Singing Wires Page 2

  Dusk was steadily thickening and lights began coming on all across the town, throwing thin, dust-fogged gleams from door and window. Ahead loomed a big, square building, the double doors of which stood open, letting out a gush of amber light and through which men moved in and out of the place in a steady drift. Painted at a slant across a single long window and outlined against the light within were the words: Shoshone Bar.

  Breasting the tide of men, Roswell worked his way through that busy doorway, stepping into a long rectangle of a room with a bar running the full length of one side, where men were jammed shoulder to shoulder and where three sweating bartenders tried to keep up with the demanding clamor. The balance of the place was taken up with gaming tables, each with men sitting around them, while other men, waiting for a chair to empty, milled back and forth.

  Roswell wondered how he was going to locate this man, Jack Casement, in all this jamming confusion, if indeed Casement was here. His best bet, he decided, was to ask one of the bartenders, for if Casement was as important in the scheme of things to come as Alex Majors had said he was, and if he frequented this place regularly, then the men behind the bar would probably know him.

  As he began elbowing his way toward the bar, Roswell used the full advantage of his lean height to send his glance around the room, running it along the swarming bar, then out across the various little groups seated at the tables. His searching survey touched a table in a far corner, moved past it, then came swiftly back. He rocked up on his toes for a better look, while a ripple of feeling went across his face, turning it bleak. The gray of his eyes went dark, chilling.

  It just couldn’t be, he told himself. The favors of luck never fell that way to any man. What with all the wide wilderness of this frontier for them to be lost in, it seemed beyond belief that he’d find the Pickards right here in this room—right over there before his very eyes. Yet, of the four men sitting around that corner table, there was a bulk and burliness about two of them that took him far back to a lonely night camp along a distant trail, when treachery of the lowest kind had struck, when death had hovered close in the surrounding shadows.

  Roswell began driving his way toward that corner table, swinging the weight of his shoulders from side to side, knocking men out of his way, paying no attention at all to their angry protests. A raw-boned teamster caught at him.

  “Friend, the whole damned room don’t belong to you!”

  Roswell gave no heed to either the grip or the words, jerking loose and driving on, his every thought centered on that corner table and the men sitting around it.

  Of the four at the table, one was of medium size, though compactly built, with square-cut features and a solid jaw, and with blue eyes that seemed to blaze with a vast drive of inner energy. His hair was of a vigorous, ruddy shade, just off red. The man beside him was long-jawed, with intense and restless black eyes, a man big of limb and heavy through the shoulders. But as far as Clay Roswell was concerned, these two did not exist. It was the other pair with whom he was wholly concerned.

  He broke into a slight clearing beside the table. The four men, engrossed in their talk, showed no interest in him, so Roswell, shifting a little to one side, had his good, fair look and knew now beyond all doubt that he had not been mistaken. Here were the Pickards, sure enough. Jess and Hoke Pickard.

  The fury rolled up inside of Roswell, a fury that was cold and bitter. So many times during the long, thwarted months of the past year had he dreamed of such a meeting and of what he would do if fortune should ever be kind enough to bring it about. Well, fortune had smiled at last and there they were, right in front of him. Jess and Hoke Pickard. A bleak frenzy gripped him, calling on him to smash and destroy and kill.

  If he’d had a gun, he’d have used it then and there, turned it loose without warning. But he had no weapon. He had nothing but his bare hands. Well, that wasn’t going to hold him back, either that or anything else. Nothing mattered now—odds, weapons—nothing!

  He grabbed the back of Jess Pickard’s chair, hauled it and the man in it back from the table, and spun them around. Jess Pickard stared up at him, an oath of surprise breaking from his lips.

  “Just what in hell . . . ?”

  “Have a look, Pickard,” rapped Roswell. “Have a good look! Now you must remember me?”

  Jess Pickard, still in the grip of that surprise that comes before full anger, still staring, cursed again and growled.

  “No, I don’t remember you. But if you don’t quit yanking this chair and bothering me, I’ll give you something that you’ll damn’ well remember as long as you . . .”

  “That’s just it, Pickard,” cut in Roswell. “You gave me something to remember once before. This is part of it.” Roswell touched the scar above his temple. “Just about a year ago, it was. At a night camp in Weber Cañon, over past Salt Lake. Now you must remember that. Or do you so easily forget all the men you beat and rob and leave for dead? Ah! So you do remember . . . !”

  Roswell saw the light of recognition flare up in Jess Pickard’s eyes, a look almost of incredulity at first, such as a man might show on seeing a ghost. Then hard desperation flared in Jess Pickard. He came lunging up, throwing a warning at his brother.

  “Hoke . . . look out!”

  Roswell put all he had behind the fist that drove into Jess Pickard’s face. All his weight, all the cold frenzy that was in him. Behind the punch was a year of brooding, of bitter, backed-up longing for elemental justice. And it added up to enough to hang Jess Pickard half-stunned and floundering across the back of his chair. For a moment he stayed there, and then, as Roswell hit him again, he slid off the chair and rolled on the floor. Roswell moved around to follow up.

  It came near being a fatal move for him. For now Hoke Pickard came away from the table with a hard lunge, driving a slashing hand ahead of him. Naked steel gleamed in the yellow lamplight.

  Roswell glimpsed the knife, swung out a warding left arm. He managed to keep the steel away from his body, but the burn of its thirsting edge ran hot across his forearm. He kicked savagely at Hoke’s body, then whirled into the clear.

  The kick had not landed squarely, so was only partially effective. It dropped Hoke to his knees, but did not disable him as Roswell had intended it should. Hoke hung onto his knife and now, dragging in a hoarse gasp of breath, surged to his feet again, shoulders low, hunched, his knife cutting flashing arcs of light back and forth in front of him as he weaved, feinting for an opening.

  Clay Roswell grabbed the chair he’d knocked Jess Pickard out of, swung it high, and stepped in to meet Hoke and his knife just as Hoke made his second lunge, bringing the steel around in a curving upward drive, aiming for Roswell’s stomach. Roswell brought the chair over and down with a savage, full-armed sweep.

  The impact was vicious. The legs of the chair crumpled like matches, splintering across Hoke’s head and shoulders. But the edge of the seat, solid and wicked, drove viciously home to Hoke’s forehead, just below the hairline. Hoke went down soddenly, crumpled and without motion.

  When the first blaze of trouble broke, the other two men at the table stayed in their chairs for a moment, startled and still. Then they came to their feet and the big man with the black eyes made as though to move in. But the ruddy-haired man pulled him back and spoke sharply to him. After that the ruddy-haired one watched closely, murmuring an instinctive protest when Hoke Pickard pulled his knife. And when Clay Roswell disposed of Hoke with that crashing chair, a gleam of approval shone in the ruddy-haired man’s eyes. Now, surprisingly, he called a word of warning to Roswell.

  “Watch the first one, lad!”

  Jess Pickard needed watching. He was back on his feet again and he came in now with a headlong rush. He smashed into Roswell, grabbed him around the waist, and started driving him back in short, stiff-legged, jumping rushes, trying to corner him against the wall. Roswell, his arms free, beat down at the back of Jess’s neck, clubbing him again and again at the base of the skull. This punishment was to
o much for Jess Pickard and his grip loosened, and Roswell spun free. With hoarse and gulping words he taunted Pickard.

  “Different here than in Weber Cañon, eh, Pickard? You caught me in my blankets there, clubbed me, thought you’d cave my head in . . . and meant to. Well, try it now . . . try it now!”

  Jess Pickard did, with another rush, which drove Roswell across the room, slamming into tables, sending chairs skidding wildly. Men scattered before them and Roswell finally brought up against the bar, and Jess Pickard held him there and belted him twice in the face with heavy, pawing blows that cut and bruised and hurt a man clear to the spine. For a moment the room whirled and pitched before Roswell’s dazed eyes.

  Pickard sensed his advantage and, had he been cooler-headed, might have finished things right then by stepping back and measuring his man. But Pickard was like a maddened animal now and he fought like one. He mauled and clawed and bulled at Roswell, trying to wrestle him off his feet. But the pressure of the bar at Roswell’s back held him up.

  Cold and bitter purpose had carried Clay Roswell this far in the affair and that purpose had been changing to black battle fury as the fight progressed. In that fury, Roswell found another reservoir of strength. His mouth set in a twisted, bloody snarl.

  He brought both hands up, jammed the heels of them under Jess Pickard’s jaw and, with a wicked surge of lifting power, snapped Pickard’s head up and far back. A strangled bawl broke from Pickard and he gave ground. Roswell drove him savagely back, and, crashing into a table, they both fell over this and went rolling to the floor, the force of the fall breaking all grips.

  Roswell got his hands and knees under him and stumbled to his feet. He thought he did it swiftly, but to the avid, watching circle of spectators it was a slow and lunging effort. Even so, he was up ahead of Jess Pickard and he sighted on Pickard’s rising head and hammered his right fist home three times to Pickard’s temple.

  The first blow stopped Pickard’s attempt to get up. The second started him back to the floor. The third sent him all the way there, where he lay, sodden and helpless.

  Roswell shuffled back a couple of steps and stood with spread feet, bent slightly forward from the waist. Breath labored in and out of his lungs in hoarse gulps and his throat was slimed with a raw, harsh saltiness. The pulse of terrific and sustained effort thundered in his ears and his eyes felt hard and congested. For a long moment he stared down at his man. Then he began to mumble thickly, and only those close to him caught any part of the words.

  “Now, I’ll fix you . . . like you tried to fix me . . . beat your damned head in . . . beat it in.”

  He shuffled over to a chair, swung it high, moved back on Jess Pickard, held in a sort of deadly concentration. But then men moved in, got hold of him, took the chair away from him. One of them spoke, almost pleasantly.

  “Enough’s enough, lad. Murder’s an ugly thing. You’ve whipped them. Let it stop here.”

  Roswell tried to pull free, raging at them thickly. There were too many of them. And that same pleasant voice kept saying: “Easy, lad . . . easy. The thing’s done.”

  Finally he quieted. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, his head lifted, and he came around to face the room of crowded watchers, who accorded him a voiceless tribute to a first-class fighting man. No explanation was asked of him and he offered none. He started for the door, still none too steady on his feet.

  In the ruckus he’d lost his hat, but someone retrieved it and handed it to him. This was the ruddy-haired man who had been sitting at the table with the Pickards. Not only did the man return Roswell’s hat, but he took him by the arm and moved with him to the door. Roswell, still all a-jump inside with the fever of combat, would have pulled free, but the man’s grip tightened. And once more came that pleasant voice.

  “Easy, lad. I’d be your friend. Where that fellow put his knife into your arm, you’re leaking gore like a wounded buffalo. The arm needs looking after. I’m taking you where something can be done about it.”

  “Why should you give a damn?” demanded Roswell hoarsely. “Who are you?”

  “I’m interested because I like your style and I like the fight in you,” came the cheerful answer. “I’m looking for men who can handle themselves like you can. Me, I’m Jack Casement.”

  Chapter Three

  The cabin stood somewhat apart from the seething center of Fort Churchill. It glowed with light and the moment Clay Roswell stepped through the door the atmosphere of comfortable living enfolded him. The air was savory with the odors of warm food. From a rear room a clear voice called: “That you, Dad?”

  “Right, Kitts,” answered Jack Casement. “With a friend. Bring a basin of hot water, some towels, and some cloth for a bandage.”

  Casement dragged up a chair. “Take it easy, lad,” he told Roswell. “We’ll soon have that arm snugged up.”

  Roswell dropped into the chair thankfully, amazed how wobbly he felt and knowing a certain impatience with himself because of it. Jack Casement produced a flask. “Take a good drag,” he advised. “It’ll tie you together.”

  The liquor took hold immediately, wiping out the hollow gulf that lay under Roswell’s short ribs. The dullness that had blunted his sensibilities began to lift. He said: “This is a lot of bother to you.”

  Casement merely grunted and began peeling back the sleeve of the wounded arm.

  Heels tapped briskly and a girl came in from the rear room, carrying a steaming basin, some towels and cloth, and her words came on ahead of her.

  “What kind of casualty have you dragged home this time, Dad? You never will . . .” She broke off, her eyes widening. Then she exclaimed: “Why, it’s you . . . !”

  Roswell stirred, but said nothing. Jack Casement’s head came up. “What’s this . . . what’s this? Kitts, that sounded like you’d met this fellow before?”

  The girl, recovering from her start of surprise, nodded. “I have. That pole that fell off a wagon and broke Dan Stock’s leg? Well, I was in the way of it, too. This man got me clear. For thanks, I slapped his face. Of course, I didn’t understand at the moment why he . . . he . . .” She broke off, flushing a little.

  Roswell squirmed, from embarrassment as well as from the bite of hot water on the knife wound. “Just happened to be handy,” he muttered.

  “Be damned!” said Jack Casement. “They told me about Dan Stock, but nobody said anything about you being around, Kitts. You mean that pole which crippled Stock might have hit you, too?”

  “Not might, Dad. It surely would have, but for him.”

  “Well now,” said Casement tersely, bending to work on the wound again. “They’re adding up. The qualifications, I mean.”

  The girl looked at Casement keenly. “Qualifications? What are you talking about?”

  Casement grinned. “This and that. Maybe I was thinking out loud, Kitts.”

  Surprisingly deft at this sort of thing, Casement soon had the wound cleaned and bandaged. The snug press of the bandage was a definite comfort. Casement said: “That does it. Like another pull at the flask, lad?”

  Roswell shook his head. “Thanks. Maybe I better tag myself. The name is Clay Roswell.”

  Casement nodded. “This is my daughter, Katherine.” He added, twinkling: “So she slapped your face, eh, lad? Well, she always did have a temper.”

  The girl flushed again. “Now, Dad . . .”

  Came a knock at the cabin door and a call. “Reed Owen, folks!”

  The girl turned quickly and her summons was clear. “Come on in, Reed.”

  It was the big man with the long jaw and restless black eyes who had been at the table with Casement and the Pickards in the Shoshone Bar. He closed the door and put his back to it. His glance sought the girl and he smiled.

  “Just the way I like you best, Kitts. All crisp and neat in gingham and fresh from the kitchen.”

  The girl tossed her head, but her eyes smiled back at him. “Now if that isn’t a man for you. Using that kind of blarney to angle for an
invitation to supper. Well, you’re invited, Reed.”

  The big man looked at Roswell. “Had a hunch this was where you’d bring him, Jack. Your business, of course, but why all the interest? Jess and Hoke Pickard are the ones who could really stand a little of this kind of care. Me, I’m trying to figure out why you sided against them?”

  “I didn’t side against them,” said Casement. “I just got interested in Roswell, here. I sort of took a liking to his style.”

  “Meaning that you didn’t like that of the Pickards?”

  Casement shrugged, his words running a trifle blunt. “Long as you ask, no, I didn’t. It was your idea, remember, that we hire them on. I told you I was willing to have a talk with them, which I did. I didn’t promise anything beyond that. From the first I wasn’t too much impressed. Then, after the fireworks, I was certain I didn’t want them, while I did want this man here. Meet him. Clay Roswell. This is Reed Owen, my supply boss, Roswell. If what I hope is true . . . which is that you’re open to taking on a job with me . . . you’ll be working with him a lot.”

  Reed Owen acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod. “Nothing personal in this, you understand. But, Jack . . . what do you know about this fellow? You never laid eyes on him up to half an hour ago. And when you did, the circumstances were a little surprising, to say the least. He came barging in out of nowhere and, without warning or any apparent reason, tried to beat the brains out of a couple of good men with a chair. That the kind of recommendation you like, Jack?”

  “In this case, yes,” answered Casement dryly. “I just got a feeling in this matter, Reed. As for me knowing anything about Roswell, what do you know about the Pickards? They’ve been working for you about a month, hauling poles down out of the mountains. Beyond that, what? Hell, man, there’s precious little we know about any of those we hire. Out in country like this, men are a long ways away from the past years of their lives. About all we have to go on is just an instinct in such matters.”