Clifton Adams - Gambling Man

Jeff turned to the single dirty window and stared again at the town. “I don't know,” he said at last. “I'll have to think about it.”

Fay smoked his cigarette in silence. Then he got up. “Sure,” he said, starting for the door, and this time there was no amusement in his voice. It was flat and deadly. “You think about it, kid. In the meantime Nate may be dyin'.”

The door opened and closed, and Fay's big rowels made silver music in the dark hallway. Jeff stood rigidly at the window. Suddenly he turned, his fists clenched. He knew that Fay and Somerson had him. They could make him do anything they pleased. He had no choice.

The next morning he awoke to find the huge, bulldog figure of Elec Blasingame standing in the doorway. Jeff sat up in his underwear, reaching for his pants. “I'm going to have to see Frank Ludlow about puttin' a lock on my door.”

“You took a trip yesterday,” the marshal said bluntly. “Where?”

The aggressiveness in the marshal's tone set fire to Jeff's anger. “I figure that's none of your business, Elec,” he said shortly.

“And you had a caller last night, too. Who was it?”

Jeff blinked in surprise, but soon recovered. “I figure that's none of your business, either.”

“You listen to me,” Blasingame said, and obviously he was angry. He came into the room and slammed the door. “I don't talk just to hear my head rattle; I want answers. Was it your pa you went to see last night when I let you out of jail? Is Nate hidin' out in this part of Texas?”

This time Jeff was truly surprised. He forgot his anger for a moment and gazed at the marshal with blank curiosity. “What makes you ask that? You know Nathan's in Mexico.”

“Is he?” Elec flashed a yellow paper in Jeff's face. “This is a telegram from the marshal at Fort Smith. They say Nate's up to his neck in Mexican trouble, and may try to get back across the Border. He's wanted for killin' in New Mexico, and I'll get him, son. If he comes back to Plainsville, I'll get him.”

Something inside Jeff's chest went hard. So Somerson and Fay had been telling the truth. It was no surprise, for men like them were as brazen with truth as with lies. But coming from Elec Blasingame it sounded more real and deadly.

Jeff pulled on his pants, then buttoned his shirt to keep his hands busy. Not looking at the marshal, he said, “I didn't see Nathan last night, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Then who?”

Jeff clamped his jaws and buckled on his gun. “Where'd you get that claybank that you rode last night?”

Didn't he ever sleep? Jeff wondered. Did he see everything that happened in this town?

“How long have you known Milan Fay?” Elec went on doggedly.

Jeff felt a hard band tighten around his heart. He glanced quickly at Elec, then began pulling on his boots. “I never heard of Milan Fay.”

“He's the man who was in your room last night when you got back from your ride,” the marshal said dryly. “He's the man who owns the claybank. Now what do you know about him?”

Jeff kept his grim silence.

“Is he a friend of your pa's? He looks the type. He's been south, too, from the look of his spurs.” Elec strode angrily to the bed and made Jeff look at him. “If Fay and Nate have teamed up, I'll find out about it.”

“That's your job,” Jeff said bitterly. “If you want to make a fool of yourself, I won't try to stop you.”

“Then what have you got to do with Milan Fay, if he's not tied, up with Nate? The man's a hardcase, maybe a killer. I knew it the minute I saw him get off the train.”

Blasingame frowned, his small eyes brilliant with concentration. “By hell, Fay got off with that gambler that shot Phil Costain! I hadn't thought of that!” Thoughtfully, Elec rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “The gambler, and Fay, and the son of Nate Blaine,” he chanted quietly, almost to himself. “Now that may be something to think about.”

Jeff laughed, but the sound rang false and unconvincing.

The marshal looked at him for a long moment. “We'll see,” he said, turning abruptly and tramping out of the room.

For a long while Jeff sat unmoving, his mind racing. He knew that he'd go through with the robbery, for Nathan's sake. But he didn't like the way Elec was tying things together.

Walk gently, he told himself. He was a long way from shore and the ice was thin. He could almost hear it cracking....

Outside, the sun was already blasting away at the prairie, and the airless room became uninhabitable. For a moment, before leaving, Jeff Blaine regarded this room of his, this home that he had made for himself. The sagging bunk with its straw mattress, the scaling bureau, the crockery pitcher and bowl and the oil lamp. Once, not long ago, he had owned two sections of land and had had money in his pocket. Now he had nothing. Not even enough to pay the rent on this room at the end of the week.

Then he remembered that it wouldn't matter about the rent. The first of the month was only three days off—and then he'd put Plainsville behind him, for good.

Strangely, the thought did not please him. He had clung to this place because it was the only one he had. He told himself that he'd be better off for leaving the town, but agreement did not come easily. At last he pulled his hat on and strode angrily out of the room.

He had only one possession which he could trade for money. He pawned his Colt's with Sam Baxter for twelve dollars and came out of the store feeling strangely naked and ashamed. He told himself that it was a temporary thing, that he could pick up enough money at seven-up or twenty-one to reclaim the gun.

In the eating house, he took a booth in the back. As he was cutting into his eggs and side meat, Jeff saw Milan Fay's tall figure in the doorway. The man raked the house with his dark eyes, spotted Jeff quickly, and headed toward the booth.

Jeff looked up angrily. “Are you crazy, coming in here like this?”

Fay folded his lanky frame into the booth. “What's the matter, kid? You look jumpy.”

“I've got a right to look jumpy,” Jeff said tightly. “Elec Blasingame paid me a visit this morning. He's beginning to tie us together—me, you, and Somerson.”

Fay's eyes narrowed. “How does he figure that?”

“He saw you get off the train with Somerson. And he knows I borrowed your claybank.”

Unexpectedly, the tall man laughed. “He's just throwin' out some wild guesses. I'll get out of town and stay clear, if that'll make you feel easier. But I've got to take word back to Somerson about the bank job. What do you say, Blaine?”

“I'm ready. I've got no choice.”

Milan Fay allowed himself a small smile. “Somerson will be glad to hear it. So will your pa. Did Somerson tell you exactly what he wanted you to do?”

“Yes.”

“Then that settles it, I guess.” Fay worked himself out of the booth. “We'll be seein' you, kid.”

Jeff sat for a moment after Fay had disappeared on the street, his appetite gone. He wondered how a person went about the business of forgetting. How many days and nights would the vision of Amy Wintworth cling to his mind before he finally caught on to this business of forgetting her?

Far to the south that night a gaunt, big-boned man rode by starlight, hugging the high ground. He traveled as the cavalry travels in forced march, now riding, now leading, now resting. His big head thrown back with a savage pride, he kept his face to the north. He avoided the valleys and the lowlands scrupulously, keeping always to the ridges and crests of the prairie, his dark eyes intense and watchful.

He did not build fires. Once every twelve hours he would pause for a while to chew on tasteless jerked beef. He would feed his animal a few handfuls of corn that he carried in a sack behind the saddle, and he would unsaddle and unbit and let the horse graze in the scant grass of the hills. His own comfort and well-being seemed not to concern him, but with the horse he was attentive and gentle.