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  Sheriff on the Spot

  A Powder Valley Western

  Brett Halliday writing as Peter Field

  1

  A Kerosene lantern hung from a nail in the wall and lighted the interior of the small lean-to at the rear of the adobe jail in Dutch Springs. The lean-to contained a canvas cot, an old rocking chair and a small wooden table that served as a desk. In Dutch Springs, and throughout Powder Valley, the lean-to was known as the “Sheriff’s Office.”

  Tonight, a roll of bedding, neatly wrapped in a tarpaulin and tied with a short length of rope, lay on the canvas cot. The top of the table was clean and the wooden floor had been meticulously swept. Pat Stevens stood in the center of the floor and let his gray eyes brood around the cramped interior, checking everything to make sure he was leaving nothing behind.

  For Pat was bowing out as sheriff of Powder Valley. He was turning over the keys to the jail, the lean-to office, and his badge to his successor.

  And that reminded Pat of something. He reached up and slowly unpinned the badge from his gray flannel shirt. The yellow light from the lantern gleamed on it brightly as he held it in his hand. He laid the badge on top of the table and sighed.

  He grinned at himself ruefully for that sigh. A man would think he was sorry to give the badge up. Nothing could be further from the truth. He hadn’t wanted to be sheriff in the first place. The job had been thrust upon him after Ed Grimes’ murder. Someone had to take hold and see that law and order in the Valley were maintained. The choice had naturally fallen on him because of his past reputation.

  With his two-gun partners, Sam Sloan and Ezra, as deputies, he hadn’t made Powder Valley a bad sheriff. But he was glad enough to give the badge up. He wondered why Jeth Purdue didn’t come along, and he settled himself impatiently in the rocking chair to wait for him. Jeth had promised to come in that afternoon to take over the office. Now, it was early night and Jeth hadn’t showed up.

  Through an open window behind him, Pat Stevens could hear the evening stage coming down Main Street at a gallop, could hear the shouts and the jangling of harness as it slowed for a brief stop in Dutch Springs before continuing on southward.

  It was funny that Jeth Purdue didn’t come. He’d been anxious enough to get the job Pat was glad to give up. Of course, it wasn’t really legal, turning the office over to him tonight. Jeth wouldn’t be officially sworn in as sheriff until the next day. But then, his appointment maybe wasn’t exactly legal either. None of the local citizens knew what the correct procedure was when a sheriff resigned. It had looked like a lot of time and trouble to hold another election. So a group of representative men had gotten together and talked it over and decided on Jeth Purdue. Powder Valley had its own way of simplifying legal matters, and it generally worked out all right.

  Pat hoped Jeth Purdue was the right man to take over. He rather liked Jeth, though the incoming sheriff was rather new to the Valley, having settled on a ranch south of town only about six months previously. Still, Pat thought that might be a good thing for a sheriff. Might be better to have a sheriff not too intimately acquainted with folks. He’d have a better chance to be impartial and run the office as it should be run.

  The way Powder Valley was growing up and getting civilized, it was time the sheriff’s office was put on a strictly business basis.

  Pat turned his head and listened to the cracking whip and the clatter of wheels as the stagecoach pulled out. Dutch Springs was getting to be a real hub of transportation with a daily coach each direction and being selected as a station point on the new Pony Express line that would soon be bringing mail up the southern route to connect with the East-West line north of Denver.

  That would be a mighty fine thing for the Valley; bring Dutch Springs into close contact with the outside world. And it was going to be a mighty fine thing for Ezra and Sam Sloan, too, with them getting the contract to run the local Pony Express station.

  As a mail-rider, small, wiry Sam Sloan would certainly be one of the most competent and trustworthy men in the service, and Ezra was a mighty fine hand with horses.

  It was the sort of work they needed to quiet them down and keep them out of trouble. Ever since they’d upped and sold their Powder Valley ranch at auction and gone traipsing off on that crazy adventure to Corpse’s Corner, Pat Stevens had been worried about the pair. He’d helped them get their eight thousand dollars back after losing it in a crooked poker game, and had been able to argue them into returning to the Valley with him, but both of them had refused to go back into ranching.

  With all that cash money, they’d been living like a couple of bank presidents up at the Jewel Hotel, drinking too much and paying too much attention to pretty Kitty Lane who entertained in the Jewel Saloon and presided over the dining room.

  That is, Sam Sloan was hopelessly smitten with Kitty. Ezra, with his scarred face and one eye, his huge, ungainly body, had always left women strictly alone. But Sam was making a plumb fool out of himself, according to what Pat’s friends told him.

  Pat wasn’t so sure. Kitty Lane was mighty pretty, and the men did say that she wasn’t one for foolishness. Oh, she’d sing to a man, and flirt while he danced with her, and let him buy her a drink now and then, but she didn’t let it go any further. At least, that was the story told by men who had tried.

  Pat hadn’t been seeing much of Sam and Ezra while he was sheriff. They deeply resented the badge he wore, and that was one reason why he’d be glad to turn it over to Jeth Purdue. He wondered again why Jeth didn’t come along, and he got up to step to the window and peer out toward the village.

  Brisk footsteps coming up the plank walk to the office brought Pat Stevens’ head around slowly. He blinked at the man who stopped in the doorway and peered inside.

  The stranger was dressed in dudish city clothes. A stiff straw hat, neat gray suit, and cloth-top, buttoned shoes with very sharp toes. He wore a celluloid collar and a tie with a big, gold horseshoe stickpin, and he carried a pair of fawn-colored gloves in his left hand. He was a slender man, with dark pouches under a pair of coldly cruel eyes, and he wore a neatly clipped black mustache. When he parted his thin lips to address Pat, three gold teeth glittered in the yellow lamplight.

  He studied Pat with his head cocked slightly on one side, and said, “So, you’re the sheriff of this here Powder Valley?”

  His words seemed to carry a covert sneer with them. Pat said, “Howdy,” and let it go at that.

  The stranger stepped inside and glanced around the lean-to. “Just moving in, eh? Well, it’s time. I’ve waited long enough for you fellows to get rid of that other sheriff.

  “You know who I am, of course,” he went on impatiently when Pat didn’t say anything.

  Pat cleared his throat and admitted, “I’m not rightly sure that I do.”

  “I’m Ralston. Fred Ralston. Just pulled in from Denver on the coach. I thought I’d drop by here and see for sure that we had the right sheriff in office before I go on up to the Jewel. Kitty wrote me that Deems had it all fixed up with you. You know exactly what you’re to do?”

  Pat said mildly, “Mr. Deems don’t generally make any mistakes, does he?”

  “Not him.” Fred Ralston chuckled. He glanced down at the silver badge lying on the table. “Don’t forget to pin that on when you come over. We’ve got to make this look plenty legal.”

  Pat said grimly, “I’ll be wearing it.”

  The man from Denver unbuttoned his coat and dragged a heavy watch out of a waistcoat pocket by means of a gold chain. He snapped it open and said, “Give me half an hour. The less I’
m seen around town, the better these affairs always go.”

  Pat said, “You sound like this is old stuff to you.”

  “Sure.” Ralston chuckled and put his watch back. “Kitty and I’ve worked it plenty before. Don’t you worry. She’ll have things fixed just right. She tells me she’s hooked a real fish this time. Eight thousand simoleons in hard cash—he and his partner together.” Ralston smacked his lips over the words.

  Pat Stevens’ mind was working desperately, trying to think of things to say that would keep the city man talking without revealing to him that he wasn’t Jeth Purdue. The only two men in Dutch Springs with eight thousand dollars were Sam Sloan and Ezra. He knew they must be the pair Ralston referred to. But, what did he mean by saying Kitty had hooked them? None of the conversation made any sense. He cautiously tried to steer it around to something concrete that would dispel the mystery.

  “You reckon he’s not going to make any trouble? Him an’ his pardner?”

  “Trouble?” Ralston laughed scornfully. “Not if you do your part.”

  Pat got out a red bandanna and mopped sweat from his bronzed forehead, though a cool breeze swept in over him from the open window. He mumbled, “I ain’t sure that I rightly know my part.”

  “Nonsense,” Ralston said briskly. “Do exactly as Deems has told you. Now, I’d better be getting over there before they wonder what’s become of me.” He nodded briskly and walked out.

  Pat Stevens stood unhappily by the window and wondered what it was all about. Joe Deems was proprietor of the Jewel Hotel. A saturnine man who had recently come to Dutch Springs and taken over the old run-down hotel. With Kitty Lane to act as a magnet for the ranchers and punchers of the Valley, the old hostelry had come to life in a surprising manner under Deems’ expert handling. Grizzled family men who’d never spent a night away from home in their lives suddenly found reasons for spending the night in Dutch Springs, and the younger cowhands crowded there enthusiastically every night for the chance to dance with Kitty to the music of an accordion and untuned piano.

  But, how did all that affect Sam Sloan and the eight thousand dollars he and Ezra had gotten from the sale of their ranch? Pat was a simple man, with no experience at unraveling mysteries. He and Ezra and Sam had done more than their share to unmask lawlessness in the West, but always it had been a direct matter to be settled with blazing six-guns.

  He didn’t know anything about the ways of city slickers, he told himself morosely. He was certain that Fred Ralston had something up his sleeve, but he sure didn’t know how to go about shaking it out into plain sight. It was evident, though, that the plan required the help of a sheriff, and that the conspirators had been waiting for the time when Pat would step down and turn his badge over to Jeth Purdue.

  Slow anger began to burn inside Pat at the thought. Purdue had fooled him all right. Just as he had fooled all the other honest citizens of the Valley. Planning some sort of devilment his first night as sheriff, with Joe Deems, Kitty Lane and a stranger from Denver.

  The hoofbeats of a galloping horse came through the open window from the road leading south from Dutch Springs. The galloping was labored, as of a horse straining to keep up the pace, spurred on by a relentless rider.

  Pat frowned and listened intently, heard the horse swerve away from Main Street toward the small adobe jail and lean-to.

  He stiffened and turned from the window as the animal plowed to a stop outside. He heard the thud of hard boot-heels on the planks outside, the jingle of spurs.

  Jeth Purdue came panting into the office, his thin red face tight with worry. He was a tall man, with a greyhound leanness of frame. He wore a single gun-belt carrying a .45, with big-roweled Spanish spurs on his run-down boots. His face showed relief at sight of Pat Stevens.

  “I was afraid you’d get tired of waitin’,” he panted. “Got hung up out to the ranch. Two of my best dang cows bogged in Clay Creek. Then when I got started, damn if my hawse didn’t put his foot in a prairie dawg hole an’ I had to shoot him and go back to rope me out another.” He paused to catch his breath and then ducked his head to step inside the lean-to.

  Pat asked, “What was all the hurry about?”

  “You said as how you wanted me to take over tonight an’ you’d be clearin’ out. I didn’t want you to get tired of waitin’ for me an’ leave town.” Jeth glanced around the office. His gaze stopped at the badge on the table, clung there as though its silver-brightness hypnotized him.

  Pat said, “Looks like you’re mighty anxious to start bein’ sheriff.”

  “’Taint that,” Purdue protested. “Jest didn’t want to be late.” He paused, then asked with an elaborate show of unconcern, “Evenin’ stage come yet?”

  “Come an’ gone.”

  There was a little moment of silence in the small lean-to. Pat stood on flat feet with his arms folded across his chest, little wrinkles about the outer corners of his eyes as he studied the face of the man who had been selected to succeed him as sheriff.

  Jeth Purdue shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. He glanced at Pat’s impassive face and said uncertainly, “Well, looks like you’re packed up an’ all. Nothin’ much left to do but this, I reckon.” He took a step forward and reached down toward the badge of office.

  Pat said, “Wait a minute, Purdue.” He spoke in a slow drawl, but with enough weight to cause Purdue to jerk back his hand and look up apprehensively.

  “What do you know about a feller named Fred Ralston?”

  Purdue wet his lips. “I didn’t catch the name.”

  “From Denver,” Pat went on evenly.

  Fear leaped into Purdue’s eyes. He lowered them swiftly and muttered, “Dunno what you’re talkin’ aboot.”

  “What’ve you got planned with Joe Deems an’ Kitty Lane, an’ this Ralston hombre?”

  Jeth Purdue began to shake his head from side to side. “I shore dunno what you’re drivin’ at.”

  Pat said angrily, “Start talkin’, Purdue. An’ talk fast. Ralston came in on that stage tonight.”

  Jeth Purdue took a backward step. A yellowish gleam flickered from beneath his lowered eyelids. His right hand started stealthily downward toward the butt of his holstered gun.

  Pat Stevens warned, “Don’t try it, Jeth.” His arms were still folded.

  Purdue’s gun-hand went downward fast.

  Pat lunged forward and drove his fist against the point of the lean man’s jaw. Jeth toppled backward off balance, desperately dragging his gun clear of leather.

  Pat laughed savagely and pulled his own gun free, swung it downward in a sharp arc that smashed the heavy barrel against Purdue’s wrist.

  Jeth sobbed with pain and his .45 clattered to the floor. He shrank back in abject fear as Pat towered over him. “Talk, you skunk,” Pat ordered through tight-set teeth. “Give it to me before I start gun-whippin’ you right.”

  Jeth whined, “I dunno nothin’. As God’s my judge, Pat, I dunno what you’re jumpin’ me for.”

  “You lie,” snarled Pat. “It’s something about Sam an’ Ezra.”

  Jeth Purdue moaned, “You’ve busted my wrist sure’s hell.” He caught hold of it with his left hand and cried out sharply with the pain of it. His face took on a queer pallor and he sank down limply to the floor, lay there with closed eyes.

  Pat stood over him and cursed him, but he did not move. Pat hesitated, then shrugged and reholstered his gun. He stooped and got his hands underneath Purdue’s shoulders, dragged him over the threshold and around to the open door of the empty adobe jail.

  He pushed him onto the floor and let him lie there in a limp heap, closed the barred door and padlocked it securely.

  He strode back into the lean-to and kicked Jeth’s gun into a corner, picked up the silver badge and dropped it into a shirt pocket. He turned down the lantern and gave it a quick shake to put it out, then went out and closed the door behind him. He figured it had been just about half an hour since Fred Ralston’s visit as he started toward
the Jewel Hotel.

  2

  Pat Stevens had to traverse the entire single block of Main Street from the village square to reach the Jewel Hotel at the other end. There weren’t many saddled horses at the hitchracks along the way. Half a dozen of the old-timers had remained loyal to the Gold Eagle Saloon, and their horses were tied outside, but nine-tenths of the other riders in town were congregated at the Jewel.

  A lop-sided yellow moon faced Pat in the east as he strode along the boardwalk past the almost deserted business houses and restaurants. There was already the sharp tang of autumn in the night air in that portion of the southern part of Colorado lying eastward from the Rockies, and Pat drew in great draughts of the clean, cool air in an effort to clear the confusion from his mind as he strode forward.

  The night air didn’t have the usual effect on his mind. He was a simple man, accustomed to simple situations and direct answers. His way of meeting almost any emergency was by straightforward action. He felt, now, that he should have taken Fred Ralston by the throat back there in the lean-to, and choked an explanation out of him. He didn’t quite know why he had restrained himself from doing that.

  Instead, he had let Ralston go away thinking he had talked to Jeth Purdue. By that action, he had invited the continuance of whatever sinister plot Ralston, Deems and Kitty Lane were involved in together.

  Looking at it that way, Pat realized he’d be responsible for anything that had happened or might happen at the Jewel Hotel. He could have stopped it merely by letting Ralston know that Jeth Purdue had not yet assumed office. Instead of that, he’d had to play smart and encourage them to go on with their plan. Pat’s lips twisted in a mirthless smile as he thought it out that way. He was acting, by golly, like a smart city detective instead of a simple western sheriff. Like he wanted something to happen so he could look smart by solving it the way detectives always did in storybooks.

  His pace increased and he became more and more uneasy as he approached closer to the hotel. Twenty-five or thirty saddled horses stood outside, and bright light and music streamed out of the swinging doors and wide plate-glass windows of a large, ground-level room beyond the entrance into the hotel lobby.