Pat felt his knees give way, and he was on the floor, but Calva was lifting the tommy gun again. Pat fired, and the gangster sagged forward.
Collins lurched to his feet swaying dizzily. Far down the road he could hear the whine of police sirens, and he turned to stare at Ruth.
What he saw instead was the short blocky gunman who had been in the car, the one that had shot down Petrone, and the gunman was looking at him with a twisted smile and had him covered.
* * *
THEY FIRED AT the same instant, and even as he felt something pound his chest, he knew his own shot had missed. He lurched, but kept his feet, weaving. The heavyset man’s face bobbed queerly, and he fired at it again. Then, coolly, Pat shoved a couple more shells into his pistol, hanging the gun in his limp right hand. He took the gun in his good left hand again, and then he saw that the other man was gone.
He stared, astonished at the disappearance, and then his eyes wavered down and he saw the man lying on the floor.
Suddenly the door burst open, and the police came pouring into the room.
* * *
WHEN HE REGAINED consciousness he was lying on a hospital bed, and Ruth was sitting beside him.
“All right?” she whispered. He nodded and took her hand. Pat grinned sleepily.
Murphy Plays His Hand
* * *
BRAD MURPHY HAD been a prisoner in the box canyon for three months when he heard the yell.
He jerked erect so suddenly that he dropped his gold pan, spilling its contents. Whirling about, he saw the three horsemen on the rim and he ran toward the cliff, shouting and waving his arms.
One of the men dismounted and came to the edge of the ninety-foot precipice.
“What’s the trouble?” he yelled.
“Can’t get out!” Murphy yelled. “Slide wiped out the trail to the rim. I been a prisoner here for months!”
“Made a strike?” The man on the rim gestured toward the stream and the gold pan.
Instinct made Brad hesitate.
“No,” he said cautiously. “Only a little color.”
The man walked back and then he returned to the cliff edge, knotting together the ends of two riatas. While he was doing that, Brad Murphy walked back to the camp and picked up his rifle. On a sudden hunch he thrust his pistol inside his shirt and under his belt. Then he picked up the sack of dust and nuggets. It wasn’t a large sack, but it weighed forty pounds.
When they got him to the rim, the man who had done the talking stared at the heavy sack, his eyes curious. He lifted his eyes to Brad’s face, and the eyes were small, cruel, and sparkling with sardonic humor.
“My name’s Butch Schaum,” he said quietly. “What’s yourn?”
“Murphy,” Brad replied. “Brad Murphy.”
The thin-faced man on the buckskin jerked his head up and turned toward Brad.
“You the Brad Murphy used to be in Cripple Creek?”
Brad nodded. “Yeah, I was there for a spell. You’re Asa Moffitt.” His eyes shifted to the third man on the paint. “And you’ll be Dave Cornish.”
“Know us all, do you?” Schaum said; his eyes flickered over Brad’s height, taking in his great breadth of shoulder, the powerful hands. Then straying to the rifle.
Murphy shrugged. “Who doesn’t know the Schaum gang? You’ve been ridin’ these hills for several years.” He rubbed his hands on his pants. “Any of you got a smoke?”
Schaum offered the makings. “Go on an’ Dave can ride behind Asa,” he said. “His horse’ll carry double. I’ll take the sack.”
“No.” Brad looked up and his green eyes were steady, hard. “I’ll do that myself.”
“Be too heavy on the hoss,” Schaum declared.
“I’ll carry the sack,” Murphy replied, “and walk.”
“Ain’t necessary,” Moffitt interrupted. “My hoss’ll take the weight. It’s only six miles to the shack.”
* * *
GRIMLY BRAD MURPHY kept his rifle in his hands. They didn’t know it was empty. They didn’t know he had run out of the heavy .40-65 ammunition over two months ago.
Too much was known about Butcher Schaum. The man and his henchmen were cruel as Yaquis. They were killers, outlaws of the worst sort. Three years ago they had held up the bank in Silver City, killing the cashier and escaping with several thousand dollars. They killed one of the posse that followed them. In Tascosa, Dave Cornish had shot a man over a horse.
In Cripple Creek, where Brad Murphy had known Asa Moffitt, Asa was suspected of a series of robberies and killings. Escape from the canyon was now a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire. These men were not wondering what was in the sack; the only thing that could be that heavy was gold.
That gold would more than pay Brad for the three lonely months in the box canyon. It was gold enough to buy the ranch he wanted, and to stock it. His stake, the one he had sought for so long, was here. Now he and Ruth would have their own home. And a home for their son as well.
He suffered from no illusions. These men would kill him in an instant for his gold. They had delayed this long only because they had him, helpless, or practically so. Of course, there had been Asa’s manner when he mentioned his name. Asa Moffitt knew about Brad Murphy. And Moffitt’s queer reaction at the mention of his name had been a warning to Schaum.
“Ever have any more trouble with the Howells crowd?” Moffitt asked.
It was, Brad knew, a means of telling Schaum who he was. They would remember. His gunfight with the three Howells boys had made history.
“A little,” he replied shortly. “Two cousins of theirs follered me to Tonopah.”
“What happened?” Butcher Schaum demanded. Moffitt’s question had told him at once who Murphy was.
“They trailed me to a water hole near the Dead Mountains. I planted ’em there.”
Butcher Schaum felt a little chill go through him at the calm, easy way in which Brad Murphy spoke. Schaum was ruthless, coldblooded, and a killer. Moreover, he was fast enough. But he had never killed three men in one gun battle, nor even two.
For this reason, nobody was going to move carelessly around Murphy. After all, Murphy knew who Schaum was. He knew what to expect. Getting that gold wasn’t going to be that simple. Getting it would mean killing Brad Murphy.
* * *
THE SHACK WAS tucked in a cozy niche in the rocks. The level of the plateau broke off sharply, and under the lip of rock, the shack was built of rocks and crude mortar. It was not easy to approach, hard to get away from, and was built for defense. Any posse attacking the Schaum gang here could figure on losing some men. You couldn’t come within fifty yards of it without being under cover of a rifle. And that approach was from only one direction.
They swung down, and Butcher noted how carefully Brad kept them in front of him. He did it smoothly, bringing a grudging admiration to Butcher’s eyes. This hombre was no fool. The sack never left his hand.
He followed them into the cabin.
“I’d like a horse,” he said. “My wife and kid must think I’m dead. This is the longest I’ve been away.”
“Too late to travel now,” Cornish said. “That trail’s plumb dangerous in the dark. We’ll get a horse for you in the mornin’.”
* * *
HIS RIFLE BESIDE him, Brad sat at the table as Moffitt went about getting supper. The sack of gold lay on the floor at Brad’s side.
“How do we know you won’t tell the law where we’re holed up?” Cornish demanded.
“You know better’n that,” Murphy replied shortly. “You boys gave me a hand. I never—” he added coolly, “bother nobody that don’t bother me.”
It was a warning, flat, cold, plain as the rocky ridge that lined the distant sky. They took it, sitting very still. Moffitt put some beans and bacon on the table and several slabs of steak.
Brad Murphy had chosen a seat that kept his back to the wall. It had been a casual move, but one that brought a hard gleam to Asa Moffitt’s eyes. His thin, cruel face betrayed no hint of what he was thinking, but he knew, even better than the others, what they were facing.
Idly, they gossiped about the range, but when the meal was over, Butcher looked up from under his thick black brows.
“How about some poker?” he asked. “Just to pass the time.”
Cornish brought over a pack of cards and shuffled. Murphy cut, and they dealt. They played casually, almost carelessly. They had been playing for almost an hour, with luck seesawing back and forth, when Asa suddenly got up. “How about some coffee?” he said.