The Honest Dealer

Chapter Ten

El Rancho Vegas was a half mile from El Casa Rancho and beyond it, another half mile, was The Last Frontier. In the spaces between the three big casinos was virgin desert. Johnny drove easily to the El Rancho Vegas and was passing it when he suddenly became aware of a pair of headlights swooping down upon him from the rear. He stepped on the gas, but it was too late. The headlights swung out and the car started to pass Johnny’s. Johnny pressed the accelerator down to the floorboard, but the other swerved over toward him and he was compelled to brake and pull up on the shoulder of the road. The other car stopped in front of Johnny’s.

Johnny jumped out of his car, but promptly gave up the thought of flight on foot. A man from the car ahead was out as soon as he was and a gun flashed in the light of Johnny’s headlights.

“All right, buddy!” a harsh voice yelled.

Johnny raised his hands.

“Put ’em down!” the approaching man snarled.

Johnny lowered his hands reluctantly. Headlights were turning out of The Last Frontier and would be bearing down on them in a minute.

There was a second man in the car. He honked warningly and the man with the gun ran up to Johnny, thrust the weapon into his side and gestured with his head toward the car.

“In, chum — and be goddam quick about it!”

Johnny moved forward with alacrity, opened the tonneau door of the sedan and stepped in. The man with the gun crowded in behind him. The car leaped forward.

The man kept the gun in Johnny’s side. With his free hand he slapped Johnny’s breast pockets, then felt his side pockets and finally made him lean forward so he could try the hip pockets.

“Give me a break, fellows,” Johnny pleaded. “Take my dough, now, before you get too far out in the desert. I’m not much on walking.”

“You think this is a stick-up!” asked the man with the gun.

“Isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

The car was rushing past The Last Frontier. Johnny could see the speedometer on the lighted dashboard waver up to 70, then 75.

“This is your lucky day, fellows,” he said.

“Loaded?” asked the man at the wheel over his shoulder.

“Plenty. It was my lucky day, until now.”

“That’s the way it is,” said the man with the gun in Johnny’s ribs. “One day you’re lucky as hell, then the next you can’t turn a blackjack to save your life.”

“Where do you deal?” Johnny asked.

The man beside him chuckled, “A comic, eh?”

“I didn’t say anything funny.”

“Trying to place me — that’s funny. If I told you who I was, you’d faint.”

“Don’t tell me, then. I faint easily.”

The car suddenly slewed sidewards, left the road and bounced along a trail that cut straight across the desert. The driver decreased the speed of the car, but only a trifle. Johnny had to brace both feet against the back of the front seat to keep from hitting the roof of the car every time the wheels hit a slight depression in the road.

The rough road stopped the conversation between Johnny and the gunman. Then brakes began screeching and the car pulled up in a cloud of dust.

Johnny, looking out, saw that they had pulled up near an adobe house. There was a light inside and a man carrying a rifle at the ready came out of the door.

“Jake!” the driver of the car called. “It’s us...!”

The identification seemed sufficient, for the man with the rifle lowered his weapon. Johnny’s seat-mate prodded him with his revolver.

“Out, pal!”

Johnny got out of the car, which he noticed was a dark-colored Buick. But he could not see the license plates. His two abductors also alighted and moved toward the adobe shack.

The man with the rifle seemed to be a native of the section. He was a stringy man of indefinite age, wearing Levis, flannel shirt and rundown cowboy boots. The two men who had brought Johnny here were city men. At least, they wore “store” clothes. The driver of the car was a brawny, squat man with oily hair that was a bluish-black. The man with the revolver was a smoother type; quite young and rather handsome — if you like the gigolo gangster type.

Jake, the man with the rifle, led the way into the adobe shack... a room about twelve by eighteen, that contained a rusty stove, a bunk, a table and three broken chairs and a shelf on which were stacked groceries.

An oil lamp hung from the ceiling and another stood on the table in the center of the room.

“Nice place you got here,” Johnny said, conversationally, as he looked around.

“It ain’t as big as Sandy Bowers’ place up in the Washoe,” Jake retorted, “but it’s good enough for me.”

Johnny reached into his breast pocket and took out the packet of fifty-one one hundred dollar bills. He plunked it on the table, then brought out from a trouser’s pocket his original roll of over eighteen hundred dollars.

“Call it seven grand, or a hundred, more or less. Not a bad haul.”

“Jeez!” exclaimed the squat, dark man. “I t’ought you was a bum.”

“I’ve had a run of luck,” said Johnny, modestly. “Now, do you drive me back to town, or do I walk?”

The younger of the stick-up men shook his head. “I didn’t get to tell you who I was.”

“I’m not curious,” Johnny retorted.

“I think you’d be interested in my name. It’s Nick...”

“H’arya, Nick! I’m Johnny.” He turned to the squat man. “I didn’t get your name.”

“You can call him Bill,” said Nick. Then his tone became hard. “The name Nick doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

Nick caught Bill’s eye. “Mr. Fletcher has a bad memory, Bill. Do you suppose you could refresh it a bit?”

“Sure,” said Bill. He grinned pleasantly and hit Johnny in the face with his fist. He didn’t exert himself a great deal, but the blow smashed Johnny back against the adobe wall. He caromed from it and wound up on the floor, on hands and knees. In that position he looked up.

“A little rough,” he said.

“That was just to save time, Fletcher,” said Nick. “I know what you found in your room tonight. And I heard you and the elephant hunter...”

Johnny got to his feet and wiped away the blood that was trickling from his mouth. “Then, if you listened at the keyhole you know that I don’t know a thing about Harry Bloss. I ran into him in Death Valley...”

“You stopped the car on the pavement,” said Nick. “You got out and stood there for a moment, then you got back into the car and turned it around. You saw Harry Bloss and stopped again...”

“You were there?”

Nick nodded. “He gave you something and told you to send it to Ni — to me, in Las Vegas...”

“...He was out of his mind,” Johnny said, “he was dying...”

“He was dying for four hours. But he wasn’t out of his mind. I know that because I was there.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t look. I was in a dry-wash, not more than thirty feet from where Bloss fell.”

“Then I guess you’re the man who...?”

“Yes,” said Nick. “I followed him across the worst part of Death Valley... something I wouldn’t do again for a hundred thousand dollars. And then the fool wouldn’t come across... But you are, or the buzzards’ll be eating you tomorrow morning.”

Johnny cleared his throat and pointed at the money on the table. “There’s my pile — except for a check that I don’t imagine you’d want to cash...”

“Let me see it.”

Johnny took it from his pocket and Nick snatched it from his hand. “Honsinger’s,” said Nick contemptuously and dropped it on the table. “Now, shell out the thing Harry Bloss gave you.”

“I haven’t got it with me.”

“Where is it?”

“In my room at the hotel.”

“I went over that with a fine-tooth comb.”

“You knew what you were looking for, didn’t you?”

“A piece of paper.”

Johnny cocked his head to one side, “If it was a piece of paper it must have been stuck to one of the cards...”

“What cards?”

“The ones Bloss gave me.”

Nick looked at him steadily. “Repeat that.”

“Harry Bloss gave me a pack of playing cards.”

“He gave you the cards?”

“Well, not exactly. He reached into his pocket but he died before he brought anything out. Since the cards were all that were in the pocket, I assumed that was what he intended to give me.”

“I searched him myself,” said Nick, “and I looked at those cards; there wasn’t anything in them...” He frowned. “Or if there was I missed it... You went through his pockets; what else did you find?”

“Some paper matches and... a purple check.”

“I saw the check, but I left it in his pocket, because I wasn’t planning to come back to Vegas... Take off your clothes.”

“Eh?”

“Take ’em off. I’m not taking any chances.”

“I give you my word,” said Johnny, “I haven’t got anything on me that you’d be interested in...”

Nick gestured to Bill. The squat man reached for Johnny, but the latter stepped back quickly and peeled off his coat. Nick took it and began going through it. He searched the pockets and examined the lining for hidden pockets. He ran his fingers along the seams and edges.

Johnny took off his trousers and Bill examined those. “The shirt,” Nick said.

Johnny removed it, then knowing that he would be ordered to do so, followed with his shoes and socks. He stood on the bare adobe floor in his shorts, but Nick wasn’t satisfied even then. He made Johnny take off the shorts. His search, of course, was fruitless.

Johnny reached for his clothes, but Nick swept them angrily aside. “You can have them when I come back...”

“It’s cold,” Johnny complained.

Nick handed his gun to Bill. “I’ve got to get those cards; it must be in there, after all. Keep him undressed until I get back. He’s less liable to try anything that way.”

“Don’t worry, Carl,” said Bill, “I can handle him...”

“Damn you!” Nick snarled. “Watch that big mouth of yours...”

Bill showed sudden surprise. “What’d I say?”

“The name,” said Johnny. “He’s supposed to be Nick, but you called him by his real name — Carl...”

Carl, alias Nick, gave Johnny a dirty look. “You’ve got a pretty big mouth, too. Somebody may shut it up for you.” He walked to the door. “I won’t be gone more than a half hour; if I can’t get it in that time I’ll come back.”

He went out and a moment later the car lights went on and then turned around and started off across the desert to the highway.

As soon as the sound of the motor died away, Johnny appealed to his two remaining captors. “Look, fellas, a joke’s a joke, but this is embarrassing — let me put on my shorts, anyway.”

“Uh-uh,” said Bill, promptly.

Johnny stepped to the table. “A hundred bucks, just to let me put on my underpants.”

“Go ahead,” Jake urged promptly.

But Bill still shook his head. “What hundred bucks? We got the money, anyway.”

“Carl’s got it,” Johnny corrected. “He knows there’s eight thousand in that pile and he’ll give you what he feels like.” He coughed. “Of course he doesn’t know the exact amount... he didn’t count it, you know. You could take away a hundred apiece without him knowing it... if I didn’t tell him...”

Cupidity struggled with caution on Bill’s features. Johnny stepped to the table. “We can peel off a hundred from this stack and one from this...” He did it.

Jake stepped forward. “A hundred bucks is a hundred...”

He reached for one of the bills. Johnny extended it to him with his right hand and with his left scooped up the lamp on the table.

Bill cried out, but he was too late. Johnny hurled the lighted lamp at Jake, dropped the two hundred-dollar bills and tore the rifle from Jake’s hands.

The lamp exploded as it crashed and Jake yelled in pain and terror and began beating the blazing kerosene from his body.

Bill didn’t go to his rescue.

He threw up his revolver to shoot at Johnny. But at the same time Johnny struck with the rifle barrel. The blow landed on Bill’s wrist, just as the squat hoodlum pulled the trigger.

The gun exploded and wind fanned Johnny’s cheek as the bullet went past. Then the gun flew from Bill’s hand and he was clutching his bruised arm with his other hand. Crippled, he headed instinctively for the open door.

Johnny started after him, with the rifle, but swerved aside when he saw Jake still fighting flames on his clothing and grabbed a blanket from the bunk. He threw it over Jake and quickly smothered the few flames.

Jake staggered to his bunk when he saw that he was no longer in danger. There was a slight burn on his face and one or two on his hands, but aside from a few holes in his shirt he had suffered no other damage.

Johnny examined him for a moment, then stepped to the table. Placing the rifle on it, handy to his reach, he began dressing himself.

Jake remained where he was. When Johnny finished dressing, he picked up his money and began stowing it away in his pockets. Bill’s gun he appropriated.

“You’ll find your rifle somewhere along the trail,” he said, to Jake, “that is, if you feel like searching for it. I have an idea though, you’ll be making tracks for the desert, on account of there’ll be some deputy sheriffs here about ten minutes after I reach a telephone...” He nodded to Jake and stepped out of the cabin.

Outside the moon had risen and the trail leading to the paved highway was plainly discernible.

Johnny strode along swiftly. After awhile he saw car headlights swooping by some distance ahead and in another ten minutes he reached the highway.

He walked a mile along the pavement before he came to a motel. They had no telephone at the place, but a ten-dollar bill persuaded the motel keeper to drive him to El Casa Rancho.