The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 51

"No. I play a lone hand," said The Spider.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

"CLOSE THE CASES"

Pony Baxter's place, located near the middle of what is commonly termed a "business block," embraced the s.p.a.ce once occupied by a number of small offices, one of which he had retained as a sort of reception-room, near the head of the stairway. That he might have a s.p.a.cious room for his business, the part.i.tions of the former offices had been removed, with the exception of those enclosing his office, and a room at the extreme end of the building which opened on the hall, near the end window, just over the fire-escape. This room was expensively fitted up as a lavatory, with marble panels, basins, and tiling. A uniformed negro with the inevitable whisk-broom was always in attendance, quite as keen at "getting the dust" as was his employer.

The door to this room was fitted with a spring lock which allowed it to be opened only from the inside, except with a pa.s.s-key.

The Spider's cab, swinging into the alley, stopped directly beneath the lower extension of the fire-escape. "Pull over closer to the wall," he told the driver. Then he climbed to the driver's seat and stepped onto the iron ladder. "You can drive round to the front and wait," he told the cabby, who lost no time in getting out of the alley. Like most nocturnal cabmen, he was quite willing to drive anywhere; but he sincerely preferred to do his waiting for his fare in a more open street.

The window at the rear end of the hall was fastened. The Spider broke the gla.s.s just below the catch with the b.u.t.t of his gun. He raised the window and slid into the hallway.

"Who dat?" came from the lavatory.

"It's me, Sam," said The Spider thickly, imitating the voice of a man overcome by drink. "I cut my hand on the window. Want to get in--wash up--blood--"

"I ask Mis...o...b..xtuh, suh."

"Lemme in--quick--or you lose a five-spot. Bleeding bad--want to wash up--"

The spring lock clicked softly. Before Sam knew what had happened, The Spider was in the lavatory and between him and the door to the main room. "Get going," said The Spider. The amazed negro backed away from that eloquent menace in The Spider's right hand.

"M-m-m-misto--misto--Captain-- Ah ain't done nuffin!"

"Git!"--and The Spider indicated the rear window.

The negro backed into the hall, saw the open window, and vanished through it without parley. He dropped from the last step of the fire-escape and picking himself up started to run, with no definite destination in mind save s.p.a.ce.

As Baxter had said, things were quiet that night. The poker table had been deserted and the players had left. A few "regulars" still hung about the faro layout and the wheel. The hired "bouncer" had stepped into the office to speak to Baxter. It was past twelve. There were no strangers present save the four roughly dressed men. Baxter was just telling the bouncer that he knew them, and that he surmised they were after a certain party, but that that party would not be back there. As he talked Baxter stepped to the outer door and locked it. It was too late to expect any worth-while business.

The Spider, who was in reality looking for Baxter, whom he suspected of trickery, opened the lavatory door far enough to see into the main room. In a flash he had placed three of the four men who "wanted" him.

White-Eye and Longtree were standing near a player at the faro table, evidently interested for the moment in the play. Near White-Eye, Pino was rolling a cigarette. Beyond them, at the next table, stood a man with a deformed shoulder--and The Spider recognized Gary of the T-Bar-T, watching the few players at the wheel. . . . A film of cigar smoke eddied round the lamps above the tables. Presently the players at the faro table rose and left. The dealer put away his cases. The lookout yawned and took off his green eye-shade. The man with the deformed shoulder and his companion were moving toward White-Eye when The Spider slipped through the doorway and sidled toward the middle of the room. His hat was pushed back. He fumbled at his tie with his right hand. "White-Eye!" he called.

The faro-dealer and the lookout jerked round--then slowly backed toward the side of the room. The man at the wheel paused with his hand in the air. The players, intent upon the game, glanced up curiously. Pino, who stood near White-Eye and almost in front of him, dropped his cigarette. The room became as still as the noon desert. Three of the four men who bore ancient grudge against The Spider, knew that there would be no parley--that talk would be useless. The fourth, the man whom they had addressed as Steve, had but recently a.s.sociated himself with them, and had no quarrel with The Spider. In that tense moment, Gary wished himself well out of it.

"Lost your nerve, Pino?" laughed The Spider, in his queer, high voice.

"You dropped your cigarette."

One of the roulette players giggled hysterically. At the sound of that laugh, White-Eye jerked Pino in front of him. The Spider's gun appeared as though he had caught it from the air. As it roared, Pino staggered sideways and fell. White-Eye fired as The Spider, throwing shot after shot, walked slowly toward him. Suddenly White-Eye coughed and staggered against the table. With his last shot The Spider dropped White-Eye, then jerked a second gun from his waistband. Gary, kneeling behind the faro table, fired over its top. The Spider whirled half-round, recovered himself, and, sidling toward the table, threw down on the kneeling man, who sank forward coughing horribly. Within eight feet of him The Spider's gun roared again. Gary's body jerked stiff at the shock and then slowly collapsed. The fourth man, Longtree, with his hands above his head, begged The Spider not to kill his old pal! The Spider's face, horribly distorted, venomous as a snake's, colorless and glistening with sweat, twisted queerly as he spoke: "Kill you, you d.a.m.ned coyote?" And he shot Longtree down as a man would shoot a trapped wolf.

Framed in the office doorway stood Pony Baxter, a blue automatic in his hand. The Spider, leaning against the roulette table, laughed. "Gave me the double-cross, eh, Pony? How do you like the layout?" He swayed and clutched at the table. "Don't kill me, Pony!" he cried, in ghastly mimickry of Longtree's voice. "Don't kill an old pal, Pony!" And the sound of his voice was lost in the blunt roar of a shot that loosened Baxter's fingers from the automatic. It clattered to the floor.

Baxter braced himself against the door-frame and, turning, staggered to the desk 'phone.

The Spider nodded to the faro-dealer. "Close your cases," he said, and he hiccoughed and spat viciously. "Get me downstairs--I'm done."

The dealer, who possessed plenty of nerve himself, was dumb with wonder that this man, who had deliberately walked into a fight against three fast guns, was still on his feet. Yet he realized that The Spider had made his last fight. He was hard hit. "G.o.d, what a mess!" said the dealer as he took The Spider's arm and steadied him to the office.

"You better lay down," he suggested.

"Got a cab downstairs. General Hospital."

The driver, who had been taking a nap inside the cab, heard the sound of shooting, started up, threw back the lap-robe, and stepped to the sidewalk. He listened, trying to count the shots. Then came silence.

Then another shot. He was aware that his best policy was to leave that neighborhood quickly. Yet curiosity held him, and finally drew him toward the dimly lighted stairway. He wondered what had happened.

"Cab?" somebody called from above. The cabby answered.

"Give us a hand here," cried a voice from the top of the stairs. "A man's been shot--bad."

The cabby clumped up and helped get The Spider to the street.

"Where'll I take him?" he stammered nervously, as he recognized the shrunken figure.

"He said something about the General Hospital. He's going--fast."

"He used to call there, regular," a.s.serted the cabby. "Anybody else git hurt?"

"Christ, yes! It's a slaughter-pen up there. Beat it, or he'll cash in before you can get him to the hospital."

The cabby pulled up at the General Hospital, leapt down, and hastened round to the garage. He wakened the night ambulance-driver, stayed until the driver and an interne had carried The Spider into the hospital, and then drove away before he could be questioned.

The house-doctor saw at once that The Spider could not live, administered a stimulant, and telephoned to the police station, later asking the ambulance-driver for the cabman's number, which the other had failed to notice in the excitement. As he hung up the receiver a nurse told him that the patient was conscious and wanted to speak to Dr. Andover. The house-doctor asked The Spider if he wished to make a statement.

The Spider moved his head in the negative. "I'm done," he whispered, "but I'd like to see Pete a minute."

"Pete?"

"Room 218," said the nurse.

"Oh, you mean young Annersley. Well, I don't know."

"He's my boy," said The Spider, using the last desperate argument--an appeal difficult to ignore.

"Take him to 218," said the doctor, gesturing toward the stretcher.

The nurse, who went with them, roused Pete out of a quiet sleep and told him that they were bringing some one to see him. "Your father,"

she said, "who has been seriously injured. He asked to see you."

Pete could not at first understand what she meant. "All right," he said, turning his head and gazing toward the doorway. The nurse stepped into the hall and nodded to the attendants and the doctor.

They were about to move forward when The Spider gestured feebly to the doctor. "Get me to my feet." "I won't bother you much after that."

And The Spider, who felt that his strength was going fast, tried to raise himself on the stretcher. This effort brought the internes to his side. They lifted him to his feet and shuffled awkwardly through the doorway.

Swaying between the internes, his shriveled body held upright by a desperate effort of will, he fought for breath.

Pete raised on his elbow, his dark eyes wide. "Spider!" he exclaimed.

The internes felt The Spider's slackened muscles grow tense as he endeavored to get closer to the cot. They helped him a step forward.

He pulled his arm free and thrust out his hand. Pete's hand closed on those limp, clammy fingers.