Clifton Adams - Gambling Man

Chapter Eighteen

IT WAS THE FIRST OF THE month. Milan Fay was on time.

“Somerson's got everything set, kid. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“You know how it's going? Exactly?”

“Yes.”

Fay shook his head in faint surprise. “Damn if you don't look ready, at that. I guess you're Nate Blaine's boy, all right.”

“Don't worry. I'll be in place at four o'clock.”

The tall outlaw grinned. “That's the kind of talk I like to hear. But don't make a move until I get the wagon in place.”

“I know my part of it,” Jeff said shortly. “Just make sure you and the horses are where they're supposed to be.”

“It's not me or Somerson or the horses that I'll be thinkin' about, kid; you're the one. Just remember your pa's life depends on whether or not we bring this off without a hitch.”

Jeff watched Fay's broad, arrogant back as he turned and sauntered up the plank walk toward the public corral. No one had to tell him to be careful, or how dangerous this thing was going to be. Plainsville was no longer a one-horse cowtown. It was a railroad town and farm town as well, and the bank was no longer the flimsy unprotected affair that it had once been.

But it was set. There was no backing out. And he wouldn't have done it if he could....

In his basement office of the Masonic Temple, Elec Blasingame heard the click of heels on the stone steps and knew that they were not boot heels. Breathlessly, Amy Wintworth came into the room, and the marshal looked up in surprise.

“What's the matter, child? You look as if somebody's chasing you.”

“Marshal, I've got to talk to you! Alone.” Kirk Logan, who was nailing a calendar to the far wall of the office, looked around at the last word. The marshal frowned slightly, but then nodded to his deputy, and Logan put his hammer down and walked out. During those few seconds Elec made a close study of the girl before him. He noted her tenseness, the look of urgency in her eyes.

“Now,” he said, “what is it, Amy?”

“Nathan Blaine is in Plainsville.”

Blasingame was startled. “Nate Blaine! How do you know?”

“I saw him. I talked to him.”

“Here in Plainsville?” His voice was incredulous. But before Amy could answer one question he asked another. “Where's he hiding?”

“He was at the Sewell house—” Amy started, and the marshal lunged up from his desk and bellowed, “Kirk, get in here on the run!”

But there was something about the quick, hard look that the girl threw at him that made him look at her again. “Marshal,” she said tightly, “you don't understand. Nathan Blaine isn't hiding. He asked me to come here and tell you he wants to see you.”

Elec didn't believe it. “Nate Blaine wants to see me?”

“Please believe me!” she said anxiously. “He wants to talk to you about Jeff.”

Then a frowning Kirk Logan came back in the office. “What's the trouble, Marshal?” For a moment Elec was undecided. It didn't make sense that Nate Blaine would walk into a sure arrest—an arrest that could possibly end with a hangman's noose around his neck. Still, there was something about the urgency in Amy's face that made him pause. At last, against his better judgment, he waved the puzzled deputy away again.

“If Nate's here in Plainsville,” he said, “I guess a few minutes one way or the other won't make too much difference. Now, Amy, start at the beginning and tell me all you know.”

Amy looked nervously at her hands, wondering how she could explain it to the marshal when she was unable to explain it to herself. “I was shopping this morning,” she began slowly. “I was in Baxter's when Mr. Sewell found me and said Jeff's father was at their house and wanted to see me.”

Elec scowled. “Why did he want to see you?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But you did talk to Nate? What about?”

He realized too late that this was no cowhand that he could shout at and bully into telling him what he wanted to know. He saw the spark of resentment in those clear eyes, and the haughty tilt of her chin.

“I'm sorry, Amy,” he said lamely. “Tell it your own way.”

She didn't know how or where to start. She could still feel the shock of Nathan's fierce gaze upon her. The depression that came from staring too deeply into the bitterness of those dark eyes was still within her.

“So you're the girl my boy loves,” he had said, and the gentleness of his-voice had startled her. She had hated Nathan Blaine for so long, and she could not believe that such contradictions as gentleness and violence could live together within one body.

But when Nathan Blaine had spoken of his son, he was gentle. And then he had asked with crude bluntness: “Do you love my boy, Amy?” She had never been talked to like that before. She had tried to wither him with her anger, but he stood like a statue hacked from steel.

“Do you love him?” he had asked again, coldly. His question demanded the truth, and left no way for a middle ground of indecision. Wirt and Beulah had stood looking on, frightened.

She had answered, “Yes.”

“I don't believe it!” he replied brutally. “When Jeff needed you most, you deserted him. When he wanted understanding, you wrapped yourself in pride.”

Deep within her conscience she knew he was right, and it had made her furious. “And what about you?” she'd flared. “You, his own father—what have you done for him?”

In dismay she had watched the power seep out of him as he smiled thinly and sank into one of the uncomfortable parlor chairs. “Yes,” he had said, almost absently. “I guess I ought to stop blaming others and do something myself. Do you know where Elec Blasingame's office is? Would you tell the marshal I'd like to see him? In private.”

She had stood woodenly, with pity in her eyes. Nathan had seen it and was furious. “What are you waitin' on?” he had demanded harshly. “I thought you'd jump at the chance to turn me in!”

Wirt had started to go with her, but Nathan had barked “Stay here, Wirt.” Then, to Amy: “Remember, tell the marshal I want to see him in private. If you tell anybody else, or if he brings a posse with him—” He had smiled. “Remember I've got Wirt and Beulah right here with me.”

Amy had run blindly from the house, both hate and pity churning within her. Not until she had reached the marshal's office did she fully realize that Nathan had planned it so. He was used to being hated, feared—but Nathan Blaine was not the kind of man to accept pity.

So she tried to tell Elec Blasingame what had happened, but there was no way she could communicate to another what she had seen and felt instinctively. She ended lamely, “I think Jeff's in trouble, and that's what Nathan wants to talk to you about.”

“That boy's been getting deeper in trouble for a long time,” Elec scowled. “I think this is a trick of Nate's.”

But he wasn't sure. And if he had been sure, there was very little he could do about it, with Wirt and Beulah Sewell being held as hostages.

He would have to play it Nate's way, whether he liked it or not. “All right,” he said finally. “I'll go. But you stay here, Amy, until I get back.” Before heading for the stairs, he called to Kirk Logan. “Get on the street, Kirk, and see if you can find young Blaine. Keep your eye on him, but don't let him see you watching him. Understand?”

The deputy nodded, puzzled. “Sure, but why?”

“Never mind; just do as I say.” Then, halfway up the steps, Elec thought of something else. He wasn't sure that it meant anything, but this was no time to take chances. “By the way, Kirk, that gambler in town that goes under the name of Milan Fay—the one that hangs out at the Green House. Keep an eye on him too, if you can. Let me know what they're doing—I'll be at the Sewell place.”