headlong at the mouth of the alley.
He was too mad for caution but there was no one in sight when he looked into the alley. The man he had fired at was Tularosa and now, still staring, Frank found himself shaking as caution belatedly sank its hooks into him. He backed away from that slot and swiveled a look round for Kelly. The teamster wasn’t in sight.
Gone up the other
side
, Frank thought, and ran along the dark front of the Mercantile, feverishly pushing fresh loads into the cylinder.
At the entrance to the passage between Krantz’s and Ben’s Furniture he fell back a moment, listening, but the racket of the wind made hearing other sounds unlikely. He ran east as far as the barber’s pole. Dropping into a walk, he moved up that dark alley. This blackness had an almost tangible quality, folding around him like the wrap of a blanket, cutting off the wind, reducing its clamor to a kind of muffled groan.
He stopped three paces from the passage’s end but still heard nothing he could imagine was Tularosa. Frank knew the chance he would take if he looked. A cold sweat filmed his flesh as he moved into the open but no bullet came at him. In this moonless murk the killer could have crouched ten feet away without discovery.
Frank wanted to turn back but the words of Kimberland’s foreman still rankled. He raked the dark with angry eyes, weighing his chances and not at all liking them. Frank, jaws clenched, moved forward, driven by the knowledge of his responsibility. If Frank had kept hold of Tularosa the man wouldn’t be here now.
Several times Frank stumbled in the trash underfoot and twice his boots sent tin cans rattling but he reached the back of the Opal without having discovered any trace of his quarry.
Swearing under his breath, he went around to the front, pausing on Gurden’s porch for another look at those swing doors. Then he stepped in and talk broke. He tramped down an opening lane and found Brackley. The man was dead. Frank’s eyes stabbed Gurden. “Let’s have it.”
“Brackley come in here maybe half an hour ago. Said he wanted to talk so we went in the back room.” Gurden’s eyes were bland. “Turned out he wanted a loan.”
Frank had been wondering what had fetched Brackley in. The man hadn’t liked towns, hadn’t been to South fork more than twice in three years. “So you gave it to him. Backed, of course, by a plaster on his spread.”
Gurden’s mouth thinned around its tightened grip on his cigar. “Naturally.”
“Got it handy?”
“It’s in the safe.”
“So you gave him the money and put the lien in your safe. Then the pair of you came out — and Tularosa shot him.”
Gurden’s eyes were bland no longer. They gleamed like bits of metal and there was color creeping into his beefy jowls. “I didn’t see the man killed; I was still in my office when I heard the shots.”
Frank discovered Wolverton in the crowd and tipped his head at him. “You want to say anything?”
The saddle merchant said, without looking at Gurden, “Jace came out by himself.”
“And where was Tularosa?”
Wolverton shrugged. “I didn’t see him.”
Anger came into Frank’s face then. “Did
anybody
see him?”
A Boxed T man said, “He came in by that door over there,” and pointed across the room toward the gun shop. “He slid in just as Brackley came out of Chip’s office. He yelled ‘Brackley!’ and when Jace turned, shot him.”
A Kimberland rider said, “No argument or nothin’.” And Bernie, who was by the bar, said, “Tularosa let go soon as he spotted Brackley — just yelled and shot while Brackley was still turning.”
“Then jumped for the window, eh?”
“Close enough,” Wolverton said, “there was a racket of hoofs and someone come onto the porch. That’s when he went for the window.”
“All right.” Frank looked at Gurden. Then his glance singled out two punchers, Squatting O hands from farther unpriver. “Pack Brackley over to where they’ve got
He was too mad for caution but there was no one in sight when he looked into the alley. The man he had fired at was Tularosa and now, still staring, Frank found himself shaking as caution belatedly sank its hooks into him. He backed away from that slot and swiveled a look round for Kelly. The teamster wasn’t in sight.
Gone up the other
side
, Frank thought, and ran along the dark front of the Mercantile, feverishly pushing fresh loads into the cylinder.
At the entrance to the passage between Krantz’s and Ben’s Furniture he fell back a moment, listening, but the racket of the wind made hearing other sounds unlikely. He ran east as far as the barber’s pole. Dropping into a walk, he moved up that dark alley. This blackness had an almost tangible quality, folding around him like the wrap of a blanket, cutting off the wind, reducing its clamor to a kind of muffled groan.
He stopped three paces from the passage’s end but still heard nothing he could imagine was Tularosa. Frank knew the chance he would take if he looked. A cold sweat filmed his flesh as he moved into the open but no bullet came at him. In this moonless murk the killer could have crouched ten feet away without discovery.
Frank wanted to turn back but the words of Kimberland’s foreman still rankled. He raked the dark with angry eyes, weighing his chances and not at all liking them. Frank, jaws clenched, moved forward, driven by the knowledge of his responsibility. If Frank had kept hold of Tularosa the man wouldn’t be here now.
Several times Frank stumbled in the trash underfoot and twice his boots sent tin cans rattling but he reached the back of the Opal without having discovered any trace of his quarry.
Swearing under his breath, he went around to the front, pausing on Gurden’s porch for another look at those swing doors. Then he stepped in and talk broke. He tramped down an opening lane and found Brackley. The man was dead. Frank’s eyes stabbed Gurden. “Let’s have it.”
“Brackley come in here maybe half an hour ago. Said he wanted to talk so we went in the back room.” Gurden’s eyes were bland. “Turned out he wanted a loan.”
Frank had been wondering what had fetched Brackley in. The man hadn’t liked towns, hadn’t been to South fork more than twice in three years. “So you gave it to him. Backed, of course, by a plaster on his spread.”
Gurden’s mouth thinned around its tightened grip on his cigar. “Naturally.”
“Got it handy?”
“It’s in the safe.”
“So you gave him the money and put the lien in your safe. Then the pair of you came out — and Tularosa shot him.”
Gurden’s eyes were bland no longer. They gleamed like bits of metal and there was color creeping into his beefy jowls. “I didn’t see the man killed; I was still in my office when I heard the shots.”
Frank discovered Wolverton in the crowd and tipped his head at him. “You want to say anything?”
The saddle merchant said, without looking at Gurden, “Jace came out by himself.”
“And where was Tularosa?”
Wolverton shrugged. “I didn’t see him.”
Anger came into Frank’s face then. “Did
anybody
see him?”
A Boxed T man said, “He came in by that door over there,” and pointed across the room toward the gun shop. “He slid in just as Brackley came out of Chip’s office. He yelled ‘Brackley!’ and when Jace turned, shot him.”
A Kimberland rider said, “No argument or nothin’.” And Bernie, who was by the bar, said, “Tularosa let go soon as he spotted Brackley — just yelled and shot while Brackley was still turning.”
“Then jumped for the window, eh?”
“Close enough,” Wolverton said, “there was a racket of hoofs and someone come onto the porch. That’s when he went for the window.”
“All right.” Frank looked at Gurden. Then his glance singled out two punchers, Squatting O hands from farther unpriver. “Pack Brackley over to where they’ve got
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