside the limits of Plainsville. But that didn't stop him from bringing a posse after you before.”

Somerson frowned. “I thought you didn't like lawdogs.”

“I don't, but it would be a mistake not to give Elec his due. Once he gets his teeth into something, he's hard to break loose.”

Somerson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That might be a good thing to know. But I was talkin' about your pa, not the marshal.” He busied himself with the pork, not looking at Jeff. “I guess you know Nate had a little trouble over in the New Mexico country. He's got an idea the government marshal would like to get his hands on him; that's why he's stickin' below the Border. Your pa'd like to see you, son.”

Jeff felt his heart hammering. “When?”

“Pretty soon, I guess. I can take you south when the time comes—but first Nate wants you to do him a favor— a big one.” Somerson set the skillet off the fire, and now he turned his eyes directly on Jeff. “I'll tell you the truth, kid. Your pa's pretty hot about the way they tried to railroad him in this town. He said he wants you to settle the score for him. Nate Blaine wants that town of yours turned upside down and shook till its teeth rattles. You understand?”

Jeff heard his own breath whistle between his teeth. It didn't sound like Nate, putting his work on somebody else. “He said that?”

Somerson stared at him. “Would I have a reason to he to you?”

“No. I guess not.”

“And hasn't Nate got plenty of right to his hate?”

“Yes. Both of us have.”

“Now you sound like your pa!” the outlaw grinned. He speared a piece of fat pork with his knife, clamped it between two pieces of hardtack and began eating. “Help yourself,” he said, nodding. “You know, I rode a long piece out of my way just to see you, kid. But I told Nate I'd look you up, and I don't go back on my word.”

“You still haven't given me the message.”

“Don't be in such a hurry; I'm just gettin' to it. We'll have to go back a way to get at the beginning. Me and Nate were ridin' together for this reb general on the other side of the Border, and that's how I came to find out how they railroaded him up here.”

“He told you?”

“That, and plenty more. The more he thought about it the madder he got, I guess, and a man like Nate can get pretty mad in five years' time. Now, it was a bank job they tried to stick him with, wasn't it?”

“And murder.”

“The banker—I almost forgot about him. Anyway, down there in Mexico, Nate stews about it, and after a while he gets to thinkin' what a hell of a thing it would be if he could come back here and really rob that bank. Of course, what with telegraph wires strung all over Texas these days, he couldn't show his face up here. That's where you come in kid. Are you beginnin' to see the way Nate figured it out?”

Jeff stared. “He wants
me
to rob the bank?”

Somerson's laughter was a sudden outburst that was over almost as soon as it started. “You're gettin' the idea, kid, but it's not as risky as you make it sound. I'm here to help you.”

Jeff glared at the outlaw in disbelief. His memory went back five years, and again he saw the way Nathan had looked at him from behind the bars of Blasingame's jail. At a time like that, when he could have drenched his son with his own hate, Nathan had chosen to tell him nothing. Nathan had let him walk away hating him, because he had thought it would be better for the boy that way.

It didn't stand to reason for that kind of man to ask the things that Somerson claimed for him. Slowly, stiffly, Jeff got to his feet.

“What's the matter?” The outlaw frowned.

“I guess I'll head back for Plainsville.”

Somerson folded his pocket knife, and Jeff could almost see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. At last he slipped the knife into his pocket and rose to his feet, surprising Jeff with a mild grin.

“I didn't fool you, did I? Well, I should have known better than to try to fool a kid of Nate Blaine's.”

“He never said anything about that bank, did he?” Jeff asked tightly.

Somerson shook his head, as though in wonder. “You're just like Nate, all right. Want to see all the cards on the table, don't you? I'll give it to you straight, kid. Nate never sent me up here to look you up, and he never said he wanted you to rob a bank for him. I made that up out of my head, but the rest is the truth. The way he hates this town of yours, especially. Sometimes I thought he was goin' to come back and settle the score himself, government marshal be damned.” He was not grinning now. His face was hard and sober. “You believe that much, don't you?”

“If I did, what difference would it make? I've got no business with you, Somerson.”

“Just a minute; you haven't heard it all yet. Remember, this is the truth—your pa's in trouble, kid. The rebel army we rode for in Mexico got whipped; the ringleaders are bein' shot where they find 'em. That's why I came north. But your pa's not so lucky; he's got no place to run.”

Jeff felt an icy finger move up his spine. “How do I know this ain't another lie?”

“You don't,” Somerson said bluntly. “You could find out if you wanted to write the authorities on the Border. But you won't. Because you can see I'm tellin' the truth, can't you?”

Jeff tried to tell himself differently, but he instinctively knew that this was the truth, just as the other had been a lie. His legs felt suddenly weak. “Let's hear the rest of it,” he said quietly.

“It's the simplest thing in the world. Your Pa needs money. It wouldn't help him much in Texas, but in Mexico he can buy himself onto the right side of the law.” Now he grinned again, but this time the expression did not reach as far as his eyes. “With plenty of luck, I'd say your pa has about a month to go before they catch him. Do you know how they execute rebels in Mexico, kid? First, they make you dig your own grave, then they tie your hands and feet and bring in the firing squad. Mexicans are lousy shots, especially the ones they put in firing squads. They shoot you in the gut, if they can, and while you're still yellin' they start shovelin' dirt in—”

“That's enough!” Jeff snarled.

“Makes you squeamish, doesn't it? But that's the way they do it. That's the way it'll happen to Nate, if he doesn't get help. Five thousand dollars, kid. Is it worth that much to save your pa from a Mexican firing squad?”

Jeff felt his insides shrinking. He didn't even have enough to pay for his sleeping room.

Somerson saw that he was winning, and pushed hard. “Plainsville's a lively town these days,” he said. “Farmers bringin' their crops in, a lot of cattle money changin' hands. There's plenty of cash in that bank for a man smart enough to get it—enough to save your pa, kid, and then some.”

Jeff could not think. His brain felt as cold and immovable as stone. “What could I do?” he asked numbly. “Why did you pick me?”

“That's easy, kid.” Somerson picked up the coffee can, poured in a little cool water from his canteen to settle the grounds, then drank from the tin lip. “First, you're Nate Blaine's boy, so I figure you've got the guts for this kind of thing. Next, I'm not afraid you'll do any dangerous talkin'. Finally, and most important, you know the town and everybody there knows you. That's goin' to be important, as you'll see later.”

“What about your friend Fay. Why don't you get him to help you?”

“He will. Here, you'd better have some of this coffee, kid. You look like your nerves could use it.”