Elec scowled. “Why did he want to see you?”
“I'm not sure.”
“But you did talk to Nate? What about?”
He realized too late that this was no cowhand that he could shout at and bully into telling him what he wanted to know. He saw the spark of resentment in those clear eyes, and the haughty tilt of her chin.
“I'm sorry, Amy,” he said lamely. “Tell it your own way.”
She didn't know how or where to start. She could still feel the shock of Nathan's fierce gaze upon her. The depression that came from staring too deeply into the bitterness of those dark eyes was still within her.
“So you're the girl my boy loves,” he had said, and the gentleness of his-voice had startled her. She had hated Nathan Blaine for so long, and she could not believe that such contradictions as gentleness and violence could live together within one body.
But when Nathan Blaine had spoken of his son, he was gentle. And then he had asked with crude bluntness: “Do you love my boy, Amy?” She had never been talked to like that before. She had tried to wither him with her anger, but he stood like a statue hacked from steel.
“Do you love him?” he had asked again, coldly. His question demanded the truth, and left no way for a middle ground of indecision. Wirt and Beulah had stood looking on, frightened.
She had answered, “Yes.”
“I don't believe it!” he replied brutally. “When Jeff needed you most, you deserted him. When he wanted understanding, you wrapped yourself in pride.”
Deep within her conscience she knew he was right, and it had made her furious. “And what about you?” she'd flared. “You, his own father—what have you done for him?”
In dismay she had watched the power seep out of him as he smiled thinly and sank into one of the uncomfortable parlor chairs. “Yes,” he had said, almost absently. “I guess I ought to stop blaming others and do something myself. Do you know where Elec Blasingame's office is? Would you tell the marshal I'd like to see him? In private.”
She had stood woodenly, with pity in her eyes. Nathan had seen it and was furious. “What are you waitin' on?” he had demanded harshly. “I thought you'd jump at the chance to turn me in!”
Wirt had started to go with her, but Nathan had barked “Stay here, Wirt.” Then, to Amy: “Remember, tell the marshal I want to see him in private. If you tell anybody else, or if he brings a posse with him—” He had smiled. “Remember I've got Wirt and Beulah right here with me.”
Amy had run blindly from the house, both hate and pity churning within her. Not until she had reached the marshal's office did she fully realize that Nathan had planned it so. He was used to being hated, feared—but Nathan Blaine was not the kind of man to accept pity.
So she tried to tell Elec Blasingame what had happened, but there was no way she could communicate to another what she had seen and felt instinctively. She ended lamely, “I think Jeff's in trouble, and that's what Nathan wants to talk to you about.”
“That boy's been getting deeper in trouble for a long time,” Elec scowled. “I think this is a trick of Nate's.”
But he wasn't sure. And if he had been sure, there was very little he could do about it, with Wirt and Beulah Sewell being held as hostages.
He would have to play it Nate's way, whether he liked it or not. “All right,” he said finally. “I'll go. But you stay here, Amy, until I get back.” Before heading for the stairs, he called to Kirk Logan. “Get on the street, Kirk, and see if you can find young Blaine. Keep your eye on him, but don't let him see you watching him. Understand?”
The deputy nodded, puzzled. “Sure, but why?”
“Never mind; just do as I say.” Then, halfway up the steps, Elec thought of something else. He wasn't sure that it meant anything, but this was no time to take chances. “By the way, Kirk, that gambler in town that goes under the name of Milan Fay—the one that hangs out at the Green House. Keep an eye on him too, if you can. Let me know what they're doing—I'll be at the Sewell place.”
It was a quiet day for Plainsville. The homesteaders were out working the land; the cattle shipping was about over till the next season. A merciless sun blazed down on the town and on Elec Blasingame as he tramped up the plank walk to the bank corner, then cut across town toward the Sewell place. The marshal had no choice in the matter. Nate was calling the tune this time, and Elec had to dance to it.
But that didn't mean that Elec was helpless, trick or no trick. As he went up the path to the Sewell house he loosened his revolver in its holster. His duty was to arrest Nate Blaine, and he was going to do it if he could.
The front door stood open because of the heat, but the front parlor was as dark as a cave to the marshal's sun-blinded eyes. Now he unholstered his .45 and held it at his side as he stepped up to the front porch. Suddenly the doorway was filled with Nate Blaine's big figure, and Elec immediately snapped his gunhand to the ready and said, “Don't move, Nate! You're under arrest.”
Now, if it was a trick, he would soon know it.
Nathan glared at him for a moment, angrily. “I'm not armed, Elec. You can put your gun away.”
But Elec made no move to holster the gun. He hooked the screen door with the toe of his boot and kicked it open. “Back in the room, Nate,” he said sharply, “and don't try anything.”
He came to Nathan like a hull, shoving him back in the room with the muzzle of his .45. From the corner of his eye he saw Wirt and Beulah standing pale and frightened against the far wall. He saw Nate's revolver hanging harmlessly on the hatrack in the hall. Quickly but methodically, the marshal added up every fact within the range of his senses.
It didn't seem like a trick, which made him believe all the more that it was one. “Wirt,” he said, without shifting his gaze from Nathan, “what's he up to? Are you and your wife all right?”
