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

Apparently the man who had been set to tail him had not reported back to Randall. For if Randall had known of his visit to Page, he at least would have been called upon the carpet, asked for an explanation.

Randall, undoubtedly, thought that he had him trapped, that he had no choice but to play Randall’s game. Packard smiled grimly in the darkness. Something would happen tomorrow, he felt certain, something that would give him the chance that he was waiting.

Grimly he speculated upon his chance of having defied Randall, knew almost as soon as he posed the question that it would have been no use. There actually had been no choice. Randall had had him dead to rights. Had known who he was and why he came to town. Had known his connection with Cardway. Randall, he knew, would never have let him get out of town alive.

Actually, he told himself, this satisfied him better than the Cardway deal. Even with the connivance of the guard, robbery of the express office under Randall’s nose would have been the height of madness.

Although it wasn’t only the matter of saving his own skin. It was something else as well. A certain bitter hatred that a man like Randall could hold and rule a town, could set up no matter how temporary an empire with the use of six-gun power. That a man like Preacher Page could be placed in danger because he dared oppose such a six-gun empire. That a man could say that if gold were stolen, he was the one to steal it, that he had the right of thievery staked out.

He had not been anxious to tie up with Cardway, he remembered. Only the bitterness of desperation had driven him to fall in with the schemes Cardway vaguely hinted at. Cardway had been all right, of course, but he was a shifty character. Packard found himself remembering the cigarette that drooped from his lips and poured smoke into the squinting eyes.

Cardway, without a doubt, had been ready to use him. Had sat and watched him shooting at those glass balls and sensed the advantage such marksmanship might have. Had found out who he was and worked on that.

“Hell, kid, you haven’t got a chance. No one will ever give you a break, see. The world ain’t built that way. Always looking for someone to kick. And your old man gives them a chance to kick you. Quit being a sucker, kid. With a knack with guns that you live, there’s money to be made …”

There was some truth in what he said. A hell of a lot of truth, in fact. There was the job with the circus and the one before that with the feed store down in Kansas and the two weeks Packard worked as bank guard until the trembling, horrified directors found out who he was.

The moon came up, bulging over the eastern horizon, a huge red ball bisected at the moment by a straggly pine that grew atop a ridge.

Blade drew his horse to a stop and Packard rode alongside and pulled up.

Blade had his makings out and was building a cigarette. Packard sat his horse and stared over the wild and tumbled land, half lighted by the reddish moon-glow, half-buried deep in shadow.

Blade handed over the sack and papers.

“Have one on me,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Packard.

Blade thumbed a matchhead into flame, lit his smoke, tossed the match away.

“So you went to see Page,” he said.

Raising his cigarette to his lips to lick the paper shut, Packard stared across at the other man. Deliberately he tongued the cylinder, put it in his mouth. “Maybe,” he finally said. “that ain’t a question you should ask.”

“Perhaps it isn’t, Packard. But I figured that you would. Randall’s one slick operator.”

Packard nodded, seeking for the meaning in the other’s words. Apparently the man believed that Randall had sent him to Page.

Smoke drooled out of Blade’s nose and suddenly the smoke turned into a bloody spray. Blade opened his mouth to scream, but the scream did not come out and his mouth stayed open, with the cigarette still sticking to his lower lip.

A sound ripped through the night and Blade was falling from his horse, tipping in the saddle and going over and the horse was rearing as if to spill him off.

Packard’s fist drove for a six-gun, whipped it clear of leather, fighting his plunging mount with the other hand.

“Put away the gun, kid,” said a voice.

Packard swung around. A man was standing just outside the shadow of a clump of pines, rifle in his arms. “Hurley!” yelled Packard.

“That’s right,” said Hurley. “I’ve just dealt myself a hand.” He stepped out into the trail, seized the reins of Blade’s frightened horse, talked to the animal in a soft, soothing tone.

“Can’t have you runnin’ home, feller,” he said. “Can’t have you going back and tippin’ Randall off.”

“I thought,” said Packard, coldly, “that you ran with Randall’s pack.”

“Sure,” admitted Hurley. “Sure I do. Or did. Now I’m switching back to the Packard gang. Don’t know anyone I’d rather ride with than a Packard bunch.”

“There isn’t any Packard bunch,” said Packard.

Hurley gulped. “Don’t mean to say, kid, that you are on your own?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I be damned,” said Hurley. “The nerve of it … the blessed nerve of it.”

He chuckled. “Just like your old man,” he said. “Never had a big bunch. Said they got in one another’s way. Just you and me and Jim and Charley and the four of us could have given Randall aces and beat him at the laydown.”

Warning bells rang in Packard’s head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Hurley,” he declared. “I’m riding Randall’s trail. None of the lone wolf stuff for me. Randall made a deal and it sounded good to me.”

Hurley shambled forward until he stood close to Packard’s horse, looked up at the younger man, the full light of the moon shining on his face.

“You’re lying, youngster,” he declared. “No Packard would mean a thing like that. You’re figuring on taking over once the gold is where you want it. You’ll be using Randall’s gang to help hold up the coach, but Randall won’t see an ounce of the stuff.”

“And you’re figuring on dealing in with me?”

Hurley spat. “Damn right. I rode with your old man … Say, is Charley coming in?”

“Charley?”

“Sure, Page. Me and Charley Page and Jim Davis, we were the ones who made up the Packard gang. Now Jim is dead and Charley’s got religion and …”

Packard drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “So Page knew who I was all the time. The low down hypocrite!”

“Charley ain’t no hypocrite,” snapped Hurley. “He’s really got religion. Only, I thought maybe Charley might be getting a bit discouraged and he’s only human—”

“But,” said Packard, “Page knew who you were.”

“Sure, but he never said a word about me and I never give him away. Randall knew who I was, of course, but none of the other boys. We never got well known, the way your old man did. He was the front, you see—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Packard, impatiently.

Hurley sighed. “So I guess Charley won’t be coming in. It’s just the two of us.”

“Look,” snapped Packard, “you’re the only one who’s been talking about double-crossing Randall. You’re the one that’s all steamed up about it. I haven’t said a word.”

“Ah, hell,” protested Hurley, “you can talk to me. I was your old man’s pal.”

“I suppose,” said Packard, “that you’ll have to ride along with me. I don’t know the way, you see.”

He pivoted in his saddle, looked at the huddled heap lying in the trail.

“I hope,” he said, “you got a good one figured out to explain why it’s you instead of Blade with me.”

“Shucks,” declared Hurley, “that won’t be hard to do. The boys won’t know who Randall sent along. We’ll not mention Blade at all. They’ll think that it was me who was with you all the time.”