a gun anymore.
That was what Rome counted on. Without his gun he was nothing; a harmless youngster. Rome scooped up the weapon and thrust it into his belt. Yancey waited submissively, terror in his eyes as he stared at the glinting blue metal in Rome’s hand.
“What do you want from me, Rome?” he croaked. “Listen, I only work for Gashlin …”
Rome moved to the bed and sat down. A smell of rotting garbage filtered into the bedroom through the open window. The Emporia piano clattered its mechanical melodies.
“I know you work for him, Yancey. That’s why I want to know a few other things. You’d better answer my questions. If you don’t, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Yancey trembled. Rome felt a surge of triumph. He had been right. Yancey was like so many of them, master of a situation only when armed. The youngster was scared of the cold muzzle eye looking at him. He was seeing the fire of the explosion, seeing the smoke rising before the bullet slammed him. He said, “Ask your questions.”
“Did you know you were going to shoot Thompson before the meeting tonight? Was it planned?”
Yancey shook his head doggedly. “No, Mr. Rome.” He emphasized the mister. “Gashlin give me the nod, and I knew what he meant. I always understand when he gives me the nod. People were packed so tight, nobody could see much. It was easy. I had a few drinks afterward and came back here.”
Suddenly a new thought wrote itself across his face. “Say, they were supposed to hang you. I saw ’em start …”
Anger filled Rome. He rose, staring. His voice grew loud. “You cheap punk, I’m good and alive, and I’ve got half a mind to kill you right now. Remember in the Emporia? You said you’d accommodate me soon. Well, here I am.”
“Yeah,” Yancey mumbled faintly.
“No good without a gun, are you?” Rome couldn’t resist the remark.
“No, sir, I ain’t.”
“You’re damned quick with the answers, too.” Rome felt angrier by the moment. This crazy kid had put the murder brand on him as casually as he’d taken a drink afterward. Finally, Rome got control of himself.
“All right, Yancey. I want you to do something.”
“Sure, anything.”
“You got some paper and a pen?”
Yancey pointed to the dresser. “In there. Belongs to the landlady.”
Rome moved to the bureau and pulled open the drawer. Beneath two soiled work shirts were a few yellowed sheets of writing paper. He also found a metal-tipped pen and a bottle a third full of ink. He set the items on top of the table in the center of the room. Then he caught the chair with his boot tip and jerked it forward. “Sit down.”
Yancey sat, fidgeting with his underwear.
“You’re going to write what I say. Pick up the pen. You can write, can’t you?”
“Yeah, I went to school in Indiana when I was a kid.”
“Don’t waste my time. Write this. I, Cole Yancey … ”
The pen scratched laboriously. Yancey hunched over the table, peering at each word.
“… killed Job Thompson outside of church tonight on orders from my boss, Bruce …”
“Not so fast, will you?” Yancey whined.
“Shut up and keep writing. Bruce Gashlin. Got that?”
Yancey nodded.
“Date it and sign your name.”
Yancey obeyed, then pushed the paper away from him. Rome picked it up, scanned it briefly, and put it down again. “Not just the initials. I want your whole name.”
“I always use my—” Yancey stopped, looking again at the gun. He wrote out his full name.
Rome was reaching for the paper, feeling satisfied, when the door opened abruptly. Bruce Gashlin stood there, his clothes dirty and sweat-stained from hard riding. His fingers curled around the doorknob. His husky face remained calm, but his blue eyes narrowed just a bit.
“Well!” He laughed gently. “Mr. Rome, I didn’t expect you.” He noticed the gun immediately, closing the door and stepping into the room. Rome’s backbone tingled. A new factor had entered the situation. It
That was what Rome counted on. Without his gun he was nothing; a harmless youngster. Rome scooped up the weapon and thrust it into his belt. Yancey waited submissively, terror in his eyes as he stared at the glinting blue metal in Rome’s hand.
“What do you want from me, Rome?” he croaked. “Listen, I only work for Gashlin …”
Rome moved to the bed and sat down. A smell of rotting garbage filtered into the bedroom through the open window. The Emporia piano clattered its mechanical melodies.
“I know you work for him, Yancey. That’s why I want to know a few other things. You’d better answer my questions. If you don’t, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Yancey trembled. Rome felt a surge of triumph. He had been right. Yancey was like so many of them, master of a situation only when armed. The youngster was scared of the cold muzzle eye looking at him. He was seeing the fire of the explosion, seeing the smoke rising before the bullet slammed him. He said, “Ask your questions.”
“Did you know you were going to shoot Thompson before the meeting tonight? Was it planned?”
Yancey shook his head doggedly. “No, Mr. Rome.” He emphasized the mister. “Gashlin give me the nod, and I knew what he meant. I always understand when he gives me the nod. People were packed so tight, nobody could see much. It was easy. I had a few drinks afterward and came back here.”
Suddenly a new thought wrote itself across his face. “Say, they were supposed to hang you. I saw ’em start …”
Anger filled Rome. He rose, staring. His voice grew loud. “You cheap punk, I’m good and alive, and I’ve got half a mind to kill you right now. Remember in the Emporia? You said you’d accommodate me soon. Well, here I am.”
“Yeah,” Yancey mumbled faintly.
“No good without a gun, are you?” Rome couldn’t resist the remark.
“No, sir, I ain’t.”
“You’re damned quick with the answers, too.” Rome felt angrier by the moment. This crazy kid had put the murder brand on him as casually as he’d taken a drink afterward. Finally, Rome got control of himself.
“All right, Yancey. I want you to do something.”
“Sure, anything.”
“You got some paper and a pen?”
Yancey pointed to the dresser. “In there. Belongs to the landlady.”
Rome moved to the bureau and pulled open the drawer. Beneath two soiled work shirts were a few yellowed sheets of writing paper. He also found a metal-tipped pen and a bottle a third full of ink. He set the items on top of the table in the center of the room. Then he caught the chair with his boot tip and jerked it forward. “Sit down.”
Yancey sat, fidgeting with his underwear.
“You’re going to write what I say. Pick up the pen. You can write, can’t you?”
“Yeah, I went to school in Indiana when I was a kid.”
“Don’t waste my time. Write this. I, Cole Yancey … ”
The pen scratched laboriously. Yancey hunched over the table, peering at each word.
“… killed Job Thompson outside of church tonight on orders from my boss, Bruce …”
“Not so fast, will you?” Yancey whined.
“Shut up and keep writing. Bruce Gashlin. Got that?”
Yancey nodded.
“Date it and sign your name.”
Yancey obeyed, then pushed the paper away from him. Rome picked it up, scanned it briefly, and put it down again. “Not just the initials. I want your whole name.”
“I always use my—” Yancey stopped, looking again at the gun. He wrote out his full name.
Rome was reaching for the paper, feeling satisfied, when the door opened abruptly. Bruce Gashlin stood there, his clothes dirty and sweat-stained from hard riding. His fingers curled around the doorknob. His husky face remained calm, but his blue eyes narrowed just a bit.
“Well!” He laughed gently. “Mr. Rome, I didn’t expect you.” He noticed the gun immediately, closing the door and stepping into the room. Rome’s backbone tingled. A new factor had entered the situation. It
Similar Books
