Unhitching the team, he tied them to a wagon wheel, found a hammer in the wagon and headed for the row of dark, quiet buildings.
Back of the frame structure that served as the jail and marshal’s office, he crouched in the darkness, ears strained for the sounds that did not come.
The town was deathly quiet. Every man who was able to ride, he knew, was pounding out along the trail that the stage had taken, hunting for Carolyn.
He crept along the building, came to a halt beneath the window barred by heavy planking.
«Westman!» he whispered, softly.
The silence held.
Crouching against the building, Harrison felt the first chill of apprehension and doubt steal across his mind. Maybe he was wrong … maybe.
But somehow it all linked up. The men who had stopped him on the trail, the holdup of the stage, Dunham leading the posse, Carolyn’s disappearance, Westman here in jail when he should be in the jail at Rattlesnake.
«Westman!» he called again.
Faint sounds of stirring came from inside and he heard the soft thud of feet crossing the floor toward the window.
A cautious voice came out of the darkness.
«That you, Spike?»
«Not Spike,» said Harrison. «It’s Johnny Harrison.»
He saw the man’s face faintly, a white smudge in the darkness behind the planking.
«Harrison!» The man’s voice hissed through the night. «Say, you’re the hombre …»
«Yes, I’m the one,» said Harrison.
«You better keep out of that lawdog’s way,» warned Westman. «He’s ripe to claw your guts out.»
«He had a chance to just a while ago,» said Harrison, «and he didn’t do it.»
«What you want?» asked Westman.
«Not a thing,» said Harrison. «Figured maybe you’d like to get out of here.»
Westman laughed softly, but he didn’t answer.
«Got a hammer with me,» Harrison told him. «Think I can get these planks off.»
«What’s the deal? Spike send you?»
«No one sent me,» Harrison told him. «It’s all my own idea. Need a place to do some hiding. Thought you could lead me to it.»
«So that’s it,» Westman said.
Harrison waited, ears strained for any sound along the street. None came.
«All right,» Westman said, finally. «Start ripping off them boards.»
Harrison reached up with the hammer, worked the claws under the edge of the lower plank and pried. The spikes squealed faintly, protesting.
Harrison tugged savagely, bearing down upon the hammer handle. The plank came free and hands from the inside reached out and pushed it away to clear the window.
«Just a minute,» said Harrison. «I’ll have another one.»
«Don’t bother,» panted Westman. «This is big enough.»
His hands gripped the window ledge and his head and shoulders came through, thrusting, struggling. Harrison dropped the hammer and reached out to help.
On the ground, Westman ran exploring hands over his body. «Skinned up some,» he said, «but nothing serious. You got horses?»
«Team and wagon. You’ll have to ride in that.»
Westman made a motion of disgust. «We could pick up a couple.»
Harrison shook his head. «Can’t take the chance. You’ll be safer in the wagon than in a saddle. No one would think of looking for you there.»
Back at the wagon, Westman helped hitch up the team and climbed up on the seat. Harrison picked up the reins. «Which way?» he asked.
«Head for Rattlesnake,» Westman told him and there was an ugliness in his voice that had not been there before.
Harrison clucked and the team started. The dry wheel squeaked.
Westman swore. «Can’t you do something about that wheel?»
«Probably could,» Harrison admitted, «but I never did get around to it. Just sit back and take it easy. Nothing’s going to happen.»
He headed north, striking across the prairie toward the trail that ran to Rattlesnake. A pale moon came up, a sickle in the sky playing hide and seek with clouds. The wind rustled the tall, dry grass and from some wooded ravine an owl complained. Half an hour later they struck the trail.
Westman stirred restlessly, eyes keeping watch on the faint, night horizon.
«Better split your guns with me,» he suggested.
«The guns stay with me,» Harrison told him, crisply.
Westman flared. «What the hell! I …»
«Just playing it close to my belt,» said Harrison calmly. «You and I made a deal and I aim to see that you carry out your end of it.»
The trail wound into broken ground, the level road giving way to steep pitches and sharp turns. Hills studded with scrub pine made a jigsaw skyline.
Westman fidgeted. «I heard something.»
«Imagination,» snapped Harrison.
«Like a horse.»
Somewhere in the darkness a shod hoof struck a stone with ringing noise.
Westman wheeled swiftly in the seat, hand clawing for Harrison’s right hand gun.
«Hey!» yelled Harrison, but the man already was rising to his feet, gun gripped in his hand. With one, swift motion he was gone, leaping out and away from the wagon. A thud came out of the darkness and then the rustle of bushes.
A voice bellowed: «Stick ’em up!» Harrison pulled the team to a stop, slowly raised his hands, trying to make out the shadowy figure of the man and horse beside the trail.
Marshal Haynes sat the horse, a stolid, square-shouldered figure, teeth gleaming in his beard, moonlight shining on the gun he held.
«Lucky thing that I had to come back,» he said. «Lucky thing no one thought to take along a lantern.»
Another horse moved in the darkness, came alongside the marshal’s.
The voice of Ben, the bartender, spoke: «Both of them here, marshal?»
The marshal roared at Harrison. «What did you do with Westman?»
Harrison pretended surprise. «Westman? You must be loco, marshal. I don’t know any Westman.»
«You helped him break out of jail,» the marshal grated. «When I wouldn’t let him out when you threatened me, you came back and let him out. Ben, here, heard that squeaky wheel of yours when you and Westman drove off.»
«Didn’t think nothing about it, at the time,» said Ben. «But when Al here came steaming into the place yelling that Westman was gone, I remembered it.»
«What did you do with him?» the marshal roared. «Where you got him hid?»
His gun arm leveled suddenly and the gun belched searing fire. The canvas cover of the wagon jerked and a pan clanged with the impact of the bullet. The gun bellowed again and yet again.
The marshal yelled. «You, Westman, come out of there. Ain’t no use in hiding. If you don’t …»
«Ah, hell,» said Ben. «He ain’t there. Let’s just take Johnny back and hang him instead.»
«You sure have run yourself up an awful bill with all that promiscuous shooting,» Harrison told Haynes. «I’ll tell you what it is soon as I figure up the damage.»
The marshal’s voice was icy with rage. «Smart-aleck, eh? I’ll fix it so there won’t be no bill.»
Jangling bells of alarm rang in Harrison’s brain … bells set off by the murderous intent that ran through the marshal’s voice. He surged up out of the seat, hand going back to the left gun-butt. But he knew he’d never make it. Back in Sundown the marshal had had a head start and he’d beat him to the draw, but you can’t beat a man who already has his fist wrapped around a gun.
A six-gun roared, stabbing with an orange finger through the dark and the marshal screamed in pain and rage as the gun flew from his hand.