The End of the Trail (20 page)

Authors: Brett Halliday

The three of them rode on to a little frame house just beyond the jail. Pat swung out of the saddle and stepped back, holding up his arms to catch Lily as she slid down when Karen released her.

Sheriff Hartly came to the door, picking his teeth after an early supper, as Pat came up the walk bearing the girl in his arms. Lily's eyes were shut and she was limp but conscious.

The sheriff's eyes widened with amazement at the sight, but he jerked the door open without asking questions and called in to his wife, “Show Pat Stevens into the front bedroom, Ma. He's got a girl that looks hurt bad.”

Mrs. Hartly was a motherly gray-haired woman. Like her husband, she wasted no time with questions. She showed him a bed where he could lay the girl, and whisked her young son off for a doctor. Pat left Lily with Karen and Mrs. Hartly and went out to tell the sheriff, “Sam an' Ezra are waitin' back at the jail to lock up a couple of prisoners.”

The sheriff hastily buckled on a gun and got his hat and coat.

“Cleve Runyon and one of his gang, name of Pokey Dallgren,” Pat told him matter-of-factly. “When the doctor gets through fixing up Lily, you can bring him over to the jail to work on Runyon. He's in sort of bad shape.”

“So you went after that reward after all?” Hartly chuckled and poked Pat in the ribs.

“It sort of come after me,” Pat said soberly.

He went on to the group in front of the jail while the sheriff hastily unlocked the door, and told Sam and Ezra, “See the sheriff locks 'em up tight, an' then you-all ride down to the livery stable an' bring Five-Fingers Martin back up here. We'll finish this off tonight.”

“Where you goin'?”

“To the Elite Hotel. I won't be long.” Pat strode away on foot down the slope toward Main Street where the saloons were just beginning to light up and get ready for the night's business.

The hotel clerk was alone in the lobby when Pat stalked in. He said, “Howdy, Mr. Stevens,” with an ingratiating smile, but Pat passed him toward the stairway with only a nod.

Upstairs, he went directly to the room where he had been interviewed by the two members of the syndicate three nights previously.

He turned the knob and flung the door open. O. Manley Raine was alone in the rocking chair by the window, with his waistcoat open and his shoes off. He got up slowly with a portentous frown at Pat. “I understood you were in Sanctuary Flat.”

“I was,” Pat said tersely. “Where's Van Urban?”

“He has the room next to mine. Am I to understand â¦”

Pat went out without telling the Denver banker what he was to understand. He tried the door of the adjoining room and found it locked although light showed through the crack under the door.

He knocked loudly. It opened after a time, and the railroad engineer stood in the doorway blinking at him like a man just awakened from a nap.

“It's Mr. Stevens?” He sounded surprised and not too pleased. “What are you doing back so soon?”

“We're finishin' up that Sanctuary Flat job tonight,” Pat told him. “Get a coat an' come over to the jail with me. There's one man still loose that's got to be identified.”

“I don't know how I can help.”

“I'm purty sure you can help a lot. You want to see it cleaned up right, don't you?”

“Of course,” Van Urban sputtered. “If you're certain â¦”

Pat said, “I'll wait right here while you get yore coat on.” His voice was grim and uncompromising.

Van Urban said, “Very well.” He turned and put on a heavy coat, donned his hat and blew out the lamp. He and Pat went downstairs together.

As they climbed the hill toward the jail, Van Urban asked a lot of curious questions, but Pat answered none of them directly. He merely said, “Wait'll we get to the jail. You'll see what I mean.”

Sheriff Hartly met them at the jail door. He looked at Pat's companion curiously, pulled the door open and said gruffly, “The others are inside.”

The front of the jail was fixed up as the sheriff's office. Sam and Ezra stood against the opposite wall with Five-Fingers Martin between them. Five-Fingers' face was pallid and he didn't look happy in this environment which was all too familiar to him.

He looked at Van Urban and nodded to Pat. “That's him. It was his hawse that was rode far an' fast that night like I tol' yuh.”

“What is this?” Van Urban demanded waspishly. “Where's the man you wanted me to identify?”

“I reckon you misunderstood me,” Pat growled. “Yo're the one I wanted to get identified out loud by Five-Fingers in front of Sheriff Hartly. Van Urban's the man back of all this killin', Sheriff. Runyon has already told us, but I wanted to tie him in from every angle 'cause he's liable to be a slippery cuss when he comes to trial.”

“You must be insane,” Van Urban said with sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. “What sort of absurdity is this?”

“Tell you what,” said Pat easily. “Nex' time you write a threatenin' note on a sheet of paper with a lead bullet an' try to make it sound like a man that don't know how to spell, don't make the mistake of writin' âspecially' with âes' in front of it. That's maybe the dictionary spellin', but nobody but a book-taught engineer from the east would spell it that way.”

“I don't know what on earth you're talking about,” faltered Van Urban, collapsing suddenly in a chair in front of the sheriff's desk.

“I knew all the time it mighty near had to be one of you members of the Syndicate tippin' the killers off when the Burns detective an' Nate Morris got killed,” Pat told him acidly. “I didn't know which one. Couldn't see why one of you would want to chase the Syndicate's cattle out. Not till Runyon spilled it all this morning,” he added significantly.

“Cleve Runyon told us about them coal claims you own jointly with them in the upper end of the Flat, an' how they weren't worth nothing without a railroad to haul the coal out, but worth a plumb fortune
with
the railroad built. You didn't have money to finish the road, but when your crowd went broke you got the Syndicate to finance it so they could make their cattle-breedin' experiment. Then all you had to do was to discourage 'em so they'd give up the breedin' â¦ an' there you were. With a railroad ready-built to haul out the coal.

“Yo're a worse murderer than them, Van Urban. You sat back an' pulled the strings to get men killed, an' double-crossed yore own pardners after they'd put up the money to build the railroad. I'd tear you apart right now with my bare hands, 'cept I'd rather see you hang.” Pat's voice was harsh and shaken with wrath. He turned abruptly and strode out into the cold night air.

He was leaning against the outside of the jail puffing violently on a cigarette when Hartly came out a few minutes later. “You shoulda stayed to watch it, Pat. He busted down an' cried like a baby.”

“If I'd stayed in there with him another minute, you wouldn't of had him for a hangin',” Pat confessed. “I'm losin' control of my temper as I get older, Hartly.”

“You're not too old yet to get a job done,” the sheriff commended him. “There's a five thousand reward comin' to you for breakin' up the Runyon gang.”

“I told you from the first we didn't want that money,” Pat reminded him angrily. “It rightly belongs to those two gals over at yore house. See that it's split between 'em.”

He turned away from the sheriff as Sam and Ezra came out with Five-Fingers. “An' I owe you a drink,” he told Martin. “Le's go down to Happy Jack's an' hoist one together while Sam feeds 'em back that money he won by mistake last time.”

About the Author

Brett Halliday (1904â1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2496-9

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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