Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) Read online

  An answer came to me, but I dismissed it as improbable and foolish. What bearing could a ninety-year-old disappearance have on the present situation?

  The answer was obvious…nothing at all.

  We sat there quietly, watching the swimmers, from time to time letting our eyes drift toward the faraway hills.

  Whatever happened, I must be on my guard. That was not difficult for me, because I have never been what might be called a trusting man. Having lived alone under such odd circumstances as I had, I was friendly but wary. I know the wariness did not show, for I have frequently been called too trusting by people who knew me only slightly. It was their viewpoint and they were welcome to it, but the fact was that the reverse was the case.

  “If you want to go in tomorrow, I’ll drive you,” she offered.

  “Now there’s incentive if I ever heard it. Of course I’ll go, and thanks for the offer. However, there are a couple of things I’d like cleared up.”

  “Such as?”

  “You…you do not speak as if these people were your friends, yet everything seems to point to the idea that they are just that.”

  “I have a ranch on the Little Cougar.” She gestured. “It’s right over there.”

  Little Cougar…I knew it by reputation, a narrow canyon, quite deep, that ended in a valley…and right in the country where I wanted to ride.

  “I don’t want trouble, that’s all.” She spoke quietly. “If trouble starts here a lot of people are going to be hurt. As for Colin, I’ve known him since I was a child. I was born in town, but my folks lived on the ranch, and we spent a good deal of time there for a while, but for some reason I never understood we went there less and less. Finally, we went to Los Angeles to live. After my parents died I came back here, and in the meantime Sis married Aukie Wells.”

  “You stayed on, though?”

  “No, I lived in New York and Los Angeles, and then after Sis and Aukie were killed I came back here. I’ve always loved the old place and wanted to build there, but Colin was against it.”

  “Any reason?”

  “There was no good road in there, and it was lonely. He invited me to stay on here, and then made an offer for the place.”

  “You’re planning to sell, then?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t want to, and yet common sense tells me I should. And to be honest, I have the feeling they’d like me away from here.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “I thought you were friends?”

  “Not really. Although I don’t know any reason why they should want me to go…unless…But that was a long time ago.”

  “What?” I insisted.

  “Colin wanted to marry me.”

  Wells and the other man were walking around the pool toward us, and Belle said, “Colin had the pool put in two years ago. He likes the Olympic size, and he’s really a very good swimmer.”

  As they stopped before us, Belle looked up. “I was just telling Mr. Sheridan about your swimming, Colin. I hadn’t gotten as far as the medals.”

  He smiled deprecatingly, yet with obvious satisfaction. “Yes, I was pretty good,” he commented, “and I can still swim. I like distance, though.”

  He turned toward his companion. “Sheridan, this is Mark Wilson, my cousin. He operates a car agency and rental outfit in town. But we’re in a lot of deals together,” he added.

  Looking up, I met a pair of the coldest eyes I had ever seen, but eyes that also held a sort of casual contempt. It was an expression with which I was familiar. I had seen it first in the eyes of a Red Chinese officer to whom I was merely a thing to be questioned and then shot.

  His handclasp was dead. He had thick, strong hands, but the clasp was the same as that I’d encountered in many fighters and wrestlers or other very powerful men, either subconsciously afraid of hurting, or so conscious of their strength they have no need to impress.

  “How ya?” he said carelessly.

  Then, ignoring me, he said to Colin, “I’m going down an’ talk to Floyd.” Looking past me, he leered at Belle. “See you, honey.”

  Belle’s lips were tight and her eyes hard with anger, but a moment later her face had changed and she had relaxed.

  Colin dropped into a chair beside the table. “If you really want to see this country, Sheridan, you’ve got to ride. You ever been on a horse?”

  “A few times.”

  “Good! We’ll take us a ride then. Would six in the morning be too early? You city boys sleep late, I know.”

  “Six would be fine.”

  Colin got up. “See you at chow.” He walked off, ignoring Belle.

  “I had better get dressed,” Belle said, but she did not move. Then she said, “Mr. Sheridan…Dan…can you ride? I mean, can you really ride?”

  “I grew up on a ranch in Wyoming.”

  “Be careful.”

  When she had gone I sat watching the deepening shadows. There is no peace greater than that of twilight on the desert, but there was more to my waiting than a desire to watch the fading light. The time to study a land is when dawn or sunset lies upon it, with shadows to reveal every draw, hollow, or canyon. One can never know a desert land until one has seen it in those moments before and after sunset or sunrise. By day the glare of the sun erases the hollows and smooths out the terrain.

  Out there was an answer to my problem, a problem suddenly important to others as well as to myself. There was a hint of some connection between the ninety-year-old mystery and the deaths of Pete and Manuel Alvarez. What the connection was I did not know, but I was now sure that it had some relation to my invitation to visit here.

  But oddly, after I had been invited here, none of them showed any desire to talk to me, leaving me alone with Belle, who seemed almost as much an outsider as I.

  Why the strange feeling of animosity? What was Belle warning me against? Why had the clerk at the land office immediately reported my request for information about the Toomeys?

  Of course this was the place. It had to be. The landmarks mentioned in the journal were here, the stone house was here, and somewhere within range of my vision, no doubt, the mystery of John and Clyde Toomey had been resolved.

  What had happened here so long ago? Had all the riders been massacred by Apaches? There was no record of such an attack. Had some of their own riders turned on the Toomeys and killed them?

  Two things I wanted here. To identify other spots mentioned in the journal, and if possible to locate the rest of that account.

  Whatever happened here, must have happened suddenly, causing John Toomey to tear those sheets from the journal—perhaps awkward to hide in itself—and thrust them down the barrel of the broken gun.

  Even now, with the little I had, I could write a fairly consistent account of that long trek across the country and of their arrival here. It might have been about like this, that first evening they spent here on the Verde.

  Belle was right, of course. I should get away from here. No book was worth being involved in a murder, or what could easily become several murders. There were plenty of other books to be written.

  While I sat there, the last canyons gave up their shadows to the night, and only the stars remained, and the dark, serrated rims of far-off mountains. Getting to my feet, I walked slowly back to my room.

  The arcade was deep in shadow, for no lights had been turned on, and my room was dark. But as I opened the door I was immediately aware that I was not alone. Was it instinct? Or some subconscious perception of movement?

  “No lights, señor.” The voice was unfamiliar.

  “I am a friend, señor, and I come from Pio.”

  “He is a good man, amigo.”

  “He said you would remember. He thinks much of you, señor. And there are not many whom he respects.”

  “What do you want, amigo?”

  “To warn you, señor. They mean to kill you.”

  Suddenly something happened to me. Possibly it was the low voice in the dark room, but all at once I was thinking clearl
y again, thinking the way a man should who plays a dangerous game. This meeting in the dark brought things back, and I realized I had better continue to think clearly, to be constantly watchful. Or they would kill me, whoever they might be.

  Suppose the room was bugged? Belle had known where I was to stay, so apparently it had been decided before I arrived. Who would bug it? I did not know, but the thing to do when in doubt was to act as if it were so.

  Crossing the room to the unknown man, I took him by the arm. “Come!” I whispered. In the bathroom I turned on the water to drown other sound.

  “The room may be bugged,” I whispered; “they may be able to hear what we say there.” I heard a sharp intake of breath. Since the coming of movies and television everyone knows about bugged rooms.

  “Who is it I must fear?” I asked.

  “All of them. You must fear them all! I was to warn you, señor to get away quickly!”

  “How did Pio know I was here?”

  “He knows, señor, but I work on the ranch and it was my brother who served your drink, only I have no business at headquarters, and if I am found here I shall be suspected.”

  “One more thing. Do you know the name of Toomey?”

  “Aaah? So that is it? I—”

  There was a faint whisper of approaching footsteps and the man vanished like a ghost. For a moment a shadow showed in the bedroom door, and was gone. Then a shadow against the open window, and that was all.

  Instantly I pushed a chair over and under cover of the sound I flicked the switch on my tape recorder. The door whipped open without warning, but as the lights went on I was calmly dictating.

  “Marie,” I was saying, “delete the last three lines and mark the pages for a change from Spanish to Portuguese. That way I can use Macao. Get me a rundown on Macao as it is today, everything in current publications over the past few years.

  “Particularly, anything dealing with Red China. You know the sort of thing I’ll need. You should get my first tape by Monday, and I shall be flying in by the middle of the week. I have an appointment with Randall on Friday.”

  As I spoke I glanced over my shoulder. Colin Wells stood just inside the door, still gripping the knob in his left hand, the hardness in his eyes fading to doubt as he saw the tape recorder.

  “Excuse me, Colin. You know how it is with writers. We never stop working. Others can leave their job at the office, but a writer carries it with him, buzzing around in his head wherever he goes. Am I late for dinner?”

  Without waiting for a reply, I spoke into the mike. “I deleted the last bit of dialogue, Marie. Too melodramatic.” After a momentary pause I added, “Murder is often very undramatic. At least, unannounced.”

  Colin’s eyes swept the room, then he crossed to the bathroom, where he even pulled back the shower curtain.

  “Is the maid taking care of you? We have to check on them, you know. I don’t want my guests lacking anything, particularly towels.”

  Then almost as an afterthought, he said, “Yeah, supper’s ready. I thought you’d forgotten. We eat earlier than folks do in town.”

  He went back to the door and, flicking off the recorder, I followed him.

  The room was bugged, I felt sure now. Wells had been listening, and had come down on the run hoping to catch whoever was warning me. He had almost succeeded. It was unlikely that he was fooled by the tape recorder, but he would be in doubt, for what I had said might well be true.

  The dining room was bright with silver and crystal. We walked past the door and entered the playroom, a comfortable room with sofas and easy chairs, and at one end a pool table. Nearby a TV set was going, with nobody watching.

  Doris glanced up, her expression enigmatic, her eyes flickering from me to Colin. “You have beautiful nights,” I said to her; “it is no wonder you like living here.”

  Colin had started away, but he stopped and looked back. “My people built this place, Sheridan, built it from scratch, and we’ve reason to love it. Nobody is going to take it from us. I mean…nobody!”

  Lacking anything else to say, I commented, “If you can keep the real estate people away, you should be all right.”

  Mark Wilson, talking to a big young man at the other end of the table, faced around. “What do you mean by that remark?”

  Belle interrupted, ignoring him. “Real estate people in Arizona aren’t as bad as in Los Angeles, Mr. Sheridan. Out there they seem to be trying to buy every empty piece of land for a subdivision.”

  “Dinner is on the table,” Doris suggested. “If you boys can stop talking real estate, we can eat.”

  Belle got up at once. “You must be hungry,” she said to me, “and I certainly am. Come on!”

  As we reached the table, Belle turned. “You haven’t met Colin’s brother. This is Jimbo Wells. You may have heard of him. And this is Benton Seward, our closest neighbor.”

  Whatever else might be said of them, they ate well, and I am a man who appreciates good food. But as the evening wore on I began to wonder, and kept remembering the line so often printed in accounts of executions: “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.”

  The dress that Doris Wells wore was scarcely less revealing than the bikini, but it was not entirely her fault. Nature had provided her with equipment that defied concealment…and it was Doris who brought gaiety and laughter to the meal.

  No doubt I contributed my share, for there is something in me, some nervous reaction, that is stirred to levity by the deeply serious or the dangerous. Tonight was no exception.

  Without doubt they had me in a corner, but I had no idea what had brought it about. For some reason they were afraid of me, and their instinct, like that of some wild animals, was to kill whatever they feared. But for the first time I had a lead.

  The sharp reaction to my idle comment about real estate brokers opened a door to speculation.

  What was it they feared?Were they afraid I might stir up something to cloud the title of the Wells holdings? Was that title somehow vulnerable?

  If that was the case then I could understand their worry. This ranch and the adjoining property they held must be worth several millions.

  Was there a connection between the killing of Manuel Alvarez and this ranch? Pete Alvarez had been killed here, by Floyd Reese—for rustling…or because he knew something that must not be told?

  As we ate, one part of my mind kept worrying over the problem like a dog over a bone. Suppose the Toomey brothers had settled on this land and somehow been displaced by the Wells outfit? If the Wells family had never tried to sell any of their land perhaps there had never been a title search; and even if there had been, the methods of acquiring land in pioneer days had been irregular, to say the least.

  From time to time my eyes wandered to Jimbo Wells. I knew of him, of course. He had been a runner-up for the All-America, had broken an intercollegiate shot-put record, and had played three years of professional football. He was big, fast, and notoriously rough, even in such a rough game as pro football.

  He had that close-cropped, freshly washed look so often associated with bright young college football players and nice boys, but my recollection of his playing and of the gossip around the world of sports was that he was something less than a nice boy.

  “We never had a writer on the place before.” He was looking right at me, and I knew trouble when I saw it coming.

  “You must have met a few at college.”

  “Pantywaists.” Jimbo was deliberately contemptuous. “They had a few around all right. I had nothing to do with them.”

  It was a comment to ignore, and I did, turning to exchange a comment with Belle.

  For the first time in years I had suddenly wanted, really wanted, to throw a punch. I felt it rising in me, but my good sense rang a warning bell. I was on their property, far from possible intervention in case of trouble, and in a situation where I couldn’t win without losing.

  My first warning was the grating of his chair and the rattle of a dish as he pushed
against it. Then he had grabbed me by the collar. “Now look, writer, that wasn’t polite. I wasn’t through talking to you.”

  “No?”

  “You just tell me: I want to know how you writers work. Now supposin’ you were going to do a story on this ranch, how would you go about it?”

  My left hand lifted and I suddenly dug my thumb under the hand that held my collar and got hold of his little finger, bending it sharply back. He had to let go or have his finger broken, and he let go.

  “Why, you—”

  “You were asking how I’d work,” I replied calmly. “In the first place, I doubt if there is a good story of my type concerning this ranch. As for stories of the Apaches, I had considered that, but they have been done and overdone, mostly by people who know little about the subject. No, I think I’d look elsewhere for a story.”

  Jimbo was mad clear through. He had been stopped, and stopped at something he probably believed he could do better than anyone else. What I had done had required neither strength nor skill, and he knew it.

  Eager as I was to take a punch at him, I knew the best thing I could do would be to get away from this ranch, and quickly. But how? I could scarcely walk out, and the only transportation would have to be provided by them. Would they refuse? I was sure, now, that they had no intention of letting me leave…unless they could decide that I was harmless.

  My eyes had seen their faces while Jimbo held my collar. Colin had looked smug, and pleased. Doris was simply curious. She was not disturbed by what was happening at her dinner table, just curious to see what the two man-beasts might do to each other. Rather, at what Jimbo might do to me, for the idea that I might have a chance with him never, I was sure, entered her mind.

  Doris, I thought, would have wanted a seat down front when the Christians were fed to the lions. She was the sort whom violence excited…pleasurably.

  I had not seen Belle’s face. Benton Seward had been alarmed, I thought. He impressed me as one who would not care what happened as long as he was not called upon to witness it, and as long as he was safely away with an alibi.

  My anger was mounting. A good deal of it was because of my own foolishness in ever getting trapped in a place like this, but a lot of it was with them, so smug, so assured, so sure they could get away with whatever they chose to do. Suddenly I wanted to slap them right in the face with it.