The Silent Hour (7 page)

Rather unwillingly Jim accompanied him. It
was not far to the livery stable, and Randall did not speak again
until they reached the doors. Once or twice he glanced over his
shoulder, surveying the street as if to see whether they were
observed.

“I heard the trial is set to start Saturday,”
Randall said, once inside the shadow of the stable. He beckoned Jim
to the far end of the aisle, near the stall where Randall’s own
horse stood. “Listen, Jim, I don’t like it. I don’t think the
sheriff’s dug half as deep as he could have. They’re rushing you
through this without half enough evidence gathered.”

Jim shifted his shoulders uneasily, and tried
to make it a shrug. “Tom Hall says it’s not a very strong
case.”

“Well, sure he’d say that—he’s a friend, and
he’s trying to keep your spirits up. But I’m your friend too, Jim,
and I don’t want to see you get railroaded. I’ve been thinking
things over—I talked to Mrs. Meade too—and I’ve got an idea or two
of my own. But it’ll take some time to prove ’em. Do you want to
know what I think?” Randall took a deep breath. “I think you should
skip out of town for a few days, just to stall off that trial.”

“Jump bail? That’s crazy; it’d make me look
guilty right—”

“I know it sounds crazy, but if it saves you
from hanging isn’t it worth it? Just listen to me for a minute. All
you’ve got to do is stay up in the hills for a few days and stay
out of sight, and if this hunch of mine pays off I can help you
make it all right with the sheriff afterwards.”

“And if it doesn’t? Then what?”

“Jim, you sound like a born pessimist! At
worst you won’t be any worse off than you are now. It’s just a
question of time—three days might be enough to play this hunch, but
then it might not. I think you ought to try it and buy some more
time.”

“You’re trying to get me out of the way,”
said Jim, studying his friend with something approaching suspicion.
“What for? What—who do you suspect?”

“I’m not,” said Randall. “I’ve told you
why—and believe me, I’m only trying this for your own good. Won’t
you just think about what I’ve said?”

Jim thought it over for a minute. Randall,
seeing that he looked undecided, was quick to follow up on his
opportunity. “We can switch horses here—you’ll want a fast horse.
If anybody asks questions we can say you’re trying him out because
you were thinking of buying him from me. And you’ll want some money
with you, for emergencies…have you got any?”

“No, only a couple dollars. I can’t ask Hall
for a loan; he’d know what was up.”

Randall hesitated, and then said, “I’d lend
you some, only I don’t think there’s time—”

“No, you couldn’t. I don’t want to get you in
trouble.”

“No, just leave that end of it to me,” said
Randall, grinning rather dryly. “You could ride home first,
couldn’t you, if you’ve got any money there?”

“Yes…I guess I could. I’ll want to get some
blankets and a camp outfit—and all our money is still in
Grandfather’s safe. The sheriff left it all as it was since there
wasn’t any question of robbery. I can leave a note in the safe for
Hall, and—” Jim paused and bit his lip. “I want to leave a letter
with you, to deliver. Have you got anything I can write with?”

“Not here. You could step in the Colonial
lobby and write a note—go ahead now and I’ll have the horses
saddled when you get back.”

There was no one else in the stable except
Old Ted muddling around with a pitchfork up near the doors. Randall
had not lowered his voice any noticeable degree, and the details of
their plan carried clearly. When Jim had gone out, and Randall set
about saddling the fast, slim brown horse, Old Ted laid down his
pitchfork and slunk quickly and quietly out.

Randall put his own saddle on Jim’s big black
horse, and led the brown to the door of the stable. In a few
minutes Jim returned, looking pale but determined, with a folded
and sealed letter in his hand. “Will you give this to Frances
Ruskin?” he said, holding it out to Randall. “I—I didn’t mention
you by name, but I’ve got to let her know the truth. I don’t want
her to think that I’ve just lost my nerve.”

Randall accepted the commission, not without
a slight twinge of conscience, and hoped it did not show in his
face. He handed the brown horse’s reins to his friend. Jim, as he
put his foot in the stirrup, gave vent to a mirthless chuckle.

“I’ve always been intending to get my hands
on this horse,” he said. “You’re an awfully trusting fellow.”

“Good luck,” said Randall, “and be
careful…”

He watched Jim ride off up the street, the
latter looking as if he appreciated the chance to have the fast
brown horse under him in spite of the situation. Then Randall drew
another deep breath.

“That was a lot harder than I thought,” he
said.

The rather obvious exchange of horses had not
escaped the notice of Andrew Royal. As Jim rode off the sheriff
emerged from his office, and approached Randall Morris before
Randall could mount the black horse.

“Where’s he going?” Royal asked, jerking his
head in the direction Jim had gone.

“He’s trying out a horse of mine,” said
Randall. “Jim’s been wanting to buy him for a while, and I’m
thinking about selling him.”

The sheriff spoke in the tones of one who has
had the weight of the world put on his shoulders and doesn’t like
it. “Not to call you short-sighted,” he said, “but d’you think it’s
altogether wise to let a man who’s out on bail ride off with the
fastest horse you own?”

Randall, to his credit, was not very good at
dissembling, and he made a decidedly amateurish job of it. He
coughed, cleared his throat and said, “Sheriff, you don’t really
think that Jim would—”

“It don’t matter what I think,” said Royal.
“All
I
know is I’ve got to see that nobody ties another knot
in this doggoned murder case before the trial starts Saturday. I
think I’d best ride along after and make sure I meet him coming
back.”

“Then I guess I’ll ride along with you, if
you haven’t any objection,” said Randall.

“None that I can think of,” said Andrew Royal
with a grim quirk of a bushy eyebrow, and departed to procure a
horse.

Left alone for a moment, Randall cast a
slightly uneasy glance at the sun beginning to set behind the
western mountains. How much of a start did Jim have? He did not
entirely mind the way things were going; it might be useful to keep
the sheriff with him. But Andrew Royal had an undeniable mind of
his own, and could easily upset some rather delicate
calculations.

By the time the two were well on their way,
and a bend of the road behind them had hidden Sour Springs proper
from view, Randall was earnestly regretting that he had undertaken
this matter at all. The pace Sheriff Royal set seemed one minute to
be too fast, the next minute too slow. It was imperative that the
sheriff should not come up with Jim before the latter reached the
Cambert ranch—but to lag too far behind—

Randall suddenly held up a hand, and slowed
his horse. “Hold it a minute. I hear someone coming.”

This was strictly true. There were hurried
hoofbeats sounding beyond the pine-clad bend in their rear as both
riders turned in the saddle to look. Randall had expected no more
than an innocuous passer-by, giving him an excuse to delay a
moment—but to his surprise, the rider who came in view around the
bend was Old Ted, mounted on a bony nag belonging to the owner of
the livery, his tattered coat flapping beneath his elbows in his
haste.

Old Ted pulled up his horse near them. He
seemed more edgy and ill at ease than usual, his eyes darting back
and forth between them, but returning to Royal often enough to
indicate he wanted to speak to the sheriff. He cleared his throat
with a high-pitched sound and did so.

“Sheriff, I seen Jim Cambert ridin’ out of
town,” he said. “I figgered you might wanter know—seein’ as he was
ridin’ somebody else’s horse, and—”

“I know plenty. I don’t need you to tell
me.”

Old Ted fidgeted, and looked at Randall. The
expression on that young man’s face may have kept him from saying
some other things he could have said, but in spite of his palpable
nervousness he was not to be shaken off. “Reckon you’re lookin’ for
him? I could go along with ye. I might be some help, Sheriff.”

“I’m not heading a posse,” said Sheriff Royal
in sepulchral tones, “but there ain’t any law against sight-seeing
tours. You ride where you please, but don’t pester me.”

Ordinarily this was the sort of speech that
would have sent Old Ted slinking away thoroughly cowed, but he
swallowed twice, and fell in beside Randall as the sheriff’s horse
started forward. They rode in silence into the chill dusk that was
beginning to fall, a few ghostly leaves whisking across the road in
their path. Randall glanced sidelong at Old Ted—whose refraining
from speech, as much as his uneasiness, betrayed that something was
up. Here were results from the hunch played, anyway; Old Ted was
certainly showing his hand pretty plainly. Yet why, Randall
wondered, was he so anxious to be near the sheriff? At this point,
Randall thought Old Ted would have wanted to be as far away from
the sheriff as possible. He resolved to keep a close eye upon
him.

It was not fully dark when they reached the
Cambert ranch; only the elusive, gray-tinted dusk in which it is
hardest to see. Ranch house and bunkhouse stood black and silent
beneath the shoulder of a pine-clothed hill that sheltered the
clearing. A tiny alarm flickered off in Randall’s mind. Where were
the two men who were supposedly staying in the bunkhouse?

They all saw the brown horse at the same
time, standing in the shadow near the house. Andrew Royal said
nothing, but Randall Morris could feel the grimness exuding from
him as they crossed the yard. This did not look like a trial of a
horse for sale. Behind them, Old Ted’s nervousness was building;
Randall could hear his frustrated, wheezy breathing. He seemed
terrified of going forward and yet unable to hang back.

They dismounted by the steps…they had made no
effort to disguise the sound of their arrival. And then everything
happened at once. Inside the house came the muffled sound of a
voice raised abruptly, and then a gunshot exploded. A thud, a
crash, and stumbling footsteps followed—Andrew Royal lunged up the
steps, yanked the door open and disappeared inside. Randall tried
to follow, but Old Ted flung himself upon him from behind and
dragged him back. “
Don’t go in there!
”

His clutch was like that of a panicked
octopus, but somehow Randall wrenched himself free and rushed up
the steps. Inside the house was dark—he vaguely heard running
footsteps receding somewhere toward the back, but dim light was
leaking from a half-open door nearer at hand, and the sheriff had
made for it. Randall caught up to him—and glimpsed the scene inside
the room over his shoulder. It was almost dark; the yellow glow of
an oil lamp turned nearly all the way down penetrated the blackness
enough to show the confusion of an overturned desk on the floor,
and gleamed on the edge of the old iron safe standing open in the
corner. In front of the wide hearth Jim Cambert lay on his back,
one arm outflung, a glistening pool of blood trickling from beneath
him.

Andrew Royal jerked around and there was a
brief struggle in the doorway as he forced his way off down the
dark hall after the sound of the footsteps at the same time Randall
pushed forward into the room to kneel down by Jim. The sheriff
banged his elbow on an unseen doorknob and swore loudly in the
dark. But before he had taken more than a few blind steps another
shot rang out from outside, followed by the sound of shattering
glass. It located for Royal the whereabouts of the back door, and
he made for it. He emerged, gun in hand, at the top of the board
steps. Down in the yard another man was approaching from a distance
of several yards away, with a smoking gun directed at the house. It
was Gennaro; and between them, at the foot of the steps, with a
canvas bag in his hand and a look of trapped rage on his face, was
Tom Hall.

* * *

More lamps had been lit, fires had been
kindled; and there had been more voices and footsteps and more
comings and goings in the Cambert ranch house in the past hour than
in previous months combined. Jim Cambert had been carried to his
own room and had his wounded arm dressed by the doctor, summoned
from Sour Springs by Gennaro along with a deputy to assist Sheriff
Royal in the bestowal of a prisoner.

“That’s the surest way to get yourself
cleared of a crime,” said Dr. Dunton as he secured the bandages. “I
wouldn’t recommend it as a regular thing, though.” Jim, looking
rather pale and exhausted, tried to smile.

Dr. Dunton helped him ease the injured arm
into a sling, and lie back against the pillows. “There you are.
You’ll come out of this all right—it’s only a slight fracture and
ought to heal cleanly.”

“It was
entirely
my fault,” said Mrs.
Meade, entering the room at that moment. Mrs. Meade had arrived in
the doctor’s buggy as if quite accustomed to it, and superintended
all household matters, with the much-maligned second man of the
bunkhouse roused from his sound sleep to serve as a worshipful
minion. “I do hope you’re not implying, Doctor, that we arranged
for Jim to be cleared by being murdered himself, for it was
not
so.”

“Far be it from me to suggest such slander,”
said Dr. Dunton, who was an old friend of Mrs. Meade’s and had a
substantial sense of humor besides.

Mrs. Meade looked around the room. “Oh, and
there is coffee in the kitchen for anyone who feels they need
it.”

“I don’t want coffee, I want some sense,”
said Andrew Royal, unwittingly slandering himself with his grammar.
“What in thunder happened here tonight, and who knew it was going
to? I haven’t got the straight of it from anybody yet.”