Puzzled, Grant stood for a moment in front of the dugout. The name of Valois had thrown up a barrier of ice between them. Now, stronger than ever, he felt his instincts warning him of trouble ahead—and at the same time his notion of clearing out was getting weaker. When the idea occurred to him he remembered the day before when Rhea had been soft and willing in his arms. It was a thing he could not forget. At one time or another in every man's life he toys with the thought of love—and Joe Grant guessed that was what he was doing now.
The Muller saddle horse was a claybank stallion that they kept in the dry grass along the banks of Slush Creek. Grant brought the animal up to the bunk tent, dragged his rig from under his cot and cinched it down on the claybank's back. The puzzle of Turk Valois still bothered him as he swung up to the saddle.
It was midmorning when Grant rode into the noise, mud, and confusion of Sabo. More tents and cardboard huts had sprung up overnight and the traffic of heavy freighters was heavier than ever. Grant swung over to the side of the road and called to a teamster. “I'm looking for a man named Valois, a runner. You know him?”
“Mister, everybody knows Turk Valois, but you won't find him in Sabo. You better try the Wheel House in Kiefer.”
Grant lifted a hand in a vague salute and swung to the west on the main road to Kiefer. He rode along the edge of the congested road watching the endless chain of wagons headed for the Glenn ranch, and he began to notice how the men and even the horses looked alike in their urgency and greed. No one looked in his direction; they were too preoccupied to bother with strangers.
He had wanted to run for Texas, but now he knew that right here in the Creek Nation was the safest place he could possibly be. As he entered Kiefer, he observed the crowds working like ants along the stilted sidewalks. This man could be a killer, that one a thief—nobody cared.
He felt relief wash over him and suddenly had the impulse to laugh out loud. Nobody cared!
He rode the length of Kiefer's mile-long Main Street of shanties and shacks, stores and dance halls, illegal saloons and cribs, all wide open and brazen and noisy. They would never find him here!
For the first time in many hours he felt completely free and unhunted. He could let himself be caught up in this new kind of excitement and forget that he had ever known a man named Ortway or had robbed a bank in Joplin.
The Wheel House was part hotel, part gambling house and saloon. Grant tied up in the street and stepped up to the raised sidewalk; he shoved through the flow of humanity and into the interior of the Wheel House. The lobby was a mill of oilmen, strange men speaking strange languages, men clad in dirty corduroys and high-laced boots. The hotel desk was against the back wall; off to one side there was a long counter where cooks ladled steaming stew from an iron kettle; on the other side there were tables for gambling and drinking. The building was heated by several big oil-drum stoves against the walls and the air was rank and steamy.
Grant stood for a moment in the doorway thinking that this was Dodge all over again, except nowadays men wore their guns under their arms or in their waistbands instead of on their hips. He noticed the expressionless faces at the card tables—they were the same. And the easy-going drifters with the quick eyes. Everything was the same except for the dress and hidden guns, but it was on a larger scale than Dodge had ever known.
Grant moved inside and made his way back to the hotel desk where a blunt-faced man said, “No vacancy, mister,” without bothering to look at him.
“I'm looking for Turk Valois.”
“He ain't here. You hirin' or lookin' for work?” It was a fair question; lease owners and roustabouts dressed alike in Kiefer.
“Hiring,” Grant said, and nodded at a table. “I'll be over there.”
He took the table and a waiter brought rotgut in a crock mug. Liquor was illegal in the Indian country, but that didn't bother the Kiefer businessmen; they served it from granite pots and called it coffee. It was a perfect example of boom-town law, and Grant smiled to himself.
But the smile froze. At first he didn't know what it was, he was only aware of a sudden uneasiness. He sat for a moment, wondering, then he shoved back in his chair and looked around. And there he was—the marshal.
The deputy marshal that had searched the train.
The marshal that Rhea had lied to.
And he was looking straight at Grant.
A squat, stone-faced man with a crooked nose and glazed blue eyes, the marshal shouldered through the crowd of oilmen and walked toward Grant's table. “I was trying to peg you,” the lawman said bluntly. “I knew I'd seen you somewhere but I couldn't set the time or place.”
Grant made himself grin, but words grew solid in his throat.
“I've got you now,” the marshal said soberly. “You were on the train, the one we searched yesterday in the Cherokee Nation. You were asleep with your hat over your face, but I spotted that hair right off. You've got a peculiar-colored head of hair, mister, did anybody ever tell you that?”
Grant felt his belly fall and shrink. “Well...”
“You were with a girl. Her name was Malloy, wasn't it?”
Was this a trick? Was the marshal merely amusing himself before arresting him? Grant swallowed. “Muller,” he said. “I work for her father.”
“That's right; she told me. And your name's Grant.”
Grant felt the rapid pumping of his heart. His hands were cold but there was sweat on his forehead. “That's right, Marshal, Joe Grant. Is there anything I can help you with?”
There was just a chance that this scare was for nothing. There was a chance that this was all coincidence and the best thing to do was to bluff it out.
The marshal smiled, but even then his face looked sour and the expression never reached his eyes. “I guess not... unless you happen to know a man named Fennway, Morry Fennway.”
Stay calm! Grant told himself. Bluff it out, he might not know a thing. “Morry Fennway?”
“A farmer up Joplin way. Before that he was a cowhand, a drover.” He leaned heavily on the table, gazing bleakly into the liquor-filled mug. “A big fellow—about your size, I'd say, only this Fennway had light hair.”
Grant had an almost irresistible urge to pull his hat down over his ears to hide his hair. But he sat quietly and was surprised to hear his voice come out calm and unruffled. “Well, Marshal, if I happen to see such a man I'll let you know.”
The corners of the lawman's smooth mouth turned up but the expression was as unreal as a smiling mask. “You do that. The name's Dagget; likely you'll be able to find me here in Kiefer.” He nodded and turned away.
Slowly—very slowly—Grant felt his breathing come back to normal, but an iciness gripped him. The impulse to run was almost irresistible. “He doesn't know a thing!” Grant tried to tell himself. “He's just guessing!”
But the guessing was too close for comfort. Dagget was suspicious of all big men who fit Morry Fennway's general description, and suspicious men were dangerous. I've got to get away from here, he thought. Out of the Indian Nations, out of the whole Territory!
But thoughts of running were born in panic. He took control of his instincts and looked at his situation coolly, as an outsider would look at it. As Dagget would look at it.
Running, he knew, would be the worst mistake he could make. A show of panic would bring the marshal down on him so fast he wouldn't know what hit him. His big mistake had been the day before when he'd let Rhea Muller talk him into coming to Kiefer—but it was too late to change that now.
He was here. He'd have to make the best of it.
All right, he thought, as the chill began to leave. I'll bluff it out. After all, what did the marshal really know? Grant had been on the train, and now a coincidence had brought him and the marshal together again in Kiefer and that had started the wheels to turning in Dagget's steel-trap brain. But what did he actually know?
Nothing.
This knowledge made Grant feel better—he felt almost good as he downed part of the rotgut from his coffee cup. Probably Dagget had a dozen men lined up that would fit Fennway's general description; it didn't mean a thing. The lawman was groping in the dark, grabbing at anything he could find....
Still, Grant hadn't expected the marshal's office to work quite so fast on a Missouri bank robbery. It was something to think about.
