“Yes,” he said sleepily into the receiver.
“It’s four-thirty, Mr. Fletcher,” said the operator’s voice.
“So what?” Johnny snapped and slammed the receiver back on the hook. But then he remembered and threw back the bed covers.
He walked groggily into the bathroom, switched on the light and closed the door. He peeled off his pajamas, and turning on the cold water in the shower, stepped under it. In one second he was fully awake and gasping.
After a moment he turned off the water and stepping out, rubbed himself dry with a towel. Leaving the bathroom door partly open so the light from it would shine into the bedroom, he came out and dressed himself quickly.
Finished, he looked at Sam Cragg still sleeping. Shaking his head he unlatched the door and stepped out into the chill dawn. He shot a quick glance at Number 23, but saw that the room was dark.
He circled the cabana and headed for a long, low stable about a hundred yards away. As he approached he noted two or three horses, already saddled and tied to a corral pole. A man was curry-combing one of the horses.
“Mornin’, sir!”
“My name’s Fletcher,” Johnny said. “I ordered a horse for this morning.”
“Yes, sir, this is it right here...”
The horse shied away skittishly. Johnny pointed at it. “That’s for me? I told them I wanted a, uh, gentle horse...”
“Oh, he’s gentle as a kitten. We generally save him for the ladies...”
The horse turned his head and snapped at the groom. He wasn’t playful about it, either. Johnny regarded the animal gloomily and cursed himself for being fool enough to attempt a sunrise gallop.
The man regarded Johnny skeptically. “Goin’ to ride without boots?”
“I used to ride without shoes,” Johnny snapped. He approached the horse warily. “As a matter of fact, I’m not quite ready... I’m waiting for Mrs. Langford...”
“Oh, she pulled out five minutes ago. You’ll have to ride a bit to catch her...”
“Which way’d she go?”
The groom pointed west. “Be light enough in ten minutes to see...” He put out his hands, locked together to help Johnny mount. “Ready?”
Johnny put his foot into the cupped hands and was tossed into the saddle. The horse promptly reared and pranced about. But the groom quieted him down and Johnny got his feet into the stirrups.
“Just keep a firm grip on the reins, Mr. Fletcher,” the groom advised. “And if he gets fancy whack him one or two across the ears. He won’t like that at all...”
He let go of the bridle and the horse started off like a race horse. Johnny jerked desperately on the reins, but he might as well have been pulling back on the Sante Fe Super Chief. The animal tore off across the desert, apparently intent on lowering the six-furlong record.
Johnny had been on a horse exactly one and one-half times previously: as a ten-year-old boy, he had once gone ponyriding. That counted for the half. The full time was when he had mounted a horse in his early twenties and had been promptly thrown from it.
He almost wished now that the horse would throw him. In fact, if it had been a little lighter, so that he could pick a soft spot he would have tumbled off of his own accord. But as it was, he was compelled to cling to the pommel with both hands and trust to luck.
The “gentle” horse galloped for about a mile and a half, then slowed to a canter and finally a walk. By that time it had gotten light enough for Johnny to see, and he discovered a horse and rider standing a couple of hundred yards ahead. It was Jane Langford.
His horse whickered and trotted forward.
“Good morning,” Jane Langford said, quite coolly as Johnny came up. “I didn’t expect you out so early.”
“Why not?” retorted Johnny. “I had a lovely sleep of at least two hours.”
“And your friend? Did he sleep...” she cleared her throat, “...in or out of jail?”
“Oh, I got him out... I hear he got in that fight sticking up for you.”
“I’m sorry he did. It’s not going to help me any, you know... Well, shall we ride?”
Johnny grimaced. “Do we have to?”
“Isn’t that what you came out for?”
“No — I came out to have a talk with you. There’s been so damn much traffic around you I haven’t had a chance.”
She touched the flank of her horse lightly with her quirt and it moved off. Johnny’s mount trotted beside the other horse. For a moment Jane rode in silence, then she looked sidewards at Johnny.
“Mr. Fletcher, I’ve been hearing all sorts of strange stories about you. They can’t possibly be true, but I can’t help wondering. Things have been happening ever since your arrival and, well... just who — and what — are you?”
“Believe it or not,” said Johnny, “I’m a book salesman.”
“It’s too early in the morning for joking, Mr. Fletcher...”
“The name is Johnny — and I’m not joking. I am a book salesman. Isn’t that one of the stories you’ve been hearing about me?”
“That’s one I haven’t heard. But I did hear that... well, that a dead man was found in your room last night.”
“Who told you that?”
She shrugged. “As a matter of fact, it was the night maid. And she was so scared I’m almost inclined to believe...”
“That it’s true? Well, it is...”
Her eyes remained fixed on his face. “Who... was it?”
“I understand he used to be a blackjack dealer at El Casa Rancho... a man named Harry Bloss...”
She inhaled sharply. “Why, I know him! He... the maid said he was... mur... murdered?”
Johnny nodded. “But not in my room.”
“Where, then?”
“In Death Valley.”
She exclaimed softly, “How... how do you know?”
“That’s the really strange part of the story. I found him in Death Valley. He died in my arms... and I left him in Death Valley. Then twenty-four hours later he appeared in Las Vegas, two hundred miles away. I didn’t bring him here.”
“But that’s absurd. No one would transport a dead man all that distance just to... to put him in your room.”
“Somebody did.”
“Who?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“You mean — you suspect somebody?”
“I do.”
“Who?”
Johnny was silent for a moment. Jane Langford continued to watch him.
Then Johnny said, “Are you going through with your divorce tomorrow?”
“Why, of course I am.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“No,” she said, suddenly decisive. “You... you think I’m involved in that... that...”
“Are you?” asked Johnny suddenly.
Color flooded her cheeks. “Now wait a minute, Johnny Fletcher...”
Johnny suddenly pointed off to the southwest. “There’s a ranch over there, isn’t there?”
“Why, yes, but I don’t see...”
“Chatsworth’s, isn’t it?”
Anger caused her to flush even more. “Yes, Chatsworth’s ranch is over there — approximately five miles from here, as the crow flies. And just what are you insinuating by that?”
“You were the first person I saw coming into Las Vegas yesterday. I picked you up on the highway, just about a mile from here — four miles from Chatsworth’s ranch...”
“Go on.” There was a dangerous note in her voice.
“You ride very well,” Johnny said coolly.
“Meaning that my horse didn’t throw me yesterday morning? That I was coming from Chatsworth’s ranch... walking home, so to speak...?”
“Your husband,” said Johnny, “is quite sun-tanned. But I noticed that the tan is a bit recent — a little on the sunburned side.”