Corkscrew and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page A

immigrant’s got anything worth taking on him, or if a couple of government men happen to be nosing around, or if anything happens to make the smuggling gents nervous, they usually drop their customer and dig him in where he falls.”
    The racket of the dinner-bell downstairs cut off our conference at this point.
    VIII
    There were only eight or ten diners in the dining-room. None of Peery’s men was there. Milk River and I sat at a table back in one corner of the room. Our meal was about half eaten when the dark-eyed girl I had seen the previous day came in.
    She came straight to our table. I stood up to learn her name was Clio Landes. She was the girl the better element wanted floated. She gave me a flashing smile, a strong, thin hand, and sat down.
    â€œI hear you’ve lost your job again, you big bum,” she laughed at Milk River.
    I had known she didn’t belong to Arizona. Her voice was New York.
    â€œIf that’s all you heard, I’m still ’way ahead of you,” Milk River grinned back at her. “I gone and got me another job—riding herd on law and order.”
    Something that could have been worry flashed into her dark eyes, and out again.
    â€œYou might just as well start looking for another hired man right away,” she advised me. “He never kept a job longer than a few days in his life.”
    From the distance came the sound of a shot.
    I went on eating.
    Clio Landes said:
    â€œDon’t you coppers get excited over things like that?”
    â€œThe first rule,” I told her, “is never to let anything interfere with your meals, if you can help it.”
    An overalled man came in from the street.
    â€œNisbet’s been killed down in Bardell’s!” he yelled.
    To Bardell’s Border Palace Milk River and I went, half the diners running ahead of us, with half the town.
    We found Nisbet in the back room, stretched out on the floor, dead. A hole that a .45 could have made was in his chest, which the men around him had bared.
    Bardell’s fingers gripped my arm.
    â€œNever give him a chance, the dogs!” he cried thickly. “Cold murder!”
    â€œHe say anything before he died?”
    â€œNo. He was dead when we got to him.”
    â€œWho shot him?”
    â€œOne of the Circle H. A. R., you can bet your neck on that!”
    â€œDidn’t anybody see it?”
    â€œNobody here admits they saw it.”
    â€œHow did it happen?”
    â€œMark was out front. Me and Chick and five or six of these men were there. Mark came back here. Just as he stepped through the door—bang!”
    Bardell shook his fist at the open window.
    I crossed to the window and looked out. A five-foot strip of rocky ground lay between the building and the sharp edge of the Tirabuzon Cañon. A close-twisted rope was tight around a small knob of rock at the cañon’s edge.
    I pointed at the rope. Bardell swore savagely.
    â€œIf I’d of seen that we’d of got him! We didn’t think anybody could get down there, and didn’t look very close. We ran up and down the ledge, looking between buildings.”
    We went outside, where I lay on my belly and looked down into the cañon. The rope—one end fastened to the knob—ran straight down the rock wall for twenty feet, and disappeared among the trees and bushes of a narrow shelf that ran along the wall there. Once on that shelf, a man could find ample cover to shield his retreat.
    â€œWhat do you think?” I asked Milk River, who lay beside me.
    â€œA clean getaway.”
    I stood up, pulling up the rope. A rope such as any one of a hundred cowhands might have owned, in no way distinguishable from any other to my eyes. I handed it to Milk River.
    â€œIt don’t mean nothing to me. Might be anybody’s,” he said.
    â€œThe ground tell you anything?”
    He shook his head again.
    â€œYou go down into the cañon and see what you can pick