The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Page B

“The sheriff is dead.”
    Pat nodded and said, “I was afraid you’d kill him.”
    â€œBut I didn’t.” Dusty’s fingers trembled on the straps. He drew in a long breath and stared at Pat. “I swear I didn’t. Somebody beat me to it. I follered him down an alley an’ heard a shot up ahead. I ran an’ stumbled over him. I throwed one shot up the alley but whoever’d done it was gone by that time.”
    Ezra’s .45 thundered loudly down the hall.
    Dusty jumped and stared in that direction, his hand on his gun. “What was that?”
    â€œEzra. He’s holdin’ everybody downstairs,” Pat told him quietly. “So, the sheriff’s dead?”
    â€œYeh. With a bullet through his back. And his gun is still unloaded,” Dusty went on bitterly. “Just like you gave it back to him.”
    â€œAnybody know you were in the alley?”
    â€œNot more’n half the town. Oh, I’d made my brags. When it was midnight, I went out to look for him. No one’ll ever believe I didn’t do it. I got to get out of town.”
    â€œI believe you.”
    The young man flinched. “Why?”
    â€œBecause he’s shot in the back.”
    Ezra fired again from the head of the stairs. His bellow sounded through the echoes of the shot: “Stay down there, you damn fools. I’ll kill any man that shows hisself on the landing.”
    â€œYou’re the only one that will believe me,” Dusty Morgan stated fiercely.
    Pat nodded agreement. “You got yoreself right behind the eight ball, looks like.”
    â€œNo use you an’ yore pardner mixin’ up in it. It’s too late to get away now.” Dusty dropped the valise decisively. “I’ll go out an’ go downstairs.”
    Pat stayed in the doorway. “They’ll lynch you without askin’ questions.”
    â€œNot me. I’ll make ’em kill me first.” Dusty stopped a foot in front of him. “You’re blockin’ the door.”
    Pat stayed there. “Other men’ll get killed too,” he reminded the youth. “They’re doin’ what they think is right.”
    â€œI can’t help it. It’s done now.” Dusty’s voice rose fiercely. “Get outta my way.”
    â€œWhy no,” said Pat, “maybe we can think of somethin’.” He held up his hand, turned to listen to the sounds coming up from the street through the open window of his room.
    There were loud voices and some angry shouting mingled with the scuffing of boots on the boardwalk outside the hotel. Above that noise came the loud clatter of galloping horses down the street, the jingle of chains and the creak of wheels.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Pat asked swiftly.
    â€œA little past midnight. What’s it matter? It’s too late to matter what time it is.”
    â€œMaybe not,” muttered Pat. “That’s the El Paso stage pullin’ in. If you could get out the window …”
    â€œWhat good would it do? Even if I did get out the window an’ could get on the stage? I’m branded as a murderer. They’d send word ahead to stop the stage.”
    â€œSure. The regular stage wouldn’t be no good. But there’s another one leaves right after the El Paso stage gets in. For Hermosa.”
    â€œOn the Border?”
    That’s right. If you could get on that …” Pat moved past Dusty to the window of number seventeen. He leaned out and looked down, nodded with satisfaction. “This is right over the alley. No one’s watchin’ it. They think they’ve got you cooped up an’ you can’t get out ’cept down the stairs.” He snatched up a thin blanket from the bed and began tearing it into strips.
    â€œWait a minute.” Dusty’s voice was sullen. “If I do slip off like this an’ get away I’ll have to keep on goin’ across the