Tinhorn's Daughter (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunset's Return

T
HE
man who said his name was Smith was watching Trotwood. He was too intent to notice the precise moment Bat Connor slid into a seat at his table. He became aware of Bat when Connor helped himself to a drink from Smith's bottle.

Smith expressed no surprise. “You've been gone quite a while.”

“Two awful dry months,” said Bat.

“Any reason you come back just now?”

“You're full of questions,” said Bat. He drank and then wiped his whiskers with the back of his hand. “Keep yore eyes peeled and you'll know why I'm back.”

“Sunset is in town?”

“You almost got him killed once, detainin' me.”

“You don't seem to be very scared about getting caught. Everybody knows,” said Smith.

“Sure they do.” Bat poured himself another drink but it was never downed.

Trotwood had been standing at the far end of the bar, talking with a worried and sagging rancher. Money had just changed hands and a deed had just been signed. Trotwood's hold on Puma Pass was at last complete.

Others were lined along the mahogany in easy poses but now a ripple of tension ran down the brass-railed length. Man nudged neighbor and all faces were toward the door for one long, appalling instant.

Sunset had stepped into the big, smoky room. When he was two paces inside he stopped, hands carefully away from his guns, stiff-brimmed hat on the back of his head, flame-colored hair almost in his eyes. Then, even the fringes on his shirt stopped swinging.

Trotwood faced around and stiffened. He put both feet solidly upon the floor and was motionless.

With one concerted dive the pathway between them was cleared. A table crashed and then everybody stopped, leaving a space the width of a bowling alley between the two.

Bat carefully laid his six-gun on the table before him. Smith's eyes were critical.

A big clock above the bar ticked with agonizing monotony, loud all out of proportion.

Sunset's voice was clear and controlled. “A couple months ago, you wanted to get me pretty bad, Double-Deck. You got your chance now.”

Trotwood was not afraid. His short gun had been the winner too many times, and even though this range was long for him, he knew what he could do. It showed on his face as his thin mouth relaxed into a contemptuous smile.

Abruptly Trotwood's hand stabbed inside his coat. A badly sewn button flew. Before men could realize he had moved, his short gun glittered, swinging level.

Sunset's hands flashed across his body as he snapped into a crouch. Cocked by their weight as they came free, his big Colts boomed together, their crashing thunder swallowing up the one short bark of Trotwood's gun.

Smoke swept forward toward a common meeting point and then slowly down to swirl with decreasing density. It rose upward.

Trotwood sagged against the bar, clutching at the edge. He let himself down slowly, pulling a long sheet of paper with him. His grip was tenacious, and even after he slumped to the floor, he still had the paper, redly dyed, the stain growing out toward the word
Deed.

Nobody moved, even then, and the big clock ticked with loud, progressive regularity in the smoky silence.

Light, hurrying footsteps on the steps outside broke the spell. Betsy swung the shuttered door open and stared down the room, hand at her throat.

Sunset shoved his guns back into holsters. There was dark misery in his eyes.

He went past her and into the street. Voices babbled behind him as he strode along. Men gave him all the road there was, wishing they had nerve enough to speak to him and tell him of their gratitude.

People were surging toward the Palace Saloon. Men who had owned land and miners who had owned claims, raced eagerly to find out if it was really so, if Trotwood's power had been broken by a bullet, what chance there was of recovering what had been lost.

Sunset heard none of it. He reached the edge of town and mounted his waiting horse. Wearily he walked the mount down the trail and into the darkness.

Bat Connor and the man who said his name was Smith took care of Betsy. They met no resistance from her when they led her across the road to the cabin. She did not seem to be aware of them or of her own whereabouts. She sank down in a chair before the fire and the blaze was dying low.

She knew dully that the stranger and Bat Connor were talking, and though she heard it clearly she could make nothing of their words, nor did she have the energy to try.

And then they were on either side of her. Bat took a letter back from Smith and held it before her face.

“See there!” said Bat. “There's the proof! It's in his own handwriting!”

She saw it and wondered if it was the one he had written such a short time before, but nothing could excite her interest now.

“Listen to it,” said Bat. He read:

President
Great Western Railroad

Dear Sir;

It gives me great pleasure to inform you, sir, that I am in possession of all lands in and adjacent to Puma Pass. Though I am not known to you, I know you will be interested. I have it on good authority that within a year you will contemplate building over the Continental Divide and I know that this is the one pass which you will find feasible. It will come as a shock to you, of course, that this land is already held. But your shortsightedness is my gain. I am leaving some hours after the bearer and will arrive close on the heels of this letter. To facilitate this transaction, you will have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars ready to place to my credit in a Chicago bank. This is of the utmost necessity as I am in something of a hurry. My price will go up in direct ratio to any delay.

Sincerely,
Jonathan Trotwood

“He was going to pull out at midnight tonight,” said Smith. “I heard him tell his men as he paid them off. He was going to leave you as he had no further use for you and he was joking about it to the bartender.”

Betsy looked up at the two tense faces, trying to understand what they were saying.

“I … I don't believe it.”

Bat looked appealingly at Smith. “Tell her who you are, like you just told me.”

Smith looked at Betsy for a moment, wondering about the advisability of furthering the effect of this shock.

Finally he said, very gently, “Miss Trotwood, I am a United States deputy marshal. I came here at the request of Wells Fargo to arrest Sunset Maloney. But I had to use my own judgment. I have been watching Trotwood ever since I arrived. He did nothing flagrantly lawless and in a wild country such as this, it is impossible to police all crimes, even if they were in my jurisdiction, which they are not. I have checked on Trotwood. He is known as Double-Deck or as Boston Slim. He started years ago as a card sharp, went to gambling for higher stakes, was known as a bad man with a gun. He murdered a woman at Abilene last spring and came out here to force this railroad deal and get away from the local authorities.

“When I arrived I heard about Sunset from Mr. Connor and I decided to clear up some other business and let Sunset clear up Trotwood if he could. I had no orders to do anything about it but I have to use my judgment.”

“See?” crowed Bat. “Look. When Sunset laid eyes on you, out of respect for Trotwood bein' your father, he quit cold, knowin' he was stealin' your money, not Trotwood's. When he was healin' up, he used to worry about it all the time. And then he decided to nail Trotwood and save you. But the only way he could do it was by killin' Trotwood. See? If he'd thought less of you, he'd maybe have kidnapped you again or somethin'. See?”

They both stared expectantly at Betsy.

She looked very small in that big chair, very much alone.

Smith spoke again. “You are Trotwood's heir and though the deeds are in his name, they're now all yours. After what he has done to this country, the least you can do is carry on. Sunset tried and succeeded in a measure. But you hold the winning hand, miss. You better drive a bargain with the Great Western Railroad. I'll help you. A half a million for this land would be about right. And then you could take out what you put into it and hand out the money that's really coming to the original owners. They all ought to share in that profit and there's families that have other reasons to get a bigger chunk. We'll carry it out. All you have to do is sign the papers.”

Wearily, she nodded, staring into the graying ashes of the fireplace.

S
unset was washing on the bank of the stream near the trapper's cabin, only partly warmed by the dying sunlight of the afternoon, listening to the brook running at his feet.

For ten days he had waited with waning hope, but now he knew that he had waited in vain. The taste of his late victory over Trotwood was a stale, even bitter thing. The price he had paid for that victory had been too great.

Ten-Sleep Thompson had been revenged, but revenge is at best an unsavory thing.

In the morning he would throw his saddle on his mount and tie his scant belongings there. Oregon was over the Divide and perhaps in Oregon he could forget.

She had never been meant for him. Who was he to aspire to such heights? He could never hope to interest her. He was rough, lacking the polish of the men to whom she had been accustomed in the East.

His reverie was interrupted by Bat's shout on the rim. Bat dismounted and led his horse down through the pines on the slope, dropping the reins and crossing the narrow bridge.

Sunset tried to cover up his bleak thoughts with a grin but the attempt was worse than his soberness.

“I knew I'd find you here,” said Bat.

They shook hands and Sunset led the way into the cabin. He slid a pail of water into the ashes and began to kindle a fire about it to make Bat some welcoming tea. His tongue burned with questions but he knew that he could not bear the answers about Betsy.

Bat dropped his saddlebags to the floor, and then turned back to the door, saying, “I'll get you some wood, Sunset.”

Sunset blew on the coals, adding shavings. A feeble flame flickered up. He put another stick on and followed it with a larger. The fire began to burn brightly as it picked up. Sunset added more fuel, exhausting his stock.

He heard a footstep inside the door and turned to direct Bat in the task of laying down the wood.

He opened his mouth to say a word but the word was never uttered.

Betsy was standing just inside, smiling at him.

Sunset rocked back on his heels, eyes popping with amazement. And then a big grin swept down across his face and he leaped up.

She advanced toward him, laughing, and he caught her up in his arms, smothering her in the fringe of his shirt. He put her back away from him to look at her. But try as they might they could not trust themselves to speak.

Behind them the fire caught. The gay flames crackled as they danced a bright
cotillion
.…

When Gilhooly Was in Flower

Chapter One

J
IGSAW
G
ILHOOLY
was a thousand miles deep in thought, which fact was not particularly endearing him to Mary Ann Marlow. He sat on her front porch, looked off into the purple expanses and gnawed upon a wheat straw. He looked idiotic when he sat like that, thought Mary Ann. His eyes got out of focus, and he was limp enough normally, but now …

Apparently he was a sober-faced, gangling walking stick of a puncher without any sense of humor. But Gilhooly had ideas. He had big ideas. And right now he was wondering just how to get around to fixing life so that he could ask Mary Ann to be his forevermore.

It all required considerable logic and when it came to mathematical reasoning, Jigsaw Gilhooly was
aces up
, though sometimes the least bit slow.

Disgustedly, Mary Ann, who taught school to the three kids in Gunpowder Gulch, picked up her copy of
Ivanhoe
and tried to read to get her mind off the way Gilhooly looked when he was
jigsawing
. Most of the men in the Painted Buttes country had told her she was beautiful. She believed them, a little, and therefore it grieved her that Gilhooly paid such scant attention. Most of the men in the Painted Buttes country had told her that she was a fool for seeing anything in Jigsaw Gilhooly as he had neither looks nor fortune nor reputation, and blonde little Mary Ann was beginning to believe them, a little.

Gilhooly sat and chewed his straw and focused his eyes on the back of his head, thus circumnavigating the globe with a blink.

His problem was somewhat complex. He had three hundred acres of his own and a square mile of range rented. He had forty head of cattle. He had a house which could stand both straightening and improvement. Several gentlemen had lately offered him a fancy price and he thought maybe he ought to sell and get another place before he asked Mary Ann.

And that was not all. These gentlemen were sheepmen. If sheep got a foothold on the Painted Buttes range, there wouldn't be any stopping them.

Now it was either asking Mary Ann to marry on two dollars and staying loyal to his kind or it was asking Mary Ann to marry on fifteen hundred dollars and going in debt for a place good enough for her.

So the problem shifted back and forth and so did the straw and Gilhooly kept his eyes on the back of his head via China.

“Stop it!”

Gilhooly looked at her in astonishment.

“Stop looking like a shorthorn!” said Mary Ann. “Jigs Gilhooly, sometimes I think you are a fool and at other times I am certain of it.”

“Ma'am?” said the startled Gilhooly.

“Why don't you be a man?” demanded Mary Ann, blue eyes flashing. “Why do you have to sit and moon about some crazy problem when you rode fifteen miles to see
me
?”

“That's right,” said Gilhooly.

“What's right?” said Mary Ann.

“I did ride fifteen miles to see you,” said Gilhooly.

She subsided, beaten.
Ivanhoe
was clutched in her small desperate hand and she felt like throwing it at him.

“Now you're mad,” said Gilhooly. “I didn't mean to do anything. What's wrong?”

“Oh,” said Mary Ann in a small voice. And then, sitting up like a cottontail and looking earnestly at him, “The trouble with you, Jigs Gilhooly, is that you aren't romantic!”

“Me?”

“You.”

“But …” He stopped, baffled. “What do you mean, romantic?”

“Like
Brian du Bois-Guilbert
or Ivanhoe or—”

“Like who? Nobody by them names has a spread around here.”

“Of course they haven't!” said Mary Ann. “Their outfits were over in England and France and places.”

“Huh,” said Gilhooly. “Foreigners.”

“Foreigners or not, Jigs Gilhooly, if you ever expect me to pay any attention to any offer you might have to make, you'll have to mend your ways. And that's final.”

“You mean be romantic?” said Gilhooly. “But … but gee, Mary Ann, I don't know anything about it.”

An inspiration hit her. She closed the book with a thump and handed it to him. “When you've read this, you can come and see me again—and not until!”

Gilhooly was routed. He took the book as though it had a rattler between the covers and held it away from him, looking at it. But when he looked back at Mary Ann, he could see with but half an eye that she meant what she said.

This was a new angle to the problem. He hadn't thought about her not wanting to marry him.

But the solution was offered. He would have to read this book and be romantic.

He tipped his hat. “Yes, ma'am.” And backed off the porch.

He climbed his mustang, Calico, tipped his hat again to Mary Ann and
neck-reined
away to proceed down the wagon tracks through the sagebrush.

When he was a mile or so from the house, still in view behind him, he told Calico, “Pick your own gopher holes to fall into. I got some studyin' to do.”

And so it was that Jigsaw Gilhooly began to read of the days when “Knighthood Was
in Flower
.”