Travelin' Money Read online

  Joe’s leg had begun hurting again. He wasn’t eager to swing back into the saddle, so he led the black out the door and stood waiting in the darkness for his dinner companion to arrive. The moon was settling wearily in the west, dropping behind the long ranks of pines on the peaks beyond the town. People passed. Across the street two sedate looking business types walked the plankwalk, arm in arm with two well-dressed ladies. Along the boulevard a trio of roistering cowboys raced from one end of main street to the other.

  The stranger from the restaurant did not appear.

  Nor did he come in the next hour. Joe figured he had been hoodwinked. He did not blame a man down on his luck for cadging a meal, but he had cost Joe valuable time. It was getting to be too late to accomplish anything. He led the black into the stable again, unsaddled under the puzzled squint of the man there, and went off to look for a place to catch some sleep.

  At first light Joe left the boarding house where he had spent the night with eight or ten other hard-luck men and began walking the streets. The courthouse was a red-brick, two-storied affair with four young elm trees planted at equal distances before it. Obviously new, the building was probably the town pride. He mounted the steps and went in. The courthouse was not open yet, but Joe searched the neatly-painted directory, and found what he wanted. The records division would certainly have a list of all local landowners, and maps of the area. Joe found a seat on the polished wooden bench in front of the office and sat down to wait.

  Two men, both wearing badges passed him by, boot heels clicking against the oak flooring. The taller of the two, a man with neatly parted hair, wearing a red shirt and brown twill trousers, wore the distinctive badge of a United States marshal. Joe had only seen one such ever before, down in Phoenix. Neither man even glanced his way as he sagged further on to the bench, feeling distinctly guilty. As he thought about it, perhaps he did have reasons to be uneasy around the men with the tin stars: the stolen money he had been transporting, the deaths of Solomon and Moses at his hands. … The two men entered a room at the end of the hall, closed the door and were gone from sight.

  Joe rubbed his face with his hands, tilted his head back and waited for the county clerks to arrive.

  Half an hour later, Joe was on his way again. The friendly if drowsy clerks in the land office had shown him the small, twenty-acre parcel which was the Epps family holding. It was only a few miles out of town, he had been told, on a seasonal creek called the Tropic, on the sunrise side of Flagstaff.

  The black, perhaps feeling better after its feeding, moved out eagerly across the hum-mocked land where the pines were thinner, but the grass thicker. Joe passed several small man-made ponds where disinterested cattle and a few horses glanced up at him. The black horse thought they should investigate some of the standing stock which included some young mares, but Joe kept the animal’s head pointed straight ahead, kneeing it onward.

  Shortly before noon he came upon the small white house. It looked as described on the property lists – square, low-built. It had a green roof and was surrounded by an insignificant barn and half a dozen outbuildings: a smokehouse, tool shed and henhouse among them. Beyond the house was a corral and to one side, in the shade of the trees, a pigsty.

  There were four horses in the corral, but none tied at the hitchrail before the house, and no people evident as Joe made his way cautiously through the stand of pines toward the house. No smoke rose from the stone chimney. A red dog yapped at him once and then scurried away, hiding its tail between its legs.

  Deciding not to call out to the house in case someone was watching for him over a rifle’s gun-sights, Joe eased the black horse to the sundown side of the place and dropped its reins, swinging down in the yard to ease his way around to the front door.

  No one called out, and he could hear no one moving about inside or out. Either no one was there or they were waiting to confront him. The owners of the house, he knew from the records he had seen, were Rachel and John Epps. What relationship, if any, they had with the Malloy gang, he could not guess.

  In the front of the house where a tall twin pine tree stood, Joe eased up on to the wooden porch. He crouched low under the front window and moved to the door, his hand on his gun. He would have drawn it but he had not come with the intention of frightening older, innocent people. He only wanted to find Marcie, Trace Banner and Tess’s stolen money. He rapped on the door and waited impatiently.

  It seemed a long time before he heard beyond the white-painted door, the shuffling of feet, slow unsteady movements and a muffled sound like a hiccup. The door swung suddenly open and Joe found himself facing an old woman who walked with a cane. Her hair was white, tied back in a bun, her small eyes blue and foxy. She could be Marcie’s mother, probably was. Although the woman was old she did not seem to have collected any of the flab on her body that age can deliver. Small, seemingly brightly alert, she smiled at Joe and asked briskly:

  ‘What would you be wanting, young fellow?’

  ‘I came looking for Marcie … and Trace Banner. If they’re here, I’d like to talk to them.’

  ‘I see.’ The old woman’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a member of the Malloy Company, then?’

  It took Joe a moment to compose his answer. ‘No, but I’ve had dealings with them.’ The old woman seemed to have been convinced that the Malloy gang was some legitimate business concern in which her daughter held an interest. She smiled at Joe.

  ‘Well, come in out of the sun. I’m the only one home just now. They’ve gone off somewhere – you know how young people are. My name’s Rachel Epps, by the way. I’m Marcie’s mother.’ On her cane she hobbled toward the back of the house, where apparently the kitchen lay.

  ‘Sit down, young man.’ she called. ‘I’ve got a fresh pitcher of spring water to cool you down. Then we can talk, if you like, or you can just sit and wait for Marcie to get back. I understand there has been some sort of problem with the ownership,’ she called around the corner as Joe found a seat on a worn green sofa. ‘One of the managers passed away?’

  Joe again had to pause to frame an answer. Finally he said, ‘I think that’s what happened. I myself am working for Tess Malloy – it’s a personal matter.’

  ‘I see.’ Rachel Epps emerged from the kitchen, holding a silver tray in one hand. It held a glass of water and a small stack of oatmeal cookies. ‘I thought you might like a bite to eat,’ she said. ‘A young man like you. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a proper meal, but breakfast’s already done and I’ve just now finished cleaning up after,’ She placed the tray down gingerly on the small table beside the sofa.

  ‘There’s no need to apologize,’ Joe said. He took one of the cookies and bit into it. It was very good, rich with molasses. He turned to say so to Rachel when he saw the old woman, her mouth twisted into a tight grimace wielding a black fireplace poker. She had it raised high with both hands, ready to club down with it. Joe’s first thought was:

  Not my head again!

  He spun away, overturning the tray on the table and threw up a protective arm as the poker arced down at his head. He would never have thought that such a small, elderly woman could deliver a blow with so much force, but the poke, driving down from overhead struck his shoulder with enough force to temporarily deaden his arm.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Rachel screamed out. ‘Why don’t all you people just leave us alone!’

  With her rage expired, her strength seemed to leave her. She staggered forward one step and then fell to the floor, the poker clattering free. Joe Sample managed to pick the woman up and stretch her out on the sofa. When she came around, she clutched at her breast, her throat and then put her hand to her mouth. Joe gave her a sip of the water she had brought to him. Then he sat down facing her.

  ‘Why did you try to hit me?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked drily. ‘They told me that men were after them – killers.’

  ‘You mean Marcie and Trace Banner told you that?’

  ‘That’s right. My
daughter. She said that she and Trace were trying to make a break from the gang.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Into town to buy a carriage. They’re going down to Tucson – that’s where Trace is from. They’re going to buy a house there and live like honest folks.’

  Joe said nothing to disillusion the woman who had obviously been told a series of believable lies to comfort her.

  ‘They said they had finally saved enough to go straight,’ Rachel said in a near-croak. Joe watched her eyes, seeing a hint of doubt behind them. Again he said nothing to dissuade the old woman. Instead he stood and asked:

  ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘The what? I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Of course you do. It’s in a green metal box.’

  ‘If I don’t tell you, do you mean to kill me?’ Rachel asked. She looked older with each passing minute.

  ‘I try not to make a habit of killing people,’ Joe answered. ‘It’s just that that money belongs to someone else. I intend to take it back to her.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ Rachel said in a trembling voice. ‘I guess I knew. It’s on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboards, on the right side. Trace put it up there before they left for town.’

  ‘Would you like another sip of water?’ Joe asked. Rachel’s eyes were closed. Her head rocked from side to side.

  ‘No; just do what you must and leave me alone, will you?’

  Despite indications that the woman was exhausted and unaware of what was actually happening, Joe kept his eye on her as he walked into the kitchen searching for the strongbox. After all, she had tried to brain him with that poker. Fortunately, it seemed that Trace Banner was no taller than Joe himself, for by opening the cupboard door and running his hand along the shelf, he was able to find the box.

  Pulling it down, he opened the green box again. Most of the money was still there. It seemed to him that five or six of the twenty-dollar gold pieces that had been in the small wooden rack were now missing, however. Money to be spent on a horse and carriage in Flagstaff, he guessed.

  Joe walked back into the living room, the box under his arm. Rachel lay with her eyes closed, the wrist of her right hand over her face. Joe sighed and asked:

  ‘Will you be all right, ma’am?’

  ‘As soon as you leave, I’ll be fine,’ she said in a particularly bitter voice.

  Joe wondered if Marcie and Trace had not promised the old woman a share of the money to comfort her in her later years. It didn’t matter now – he was still going to return the cash to Tess Malloy. That was all he cared about. Whatever machinations they had been up to did not matter a bit to him.

  He stepped out into the sun-bright yard. Fine dust blew across him beyond the twin pines standing there. It was being stirred up by the four-wheeled carriage being briskly drawn by matched bay horses approaching the house.

  EIGHT

  Trace Banner was not a happy man. Marcie Malloy was in a fury. She had recognized Joe Sample from a distance. Trace Banner, scowling, drove the covered buggy as if he were a messenger from hell. Joe Sample had not seen the grim-faced, dark-eyed Trace Banner before, but the look he got from Banner as the man pulled the carriage to a stop was one he might have gotten from a life-long, hated enemy.

  It was the strongbox under Joe’s arm, of course, that had triggered this dark rage.

  Marcie leaped from the carriage before it had even halted, her small blue hat twisted to one side. She was a writhing, cursing, stuttering dervish as she reached toward Joe, trying to tear the shallow green box from his grasp.

  ‘It’s mine!’ she continued to scream as Banner slowly knotted the reins of the two-horse buggy around the brake lever and stepped down, his manner cool, his eyes like coal fire.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Joe said with a calm patience which infuriated the little blue-eyed doll even more. ‘I’m taking it back where it belongs.’ He noticed, glancing back, that Rachel had appeared on the front porch, her hands empty, her own eyes ablaze. ‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere,’ Trace Banner said with quiet menace. He had his pistol in his hand, and the hammer was already drawn back.

  ‘Afraid so,’ Joe said with more confidence than he felt. The mock bravado was probably useless – Trace Banner didn’t seem to be the sort who would back down.

  ‘Why?’ Banner asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

  ‘I made my promise to Pierce Malloy,’ Joe said. In Joe’s mind that settled everything.

  It did not, however, to Banner or to Marcie who shrieked ‘Pierce is dead! You told me that yourself.’

  ‘Obligations can live on after death,’ Joe said. Trace Banner laughed.

  ‘What kind of crazy are you? Dead men don’t come back haunting.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Joe began to explain as the dry wind washed over them and Rachel stood on the porch, her hands clenching and unclenching. ‘But it is—’ Joe never got to the end of his sentence. He was interrupted by Trace Banner who lifted his pistol and snarled:

  ‘I’m tired of listening to your foolishness.’

  As Banner triggered off, Joe turned away and snatched at his own holstered pistol. Banner’s shot sang off the metal box, twisting it from Joe’s hand. Joe flung himself to one side against the dry earth, firing twice as he fell. Both shots missed Banner who took two steps forward, raised his pistol and instructed Marcie, ‘Grab the strongbox, girl,’ and then turned his sights again toward Joe.

  ‘You, cowboy …’ Banner said disparagingly, but he was talking too much, achieving too little. A man who lived by the gun should have known better. Joe rolled away and fired two hasty shots from his back. One was a near-miss, the second caught Trace Banner in the abdomen.

  Gut-shot, Banner grabbed at his belly with his gun hand, folding over, sudden fear in his black eyes. Joe, seated against the earth, shot him again with deliberate aim, and Banner took a spinning .44 slug in his heart, jolting him backwards.

  Rachel cried out some shrill curse; Marcie began screaming again. Banner lay still on the earth. Joe rose slowly and snatched up the green strongbox Marcie had been reaching for. There was a bullet-caused groove in it now. Marcie looked at him with her blue eyes misted and then darted toward the body of the gunman. She collapsed over him, sobbing. Joe couldn’t tell if it was the loss of Trace or the money she was mourning. Rachel had become a mummy. The old lady hesitated and then silently hobbled from the porch into the shelter of her home.

  Both women had lost their hopes for the future within a matter of seconds.

  Joe did not feel guilty, although events had shaken him. He stumbled toward his black horse, his leg again throbbing as a result of his sudden movements. Stuffing the cash box angrily into his saddle-bags, he swung aboard heavily and turned the black horse’s head with a sharp jerk of the reins. Offended, the horse tossed its head, then settled and started along the lane toward the road to Flagstaff.

  The dry wind blew, lifting dust into Joe’s eyes. He was angry, tired and disgusted with himself and everyone else. He had had just about enough of this trek. If some ragged woman with a couple of orphans at her side would have approached him just then and asked for a few cents, Joe would have given her the entire fortune and ridden away. There were no orphans passing by, however.

  Tess Malloy was waiting for him, he knew. He wondered if the outlaw gang had returned from their excursion, wherever they had been, and if they would be grateful to Joe or in a mood to cause trouble.

  Halfway to the road Joe saw three men on lathered horses approaching him through a veil of dust. He had never seen them before, but he knew them on sight. Who else would be riding so hard to find the thieving Marcie? Who else would know where she could be found? Joe slowed his horse and watched as Cornish, Stiles and Frank Singleton whipped their ponies toward him.

  He thought briefly of trying to flee. His horse was fresh; theirs looked worn to the nub. But the black could not outrun a bullet. Besides, he decided, he had done nothing to these m
en, outlaws though they might be, they wouldn’t shoot him down for nothing – or would they? He drew his horse to the side of the lane and waited.

  These last members of the Malloy gang halted before him in a swirl of dust. Their horses shuddered, the men were breathing hard, their faces glossed with sweat. They each wore dusters, but the long coats, open, did little to conceal the small arsenal of weapons each man was carrying. Not a one of them carried less than two revolvers, and Joe could make out the hilt of a stag-handled bowie knife riding on the belt of their leader.

  He was lanky, wore a thin mustache and had large, somehow brutal looking hands. His reddish hat was tugged low to shield suspicious eyes from the glare of the sun.

  ‘Thought you might have been someone else,’ this man said, The two flanking him were both angry looking, solidly built men. Their horses bowed their head in weariness. They had been ridden long and hard. Presumably Tess had told the men where she believed Marcie and Banner could be found, as she had told Joe.

  One of the flanking riders asked roughly, ‘Do you know Trace Banner?’

  ‘Not to shake hands with,’ Joe answered.

  ‘But you seen him, right? Up at the house?’

  ‘I saw him.’ Joe saw no point in denying it. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Is he?’ Their leader, whom Joe took to be Frank Singleton, asked with suspicion.

  ‘Yes. Shot dead,’ Joe explained.

  ‘Who did it?’ Singleton demanded.

  ‘I did. I didn’t like his manner,’ Joe said. ‘That is, he was trying to kill me.’

  ‘I see,’ Singleton said, rubbing his chin, Joe watched their hands warily, not knowing their mood. ‘Was Marcie with him?’

  ‘Marcie?’ Joe asked blankly.

  ‘His woman,’ the second man said. ‘Little blue-eyed doll.’

  ‘She’s still with him.’ Joe admitted.

  ‘I see …’ Singleton said. Then coldly he asked, ‘What’s your name, stranger?’

  ‘Joe Sample,’ Joe said, growing uneasy.

  ‘He’s the one!’ the second man shouted, making a move toward his gun.