The noise covered his approach until the last moment. Then his prey whirled to his left: a bad decision, as it turned out, since Sam’s swing with the tire iron caught him directly in the solar plexus. He grunted and doubled up, momentarily helpless; all according to plan, except that Sam himself nearly blacked out from the pain of the blow. Woozily he shoved his knee into the fellow’s back, forcing him to the floor, and felt for a weapon. There, stowed neatly in the back of his belt — more businesslike than a jacket pocket, he noted ruefully — was his own .45. Hurriedly, because his victim’s movements were becoming stronger, he patted under arms and along legs. Nothing. If he were real lucky, this guy wasn’t carrying anything else; if not, well, there was going to be trouble later.
He sprang up just as an arm reached purposefully around towards him; then he backed away and flipped the light switch with his elbow. “Get up, Dwayne,” he said.
Dwayne Patterson straightened slowly and turned to face him.
His eyes flicked from Sam’s face to his right arm, registered what they saw, then moved automatically to the shiny object on the ground beside him.
“Forget the hypodermic,” Sam growled, and saw with satisfaction that Patterson looked startled. “Go on into the tack room.” He motioned with the gun, hoping he looked more commanding than he felt.
The stallion had quieted, and in the still, heavy air Peggy’s breathing was ragged. Sam gestured towards the telephone on the desk and spoke carefully. “I want you to dial a number, push the receiver towards me, and then go sit against the wall.”
He watched while Dwayne followed these instructions, expressionless; then he laid down the gun for an instant to cradle the receiver against his shoulder. One ring. He had figured he could get one phone call out of Patterson, and had chosen carefully. But he might have chosen wrong. Two rings. He could feel the sweat on his forehead; if nobody answered he would execute Plan B, which was to make Patterson drive both of them into town. But he doubted he could maintain control in that situation. Three rings... four...
“Hi,” said Tom Martelli’s voice. “Tom!” Sam replied with relief, but Tom was still talking. “You have reached the Martelli residence. We’re unable to come to—”
Hell! The goddamn machine!
He glanced at Patterson. What had he heard? His face was impassive. Sam started speaking rapidly in what he hoped was a conversational manner, covering the electronic beep which sounded like a Chinese gong in the quiet room.
“Yeah, I’m out here at Glenda Cannon’s. With Dwayne Patterson — what?” He paused for Tom’s nonexistent interruption, then resumed. “I’ll explain when you get here. To EastWind. And better bring some backup.” Another pause, then, “Okay. See you soon.”
His hand shook as he replaced the receiver. Stage fright. He was no good at this kind of performance, and he thought he detected a sardonic smile on Patterson’s face. Maybe he had heard that 120-decibel beep and seen through the ruse immediately.
He looked at his watch. It was ten-fifteen. If he got home by ten-thirty, if he listened to his machine, if he understood Sam’s message and its urgency, he could be here by eleven...
The adrenaline was ebbing and his arm was throbbing. He tried to relax, setting the revolver casually on the desk and resting his hand on top of it. After all, this wasn’t a homicidal maniac he was dealing with; this guy had killed a couple of horses, that was all.
Somehow he wasn’t comforted. He looked at his watch again. 11:07, and damn! his arm hurt. He began to talk in a rambling, discursive fashion, ignoring Patterson’s stony stare.
“Water. That’s what it’s all about; that’s what you need, Dwayne, right? Well, Glenda’s land adjoins yours, and I just realized tonight that she’s over the line. She’s in the Parkerville Irrigation District, not in Westside. So she’s got cheap water; you pay a hundred twenty dollars an acre foot and she pays twenty, right? You need this ranch, Dwayne. And Glenda won’t sell it.
“And then I thought about the horses. Sure, Eddie Froelich could have poisoned ’em; he knew all about selenium and locoweed. But so did you. Hell, I told you!”
He laughed, but stopped abruptly as the shock waves radiated up his arm. Patterson still watched impassively.
“I guess you figured you’d either scare her out or bankrupt her. You might even have written those letters!” he added, moving the revolver to the edge of the desk. He opened the drawer and glanced down for a moment, looking for aspirin, whiskey, anything to numb himself a little.
Suddenly Peggy moaned and stirred. He looked toward the cot, frowning in concern, as she drew a long, uneven breath. When he turned back again, Dwayne was standing, a tight smile stretched across his face. It took Sam a few seconds to see the small-caliber pistol pointed at his head.
9.
“The difference between you and me, Sam,” Patterson said in his relaxed Texas drawl, “is credibility. I never believed you would use that thing,” motioning towards the .45, “and I never believed you could hit anything with it left-handed, even if you did. I, on the other hand, am fully prepared to blow your head off. And hers. I know it, and you’re about to find out.” The gun clicked.
“But Martelli knows you’re here! You heard me tell him!”
“Yep. But that’s my problem. Stand up.”
Sam complied very slowly, wondering what his chances were of scooping up his gun, aiming, and shooting before Dwayne’s bullet entered his brain. Nil, he concluded. But it looked like his only chance—
The door of the tack room scraped open behind him.
He saw Dwayne’s eyes widen and felt a brief surge of hope: Martelli!
“What are you doing here?” Patterson demanded. Not Martelli, then; who could it possibly—
“I came to see what was taking so long,” said a husky voice.
Glenda’s voice.
Sam whirled. “Glenda,” he yelled, in a stupid, abortive attempt to warn her — and then he took in what she had said.
“Get over here,” Patterson growled. She walked slowly past Sam, not looking at him until she reached Patterson. Then she turned and faced him. Dwayne grabbed her in a kind of chokehold, left forearm across her throat as if holding her hostage, and for a moment Sam thought he had misunderstood her after all. Then she settled back against Patterson’s bulky body with a small proud smile.
Glenda and Dwayne?
Listen, sucker, Glenda’s never alone.
But Dwayne Patterson? He was fat, and old — old enough to be her father!
And she really missed her father.
“Bastard got away,” Patterson grunted.
“Got away?” echoed Glenda. “What’s he doing here, then?”
“He came back.”
She looked curiously at Sam, who was dizzy with pain and incomprehension. “Peggy,” he mumbled in answer to her unspoken question.
“Peggy!” She shook her head disbelievingly. “Poor Sam. Sucker to the last.”
Ignoring that chilling to the last, he made a real effort to pull himself together. “I don’t understand, Glenda. You were killing your own horses?”
“Just the two,” she said unhappily. “It was Dwayne’s idea, it was the only way. We were going to merge the ranches, but we needed capital—”
“The insurance money,” Sam broke in, and she nodded. “And the deaths had to be accidental for you to collect, and I was about to screw that up.” She nodded again. “But why, Glenda,” he burst out, “why did you involve me in the first place? Was it pure malice? What had I ever done to you?”