Bounty Guns (19 page)

Later, when Tip caught up with Buck, Cam was headed in a straight line for the rocky country up the slope and ahead.

“This means a hunt, Tip,” Buck said gloomily.

“We can last as long as he can. Come on.”

They agreed that Tip should ride out ahead, once the general direction Cam was traveling was settled on. By making wide circles, Tip might be able to pick up the tracks and save hours of painstaking tracking. Also, it might serve to flush out Cam from a hiding-place or crowd him into being careless. At any rate, nothing would be lost, for Buck would stick to his tracks, and Buck was as adept at tracking as Cam was at covering them.

It was a slow business at best, however. Tip and Buck took turns on the tracking. Cam had his head now, and he was coolly and systematically trying every shift he knew to throw them off the trail. Buck, riding ahead, got a glimpse of him in early afternoon, but it was too far to shoot. The country was one of canyons and upthrust mesas above Hagen. Buck summoned Tip with three shots. By this lucky chance, they had killed Cam's chance for a wide circle around them and into the timber up the slope. To be sure of it, Buck emptied his rifle at Cam, and saw him turn down again for the shelter of the canyons below.

When Tip rode up, Buck pointed out the place where he had seen Cam. “He's movin' down from there.”

Tip nodded. “We better split up soon.”

“Why?”

“We're bein' followed,” Tip said quietly. “Bolling is on our trail now. I saw his men twice, but they didn't see me.”

Buck swore softly, and put his horse down the gravelly slope into the arroyo. When they came to where Cam had paused, they saw small brown spots on the sand. It was blood, already dried by the heat of the sand. They swung west then, down the slope, traveling the same arroyo Cam had chosen. Buck was looking about him now, studying the country. Presently he pulled up.

“Tip, I'm goin' to take a chance.”

“On what?”

“This gut forks and empties into the canyon above Hagen. Cam's only got one chance to dodge the town and that's by goin' out of the canyon on the other side. If I can beat him to it, I can bottle him up there. He'll be afraid to go back, because he'll figure he'll run into you. But instead of waiting, you swing out and come out below town. You move in and I move in and we'll have him in town.”

“Will he go there?”

“He's hurt, and the chances are he will. Besides, his horse is wore down and he'll hit for town, anyway, to steal a fresh one.”

Tip nodded and named a meeting-place, and then climbed out of the arroyo at the first opportunity. It was slow traveling here, for the country was slashed by narrow canyons and capped by a loose shale that was treacherous footing. Below, the timber looked green and inviting, and he knew that Cam would choose it, rather than this country. And beyond the timber was the canyon, and in it the town. A wounded man would head for it by instinct, trusting to the night to hide his presence.

It was dark when Tip finished his circle and put his horse down into the canyon mouth below town, then traveled the road. Presently he pulled his horse into the brush and hunkered down to wait, like an Indian. He wasn't hungry and he wasn't tired, and there seemed to be no room for either in his mind. He speculated on where they would catch up with Cam, if he had the good luck to dodge them that night. But he wouldn't, Tip knew. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain. Tonight his score with Cam would be settled.

Darkness came, and only a lone puncher, one of the Dockstader boys, passed him. Afterward, Tip pulled out of the brush and headed for town. In the deep shadows of the graveyard, where Hagen Shields was buried, he caught Buck's whistle.

“He's in town,” Buck said. “I turned him back down the canyon. I think he was headed for the lower country.”

“What about Bolling?”

“He's in town now, too.”

Tip said gently, “Well, well. Maybe this will be a bigger night than we expected.”

He and Buck moved toward town then, and sought the darkness of the alley that ran behind the feed stable. In the rear of the hotel they left their horses and hunkered down against the wall for a conference. Cam was in town, but where?

“Who does he know here, Buck?”

“Nobody that wouldn't like to see him dead,” Buck said briefly.

“No friends? Nobody that would hide him out?”

“Not even the Mexicans for money.”

“Then we'll start combin' the alleys for him. I'll start at the north end and you start at the south. Look in the loft of the feed stable if you can. And I'll look in Doc Pendexter's office. And be careful, Buck.”

They separated then. The job, while it sounded difficult, really wasn't, Tip thought. Wedged in the canyon the way it was, Hagen had only three streets, two cross streets, and two alleys.

Tip started at the north end of town. He was thorough and quiet, but the darkness hampered him. Cam Shields could have been hiding in any one of the dozen woodsheds he had examined, but it would be suicide to light a match. Twice riders came down the alley and Tip slipped into the shadows, letting them pass.

When he had worked his way into the heart of town, he was discouraged. He kept thinking of Doc Pendexter, but he wanted to exhaust all the other possibilities first. But when he came to Baylor's warehouse and found it unlocked, he knew it was hopeless. If Cam Shields could find hiding-places like this, he could stay there for weeks without being discovered. In desperation then, he turned into the passageway between the assay office and the barbershop, over which Dr. Pendexter had his office. The stairway to it was covered, which meant that he would have to approach it from the street.

At the edge of the boardwalk, Tip paused and scanned the street. The sheriff's office, across the street and a few doors up, was lighted, and several men loafed about the door. That would be Bolling, he supposed, and his riders.

When the boardwalk was clear, Tip slipped out and wheeled into the covered stairway. He climbed it cautiously, two steps at a time, his gun in his hand.

The door at the top was solid, and he put his ear to it. There was a lamp lighted inside, but the room was silent. Turning the knob, he stepped into the room, and closed the door with a noise. He was standing in an empty waiting-room. Hearing footsteps, he turned to a door in the side wall. It opened to reveal Dr. Pendexter in shirt sleeves, a book in his hand. He looked at Tip a long time, as if trying to remember him.

“Oh, yes, I bandaged your leg,” Dr. Pendexter said calmly.

“Know me, Doc?”

“Of course.” He frowned at the gun. “If you think I'm interested in getting twenty-five hundred dollars, I'm not,” Doc said dryly. “I am, I should say, but I'm not interested in getting it that way. Come in.” He stepped aside. Tip went into his office, looking carefully around him as Doc closed the door behind him. His face was alert, strained, and Doc put it down to a natural caution.

“Leg troubling you?”

“No,” Tip said. He swung his gaze full on Dr. Pendexter, and said, “It's not for me, Doc. I'm after information.”

“Ah,” Doc said, and Tip's glance sharpened.

“You've guessed,” he said. “Has he been here?”

“Who?”

“Cam Shields.”

Doc didn't say anything. Tip's glance traveled the room, settled on the wastebasket which held soiled bandages still red with blood. He looked briefly at Doc and then went to the door. Opening it, he saw a faint trace of blood on the waiting-room floor. In the office, it had already been cleaned up. He shut the door and lowered his gun under Doc's untroubled gaze. Then he sat on the arm of a chair and pulled out his pipe. He didn't pack it, only rubbed it thoughtfully, bringing out the gloss of the grain.

“Well?” Doc said sharply.

“I'm just tryin' to think of an argument,” Tip said carefully, and looked from the pipe to Doc. “I'm tryin' to think of a good reason why you should protect a killer like Cam Shields.”

Doc laughed shortly. “Aren't you goin' to take your gun and threaten me?”

“Why should I?” Tip said. “That never settled anything. You'll tell me if you want to, and you won't if you don't want to. I reckon there's nothin' I can do that will make you.”

“You have more sense than some people who have been here lately.”

“How lately?” Tip asked softly.

“Ten minutes ago, maybe.”

“How bad was he hit?”

“Bad enough so he can't travel far.”

Tip regarded Doc with a level stare. “As far as some woodshed close?”

“Damn it!” Doc said. “A doctor has some secrets. I can't tell you.”

“And I can't hunt him unless you do,” Tip countered. “Did you know he killed a man today, shot him in the back as the man was cutting logs? Do you know he killed Ben Bolling? Do you know he'll kill you when he finds out I came here?”

“Don't scare me,” Doc said derisively.

“I'm not scaring you. I don't think I could. I'm only tellin' you the truth. For a couple of years now Hagen Shields has managed to keep that murderin' son of his under control. Cam was scared of Hagen. He isn't scared of anyone now. There's no way to stop him. He'll murder for fun, like he did this mornin'.”

Dr. Pendexter said surprisingly, “I think you're right. When he backed out of that door, I thought he'd shoot me before he closed it. But still, a doctor's life depends on how he keeps secrets like that, Woodring.”

“You won't tell me?”

Doc looked at him a long time, then went over to his desk and sat down. He made a church steeple of his fingers and looked over his glasses at Tip. “A wound above the hip,” he began, “can be a very queer thing, Woodring. I've seen some strange cases of hemorrhage in such instances. I've seen a man stagger into a doctor's office with a wound there and he wasn't bleeding at all. But the minute the wound was cleaned, even if it wasn't fatal, it started bleeding again. That's when it's dangerous. You'd think a doctor would have sense enough to let well enough alone, but his training is all in the other direction. For instance—”

Tip stood up, smiling thinly. “Thanks, Doc. I'm sorry you can't tell me what I want to know.”

“I'm sorry I can't, too,” Dr. Pendexter said. He was smiling, too.

Tip picked up the trail of blood outside Doc's door—as Doc had just told him to do without putting it into those very words—and followed it downstairs. On the sill by the bottom step a few drops had been smeared by the heel of a boot. Reading some meaning into these signs, Tip knew that Cam Shields had stood here peering out into the street, just as he was doing now.

The next smear, Tip saw, was out on the boardwalk. There were two of them, and their general direction was toward the
Inquirer
office across the street. Tip stared at them a moment, hardly believing. Had Cam Shields crossed the street in view of anyone who cared to look at him, knowing he would be shot on sight? A sick man did strange things, though, and Cam was sick.

Tip looked across the street, judged where Cam would come onto the boardwalk, and then faded back in between the buildings. He went up the alley to the edge of town, strolled across the road in the darkness, took the other alley, and went back into the town. He passed the jail without encountering anyone in the alley. Beside the
Inquirer
building there was ample space in which to walk. He had a hard time squeezing past the open stairway that ran up the side of the building, but he made it.

Looking up and down the street, he saw nobody was coming, so he strolled out to the edge of the boardwalk. There was no mark on the boards; the dust of the street had clung to Cam's boots and smothered any sign. Down on his hands and knees, Tip searched the boards for any sign of the blood, but there was none. He was kneeling that way when he looked up, hearing the door of the
Inquirer
office open. Tip dodged back to the corner of the building, climbing the first step of the stairway and flattening himself against the wall.

Jim, the pressman, strolled by, stopped, walked out to the edge of the boardwalk, lighted a cigar, looked up and down the street, and then went on.

Tip was just ready to step down when his glance fell to the step.

There was the blood spot in the shape of a heel on the lower step!

For one second Tip stared at it, and then it came to him. Lynn's room, of course! These steps led up there, and Cam Shields, sick and hurt, had fled there because it was the only place he knew in town where he could hide. It didn't matter about Anna Bolling being there, for he could threaten her; and he didn't know about Ball. Doc had watched him go, too.

Tip took the steps softly, two at a time, his gun in his hand now. Achieving the top step and the platform, he listened. There was neither light nor sound in there. Gently he tried the doorknob. The catch gave way a little, and Tip's pulse hammered. The door wasn't locked. He pushed, and then the door stopped moving. It was bolted from the inside, not locked from the outside. That was all he needed.

CHAPTER 13

Tip raised his foot and kicked savagely, wheeling his body to one side.

The door crashed open, and on the heel of it came a shot. Tip lunged into the room, sprawling on his face, shooting in the direction of the gun flame. An answering shot hammered out in that close room, and then Tip heard the pounding of heavy boots.

“Anna!” Tip called, coming to his feet.

“He's there, Tip!” Anna's voice came from the corner of the room.

Tip lunged into the dark corridor to the kitchen, and then he heard Cam Shields yelling at the top of his voice, “Here's Tip Woodring! Here's Woodring! Help! Help! Woodring!”

It came from the door beside him. Tip lunged against the door and it was locked. He kicked at it, and Cam shot from the other side of the door. Tip kicked again and again, and the door flew open with a crash. He could make out Cam's figure half out the window. Tip swung up his gun, but before he could fire, a shot came from low in the corner of the room. Cam screamed. Tip saw him grab his chest with the hand that had been holding the window. Then Tip opened up. He sent three shots at Cam, driving him out the window. Cam screamed again, and Tip heard a muffled thud as his body struck the ground below.