Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF Page A

no peace greater than that of twilight on the desert, but there was more to my waiting than a desire to watch the fading light. The time to study a land is when dawn or sunset lies upon it, with shadows to reveal every draw, hollow, or canyon. One can never know a desert land until one has seen it in those moments before and after sunset or sunrise. By day the glare of the sun erases the hollows and smooths out the terrain.
    Out there was an answer to my problem, a problem suddenly important to others as well as to myself. There was a hint of some connection between the ninety-year-old mystery and the deaths of Pete and Manuel Alvarez. What the connection was I did not know, but I was now sure that it had some relation to my invitation to visit here.
    But oddly, after I had been invited here, none of them showed any desire to talk to me, leaving me alone with Belle, who seemed almost as much an outsider as I.
    Why the strange feeling of animosity? What was Belle warning me against? Why had the clerk at the land office immediately reported my request for information about the Toomeys?
    Of course this was the place. It had to be. The landmarks mentioned in the journal were here, the stone house was here, and somewhere within range of my vision, no doubt, the mystery of John and Clyde Toomey had been resolved.
    What
had
happened here so long ago? Had all the riders been massacred by Apaches? There was no record of such an attack. Had some of their own riders turned on the Toomeys and killed them?
    Two things I wanted here. To identify other spots mentioned in the journal, and if possible to locate the rest of that account.
    Whatever happened here, must have happened suddenly, causing John Toomey to tear those sheets from the journal—perhaps awkward to hide in itself—and thrust them down the barrel of the broken gun.
    Even now, with the little I had, I could write a fairly consistent account of that long trek across the country and of their arrival here. It might have been about like this, that first evening they spent here on the Verde.
    Belle was right, of course. I should get away from here. No book was worth being involved in a murder, or what could easily become several murders. There were plenty of other books to be written.
    While I sat there, the last canyons gave up their shadows to the night, and only the stars remained, and the dark, serrated rims of far-off mountains. Getting to my feet, I walked slowly back to my room.
    The arcade was deep in shadow, for no lights had been turned on, and my room was dark. But as I opened the door I was immediately aware that I was not alone. Was it instinct? Or some subconscious perception of movement?
    “No lights, señor.” The voice was unfamiliar.
    “I am a friend, señor, and I come from Pio.”
    “He is a good man,
amigo
.”
    “He said you would remember. He thinks much of you, señor. And there are not many whom he respects.”
    “What do you want,
amigo?
”
    “To warn you, señor. They mean to kill you.”
    Suddenly something happened to me. Possibly it was the low voice in the dark room, but all at once I was thinking clearly again, thinking the way a man should who plays a dangerous game. This meeting in the dark brought things back, and I realized I had better continue to think clearly, to be constantly watchful. Or they would kill me, whoever
they
might be.
    Suppose the room was bugged? Belle had known where I was to stay, so apparently it had been decided before I arrived. Who would bug it? I did not know, but the thing to do when in doubt was to act as if it were so.
    Crossing the room to the unknown man, I took him by the arm. “Come!” I whispered. In the bathroom I turned on the water to drown other sound.
    “The room may be bugged,” I whispered; “they may be able to hear what we say there.” I heard a sharp intake of breath. Since the coming of movies and television everyone knows about bugged rooms.
    “Who is it I must fear?” I asked.
    “All