The Complete Western Legends Omnibus, page 12
Clay glanced briefly over at the copper-haired saloon girl. She had on a hat made of turkey feathers that seemed to please her. “I could be a whole lot better, Mrs. Dunbar,” he answered out of the side of his mouth. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”
Alice recited: “I’d like one pound of bacon, two pounds of coffee, two pounds of jerked beef, half a pound of flour, four tins of beans, and four tins of canned peaches.”
“That’s an awfully strange order for you, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so,” Clay said casually as he began to take her requests off the shelves and put them in a box.
Flustered by the storekeeper’s remark, Alice said defensively, “It’s for George. I don’t know what he wants with that stuff. He sent me to get it.”
Clay took little notice of Alice’s agitation because all of his attention was focused on the saloon girl as she took the turkey feather hat off and sashayed out of the store.
Picking up his thoughts where he left them, the storekeeper went on to say, “Your order seems like the kind I’d be fillin’ for a man who planned to be in the saddle for a while. In fact, I’ve been kinda expectin’ a strange lookin’ gent that rode into town earlier this mornin’ to come in and ask for the fixin’s that you did.”
A strange looking gent. Alice Dunbar remembered how Cort had described Wassin. Her face started to lose its color.
Jim Clay was startled when Alice asked, “What did he look like, this stranger?”
“He was a pretty big man,” the storekeeper began, watching his customer’s face with a great deal of curiosity, “but what was most strikin’ about him was how white his face looked ... ” Clay went on to describe, Wassin more fully, but “white face” was all Alice really heard or needed to hear. A terrible fear flew across her now ashen gray features. She was terrified.
Clay, amused with Alice’s sudden consternation over a fearsome-looking saddle-tramp, wondered what strange ideas she was conjuring up in her mind about the terrible, violent west.
Alice was agitated enough to almost run out of the store, which she was about to do, when Clay said sternly, “That’ll be two dollars and forty cents, Mrs. Dunbar.”
Alice dug the money Ella had given her out of her skirt pocket, gave it to the storekeeper, grabbed the box of food, and took off for home as fast as her old legs could carry her.
A few minutes later, the box of provisions frozen in her hands, Alice Dunbar burst through the front door and into the safe harbor of her startled husband’s arms.
George Dunbar was not the only one surprised by his wife’s dramatic return. Ella and Cort were also anxious to discover the reason for Alice’s terror-stricken flight from Clay’s General Store. It was only after minutes of incoherent sobbing that one word finally hissed through Mrs. Dunbar’s teeth ... “Wassin.”
There was no telling where in town Wassin might be, or what he knew. It could be the hired killer knew nothing of Cort’s hideout here in Cliffordsville, and, having temporarily given up the chase, had come into town for a rest. Or it could be that Wassin was on to him. One way or the other, Cort had to get out of town. His fight was not with Wassin, it was with Cliffords. But if Cort was to get out of town and take the fight to the Double C, he would need his horse.
George and Ella were still huddled around the drooping figure of Alice Dunbar when Cort said evenly, “You’d better bring her into the bedroom and lie her down. A little brandy wouldn’t hurt, either.” A few minutes later, with Alice tucked safely into bed, Cort said, “I’ll be gettin’ on my way. The longer I’m here, the more danger you’re in—especially with Wassin on the prowl. As it is, I’ve overstayed my welcome. Thank you, George, for givin’ me the shelter of your roof. Right nice of you. And thank Alice for me, too.”
Ella stopped him at the door. “You be damned careful!” she commanded. “That Wassin feller could be anywhere, and you’ve got to get across most of the town to get to the stable. You be damned careful,” she repeated.
“I’m always careful, except in matters of business,” he answered with almost a straight face.
“It’s me that ought to have my head examined. Throwin’ in with a feller that doesn’t know enough to be seated when he has a devil like Wassin on his tail.”
“I’m plenty scared, Ella, and I’ll be plenty careful too. And as for you, you old scoundrel, I’ll see you at the house raisin’ when we put up an honest to goodness house for you.” Then he was gone.
No sooner was he out the door, than he became part of the early morning shadows. It would take hours, perhaps, but slowly, ever so slowly, Cort would make his way to the stable.
Chapter Sixteen
Deep shadows and two spools of baling wire hid Wassin from view of anyone coming into the livery stable. Wassin, however, could not hide from one troubling thought ... “That if Lacey had another horse waiting for him in Cliffordsville, or bought or borrowed one after getting to town, then a man named Wassin would appear mighty foolish for sitting hungry, dirty, and thirsty in a small stable, waiting to murder a man who had maybe left town as long as two days ago.”
His doubts grew minute by minute. He had been prepared to wait in the stable indefinitely, but now he wasn’t so sure. If his prey was long gone, the smartest thing to do, Wassin knew, was to get re-supplied, have a hot meal, sleep for a few hours on a soft bed, and then, revitalized, try once again to track down the ten thousand-dollar hide of Cort Lacey.
But was Lacey long gone? Wassin debated himself to a stalemate. He couldn’t decide.
Bert, the stable-owner, a heavy-set balding man, rumbled through the stable doors. “Paco, come out here and help me unload this feed!” Bert commanded into the silence and darkness of the stable. “Well, are you comin’?” he yelled impatiently. “Paco, you wanna lose your job? I’m talkin’ to you! Paco?”
Wassin didn’t raise his voice, yet it struck the bald man like a poisoned arrow. “Paco can’t hear you, mister,” he said, “and if you ever want to be heard again, fat man, just walk on in here without raising any fuss. Understand?”
Bert nodded. Sweating off some of his heavy breakfast, he nervously shuffled into the manure-scented darkness. Having just come in from bright sunshine, the stable-owner was practically blind. He never did see Wassin. He only felt the cold steel of a gun barrel crashing into the back of his skull. Then nothing.
Wassin bound Bert hand and foot, then hauled him into the same stall with the young Mexican. Bushwhacking Lacey in the stable—assuming Lacey hadn’t already left town—was an idea growing sour. And Wassin knew it. “The Mexican kid might not have been missed,” Wassin thought, “but this fat feller, he looks like the kind who’d have friends in the saloon or the barbershop ... and they’ll come looking for him. Hell, it’s gonna be too damned crowded around here for me to do any Cort Lacey killin’. I’ll just have to think of somethin’ else.” Taking a final, satisfied look at the two bloody and beaten figures he was leaving behind, Wassin strolled out of the livery stable toward Clay’s General Store.
Jim Clay was behind the counter, filling out an order sheet. At the sound of someone entering the store, Clay, instinctively put down his paperwork. Raising his eyes to his customer, he asked, “Can I help ... help you?” He was getting his first close look at the dark-eyed pale stranger.
Wassin threw his empty leather saddle bag onto the counter. It slapped down so hard, Clay jumped back and banged into the shelves behind him. Wassin pointed down at the saddle bag and said, “Fill that up—beef jerky, beans, coffee, bread, canned fruit, bacon. Just fill it up.”
“Yes, sir,” the storekeeper answered hoarsely. And then, as Jim Clay worked, nervous energy compelled him to talk:
“Been a real nice summer for this country. Not as hot and dry as it usually is. Roger Bressan, he’s the telegraph operator, says that whenever there’s a real nice summer, you can always expect a terrible winter to follow. You think there’s any truth in that?”
“Fill up the saddle bag, storekeeper,” was all Wassin responded.
“Right, sure, right,” Clay said defensively. But he couldn’t stop babbling. “You know, about an hour ago, I had an old lady in here—Alice Dunbar’s her name—and she put in an order just like yours. Kind of funny, I thought, for an old lady to order jerked beef, and tins of beans and canned peaches. She said the stuff was for her husband, but hell, he hasn’t been out of town since he went prospectin’ with old Walter Frank about six, seven years back ... ”
Wassin was hardly listening, but something stirred in his memory when he heard the name “Frank.” Wasn’t it William Cliffords that mentioned that name? That’s right—Ella Frank—the old lady that disappeared after Cort Lacey blew up her ranch along with ten of Cliffords’ men. He was in the midst of this thought when he caught the tail-end of something else Jim Clay was saying.
“ ... asking me what you looked like was the last question I ever expected from her.”
Wassin’s head snapped up and his eyes locked on Jim Clay. “What was that about the old lady?”
“Huh?”
“The old lady,” Wassin repeated.
“But I just told you,” Clay said a little too smugly. Wassin grabbed a fistful of Clay’s apron-front, and pulled him halfway over the countertop. Clay was so close to Wassin’s face that he could feel the dry breath that came from his mouth when Wassin said, “I know you just told me, storekeeper. Tell me again!”
“Yeah, sure, right, right,” Clay mumbled weakly. Wassin eased back on the storekeeper’s apron, allowing Jim Clay’s feet to find the floor.
“The old lady asked me what you looked like,” Clay wheezed. “When I told her, she practically ran out without paying.”
“Did you say the old lady and her man was friends of Walter and Ella Frank?”
“Look, I was just talkin’. You can’t pay much attention to what I say. I guess I like to gossip.” Clay knew he had said too much and was trying desperately, if unsuccessfully, to talk himself out of a jam. The storekeeper had guessed days before that Ella Frank was staying with the Dunbars, but he had kept that bit of news to himself. Clay was sure Wassin was after Ella Frank and he wanted to protect her. He didn’t want to bring any trouble to the Dunbars either if he could help it. But he couldn’t help it. The damage was done.
Wassin calmly drew his Colt .44, shoved the muzzle into Jim Clay’s throat, and said in a vicious whisper, “I like listenin’ to you gossip, storekeeper. Don’t stop. Tell me about the amount of food this old lady’s bought lately. Has it gone up?”
The food bill had gone up, and Jim Clay tried to search his guts for the courage to say it hadn’t. But to reach his guts, he had to get past the gun at his neck. And he couldn’t quite get past that gun. Clay nodded his head, yes.
After that, he didn’t even put up with token resistance. Clay answered Wassin’s every question, including where the Dunbars lived and how to get there.
Having all the information he needed, Wassin terminated the interview by ramming his pistol barrel against Jim Clay’s head. Wassin then shut the front door of Clay’s General Store, putting the “SORRY CLOSED” sign in full view.
George Dunbar was keeping watch from the front parlor when Wassin discovered the same, still unlatched, window in the kitchen that Cort had used to enter the house. Searching the alley in front of his house for a man with a pasty-white face, black eyes, and black hair, George Dunbar never once thought to look back over his shoulder. If he had, he would have seen the flash of a gun barrel streaking down towards his head. The only thing that saved him from a broken skull was the irregular swaying of his rocking chair. It caused Wassin to slightly mis-time the blow. Just the same, old man Dunbar folded like a house of cards, his old Hawken grabbed by Wassin before it could hit the floor.
Silently, Wassin went on to search the rest of the house. But there was no ten thousand-dollar hide to be found. Lacey had obviously cleared out soon after the old lady returned with supplies and a warning that he, Wassin, was in Cliffordsville. To get an edge, Wassin needed to discover Lacey’s plans now that he had left town. In the bedroom were two old ladies who might be privy to that information, and they were next on Wassin’s list of people to be “interviewed.”
Wassin kicked the bedroom door open and stood there with his Colt .44 pointed casually in the direction of Alice Dunbar and Ella Frank. Alice was too scared to faint, but Ella wasn’t. She snarled, “You look tubercular enough to be Wassin. Sure, you must be Wassin—wavin’ a gun at old ladies. Maybe that’s not pistol enough to handle Alice and me. Maybe you need a scatter gun ... ”
“Shut it,” Wassin growled.
In an almost inaudible voice, Alice asked, “What do you want?” But a moment later, something terrible burned itself into her mind; something so terrible that she found her voice and cried out, “Where’s George? What did you do to George?”
“Your old man might or might not be still breathin’. I couldn’t rightly say for sure,” he said with cruelty.
Alice’s eyes opened so wide her pupils looked like tiny islands lost in a vast ocean.
“If you wanna find out if he’s alive ... and keep me from killin’ him if he is still livin’, maybe you’d like to supply me with a little information.”
“What information?” Alice whispered.
“Where is Cort Lacey going?”
“I don’t know!”
“That’s too bad for your husband,” Wassin said dryly.
“What are you going to do?” Alice screeched.
“Why, I’m gonna kill him. What else?” Wassin answered coldly.
“But I don’t know! I swear to God I don’t know where Cort Lacey is going!” Alice yelled hysterically. “You can’t kill George!”
While Wassin was preoccupied with Alice, Ella moved inch by inch toward her knitting bag, which was lying on the seat of a worn, overstuffed chair, near Alice’s bed. There was a derringer in that bag and she wanted it badly.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know!” Alice pleaded. “I admit Cort Lacey was here, but he didn’t tell me where he was going when he left.” Her only thought to save her husband, Alice suddenly whirled toward Ella, who was standing right next to the overstuffed chair. Alice waved her arm at Ella and cried, “She knows where Cort Lacey went! She told me she knew! Please. Please don’t do anything to George. Please!”
Wassin and Ella eyed each other coldly.
Ella Frank had seen a lot in her time. She had worked as a saloon girl in Missouri and as a whore in a mining town in Colorado. She had been a captive of the Cheyenne and had seen more than a hundred people killed in a wagon train massacre. After marrying Walter Frank, she had prospected, farmed, and ranched all over the west—fighting Indians, outlaws, or anyone else who wouldn’t let them be.
Ella Frank had seen a lot. What she was seeing now, in the coal black eyes of a ruthless killer by the name of Wassin, were all the cheap grifters in St. Joe and Durango, and the Indians who beat her with sticks and staked her out in the sun next to a maggot-infested buffalo carcass. And she saw the snowy morning in Montana when she found the bodies of her two sons at the mouth of a mine she and Walter had filed claim on.
Ella had spit in the faces of the grifters, outlived her Indian torturers, and had avenged the deaths of her boys. Simply stated, she was a woman who would not be pushed. Ella Frank was Ella Frank, and that’s what made her grab for the gun in her knitting bag.
She had her hand on the derringer and was raising it to shoot when Wassin calmly put a bullet in her stomach. The impact of the slug set Ella back on her heels, but the derringer kept coming up. With all her draining energy, she was straining to level her gun and, if not kill Wassin, at least to leave her mark on him. Wassin smiled at her pain, then shot her in the face.
He turned to the horrified Alice Dunbar, who hadn’t so much as taken a breath, and said evenly, “You’re a witness. I can’t have that.” He shot her once through the heart.
His gunfire might have been heard, so, without the information he had hoped to get, Wassin left the home of George and Alice Dunbar—fast. He had no intention of swinging at the end of a vigilante rope for the murder of two old ladies. But in his hurry to leave, Wassin failed to notice George Dunbar stirring to consciousness.
Unable at first to move, George just barely managed to open his eyes. And he saw a man with desert-white skin and dark black hair walk past him, go out the front door, cross the empty alley, and disappear into another street. “Wassin was in my house. Wassin was in my house,” George kept hearing himself mutter from someplace far away. “What was Wassin doing in my house?” With great effort, George began crawling toward the bedroom.
Cort Lacey arrived at the livery stable only minutes after Wassin had left for Clay’s General Store. Wassin never knew how close they had come to locking horns, but Cort had a pretty good idea ... he found the unconscious stable-owner and the badly beaten young Mexican.
After examining the two pistol-whipped victims, Cort decided that they’d live. Bert was beginning to come to. Cutting the ropes binding their arms and legs, Cort left it to Bert to care for the youngster.
Cort then saddled up and led his horse to the outskirts of town. He mounted and began circling Cliffordsville at a distance, intending to cut the Double C road somewhere beyond George Dunbar’s house.
George Dunbar’s house. There was a peculiar movement there that attracted Cort’s attention. Looking more closely, he could see a man, a man who looked a lot like George, stagger, then fall right outside the kitchen door.
William Cliffords, Wassin, and his own safety were instantly forgotten as Cort turned and spurred his horse to a gallop, heading straight for the fallen old man.
George Dunbar was conscious, but breathing with difficulty, when Cort slid his arm under the old man’s neck. A pain greater than any that could be caused by a blow to the head showed on his face. The old man tried to speak, but could find no words.
