Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

Packard felt the hair stir at the base of his neck. There was something wrong, he knew. Nothing he could put his finger on, but something that was wrong. The way the swamper went on sweeping, the way the barkeeper yawned and went on polishing his glasses. Paying no attention to them. Almost as if they might have been expecting them.

“Hurley,” said Packard. “Hurley, there’s something …”

A faint sound warned him, the whispery creak of the swinging doors up front. Like a cat, he whirled, guns already coming out.

In the doorway stood a man, a man whose pistoning arms were a blur of motion, whose eyes were gimlets of steel shining in the light. Steel, like the gleam of light on glass balls spinning in the sunshine.

The man’s guns were clear of leather and were swinging up and, behind him, the batwing doors swung gently to and fro, almost robbed of motion, but still swinging.

Flame exploded in Packard’s hands, the blasting flame of jumping guns that bucked and hammered, filled the room to bursting with their roar.

The man in front of the batwing doors was slammed through them, hurled backward through them as if someone had grasped and hurled him with tremendous force. One of his guns was still in his hand, but the other spun from his fingers and skidded through the sawdust.

And then the doors were swinging violently, flapping to and fro and from under them protruded two boots, toes pointing toward the ceiling.

The barkeep stood with both hands spread upon the bar, amazement on his face. “I be damned,” he said. “I be double-damned.”

The swamper leaned upon his broom and stared. The drunk had come alive and was trying to burrow into the sawdust underneath his table.

The door in the back flung open and Randall stroke out. He stopped, staring at the boots, at the flapping doors.

Then, slowly, his gaze switched to Packard and Packard raised his guns.

“You next?” asked Packard.

Randall simply stared.

“By rights,” said Hurley, coldly, “he’d ought to give it to you. You went and double-crossed us. It was supposed to be a fair fight.”

Randall shrugged. “What difference does it make? Packard, here, won out.”

“Four shots,” said the bartender. “Four shots and every one dead center. Four shots before Stover hit the floor.”

“What’s going on here?” asked Packard coldly. “You gentlemen better start to talk.”

Randall laughed shortly. “Hell,” he said, “no use of getting riled. Packard, you just killed yourself a job.”

“A job?”

“Sure, Stover’s job. I’ll need a man to take his place.”

“I told you the kid had the right stuff in him. Just like his old man,” Hurley told Randall.

“I don’t want the stinking job,” said Packard.

Packard turned on his heel and walked away. Through the silence of the room he heard the rasp of the swamper’s broom, the still frightened gulping of the drunken man. At the door, he pushed the batwings wide and walked around the body of the man who’d tried to shoot him in the back.

Outside the air was crisp and new with the coming of the day. The stars were paling and Packard suddenly realized that he was sleepy and hungry.

The frost crunched crisply underfoot as he strode down the walk toward the hotel and suddenly his head felt light and giddy and the throb took up again … the throb of his scalp where the bottle had landed.

He walked slowly past the livery stable, where a smoky lantern burned redly in the office window. Out of the shadows of the alleyway between the stable and hotel a voice hissed at him.

Startled, Packard’s right hand plunged for his gun, but the voice said: “Take it easy, Packard. I’m a friend of yours.”

Hand still on the gunbutt, Packard stepped into the dim alleyway, saw the face of the man before him. A moonlike face, puffy and dissolute, with blubbery lips.

“Craig is the name,” said moonface. “Cardway said you would be coming.”

“Cardway’s dead,” snapped Packard. “I saw him, hanging in a tree. What was Cardway to you?”

Craig stepped closer. “We can get along without him, Packard. Just the two of us to split.”

Packard frowned. “What about this man that Cardway killed?”

“Name of Jett,” said Craig. “One of the express office guards. Same as I am.”

“But why did Cardway kill him?”

The flabby face twisted impatiently in the shadow. “Jett was in with the Randall crowd. He heard us talking.”

Packard’s hand shot out, grasped the man’s vest, twisted it tight and drew him close. “Talk sense,” he snarled. “What has Randall got to do with it?”

Craig wriggled. “Didn’t Cardway tell you?”

“Not a word,” said Packard. “Just wrote to me and said that I should come. Said there was a good thing here.”

“It’s the gold,” wheezed Craig. “Ready for shipment. Randall’s gang holds up the stages. Easier and safer than holding up the office.”

“This Jett was Randall’s man, you say. Tipped him off when a big shipment was on hand.”

Craig nodded vigorously. “You catch on quick. Cardway said you would. Said your dad …”

Packard jerked the man even closer.

“You say that Randall’s gang holds up the stages. Who else knows this? Everyone in town?”

Craig gulped unhappily. “No sir, they don’t. Just me now. You see, Cardway found it out and told me and now—”

“And Cardway figured on beating Randall to the draw. Figured on robbing the office before the stage ever started out.”

Craig gulped again and nodded.

“And how much were you to get?”

“A quarter, Cardway said. Said I’d get a quarter and you and he would get the rest. But now that he’s dead, I figured maybe you could do some better by me.”

“Want me to tell you how much Cardway really would have given you?”

“He said a quarter.”

“Not a damn ounce,” said Packard coldly. “He’d use you and he’d shoot you down. You see, I knew Preston Cardway.”

“But he said—”

“You shouldn’t have stopped me here,” snarled Packard. “Don’t do a thing like this again. Don’t speak to me again. Don’t act like you’ve ever seen me. I’ll look you up when it’s safe to talk.”

He released his hold upon the vest.

“Make tracks,” he told Craig curtly.

A grim smile on his lips, he watched the man scuttle down the alleyway to be swallowed in the shadow.

Back on the street again, Packard sat down on the hotel steps and built himself a smoke.

So it had been gold that Cardway had been after. An inside job, fixed up with the office guards. Probably could have pulled it off, too, if it hadn’t been for Randall. Randall, naturally, wouldn’t have wanted anyone horning in and so Randall had fixed up a vigilante deal.

Packard’s head hurt and it was hard to think and even through the pain of the throbbing head, he was so sleepy that his eyes drooped shut as he nodded over the cigarette.

Steps sounded on the boards and he snapped awake. Before him stood a little man with a checkered suit.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Packard.

The man squinted at him with his one good eye.

“Haven’t seen an eye?” he asked. “A glass eye. I lost it and I’ve looked everywhere …”

“Oh, hell,” exploded Packard. “I’m going up to bed.”

He rose and climbed the stairs to the porch. The little man in the checkered suit stood and watched him go.

Jason Randall was sitting in the chair beside the window, smoking a cheroot and with a whisky bottle on the table at his elbow, when Packard awoke. ‘You sleep innocent,” said Randall.

Packard swung himself off the bed, located his boots, stomped his feet into them. “What the hell,” he asked, “are you doing here?”