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CHAPTER 23

      "I DONE the job," Petrie told Brennan.

      It was well after midnight; the pool hall was closed; his alibi was in concrete. He'd made sure of it by picking petty arguments and complaining about his losses. He figured nobody could forget him.

      Now he and Brennan stood on the front porch of the ranch house where they could talk softly without being heard, although everybody for miles around was asleep. The night had taken on a little chill. Fall was in the air at night, although during the day it was still hotter than a firecracker.

      "How'd you do it?" Brennan asked.

      "I paid somebody. Man named Diggs. Tough little bastard. He jumped him comin' out of Hood's place, and busted his head with a hammer."

      Brennan seemed impressed. He stroked his beard which fluttered in the cool breeze and made him look more like John Brown. After a time, he said, "This Diggs a gabby type?"

      "Naw, he's okay." But Petrie's voice lacked conviction, even to himself. He thought suddenly that Diggs never much made of secret about the men he'd beaten.

      "Sure don't want him blabbing to anybody." Brennan said. "My name come up in any of the conversations?"

      "Of course not!"

      "Well that makes me feel better."

      Petrie frowned. "Now you got me a little bit worried."

      Brennan lit his pipe and sat down on the porch railing and his voice took on the fatherly tone that always got a rise out of Petrie, who had hated his own father. "If you're worried, and I think you should be, you know what to do about it."

      "What's that?"

      "Kill him, you idiot! Do I have to spell it out on a piece of paper and make you read it?"

      Petrie thought about it for a long time. Finally he said, "He's a tough little guy - but I'm bigger. I'll catch him down at the pool hall first thing tomorrow." He grinned at Brennan and walked over to the bunk house.

      Benedict was still up, reading a pulp western. The cover showed Indians getting ready to kill a cowboy, although even Petrie knew that by the time they had cows grazing the west the buffalo were about gone, and the Indians were tucked safely in their reservations, beating out silver coins into jewelry and sometimes acting as sidekick to the Lone Ranger.

      "When you're through with that, let me borrow it, okay?"

      Benedict tossed him the magazine. "Take it. I can't stand it any more. The good old days are gone forever."

      "Yeah," Petrie said. He unlocked the padlock that sealed his door and went in. The room, as always was in shambles, with dirty socks and his work boots manure side down on the chair. He slammed the door so hard behind him, he woke up Doak Vance, who went into the kitchen and made himself a midnight sandwich.

      Petrie got into bed and started reading the Western, but by page three his eyes were leaden. Before he fell asleep, he thought how nice it would be if Rand was standing before him, crying for help, a hammer sticking out of his head like a tomahawk. Rand would beg Petrie to help him, and Petrie would just stand there, watching him. When he awoke the sun was well up and the sky was cloudless.

      By nine o'clock, two hours after Benedict and Vance had completed a hasty breakfast and gone out to repair fences, Petrie was dressed, with his Colt .45 automatic Model 1917A in his belt under his shirt. He drove Brennan's car to the DeLuxe where he had a leisurely breakfast of a red flat enchilada with two eggs on top over easy, and a cup of coffee. Afterward he sauntered into the pool hall and shot a couple of games of snooker until Diggs came in.

      The two waved at each other, good partners in crime. They shot a game and Diggs beat Petrie, who was glad he lost. He threw his quarter down and Diggs pocketed it with a big smile.

      "I got somethin' I want to show you," Petrie said.

      "What?"

      "Gotta take you there. Something I guarantee you've never seen before."

      "Okay," Diggs said. He accompanied Petrie out to Brennan's car, which Petrie was beginning to feel was his now, and the two men got in and drove off in the direction of Deming. He took Diggs down the same road Rand had made him take before. He stopped about where Rand had stopped. It seemed like a sort of poetic justice that he would go to the same place. First of all it was about as deserted as any road could be, considering that at that point it was hardly more than a wagon trail. Second it was the scene of his terrible indignity at the hands of Rand. Petrie thought that killing Diggs there would sort of square things up.

      "Where is this thing you're gonna show me?" Diggs asked.

      Petrie reached into his belt and pulled out his gun and held it against Diggs' nose and said, "This is it, right here. Get out of the car."

      Diggs opened the car door and stepped out, looking for a place to run. But there was no place to hide. No matter which direction he took, Petrie would have a clear shot.

      Petrie got out of the car and stood about six feet away from Diggs so the little man couldn't jump him. "You talked to anybody about last night?"

      "A course not! You think I'm nuts?"

      "Yeah," Petrie said.

      "You ain't going to shoot me?"

      "Of course I am." Petrie drew back the slide and a bullet slid into the clip in the pistol's grip and the gun was cocked. It made a distinctive sound that he liked.

      "Gun din't even have a bullet in it," Diggs said disparagingly.

      "Does now," Petrie said. He squeezed the trigger and the gun roared.

      Diggs looked baffled. He looked down at his chest and said, "Missed me."

      "Damn," Petrie said. Then he fired again. The slug caught Diggs in the chest and he fell down. Being shot seemed to come as a big surprise to Diggs. Petrie moved closer to him and shot him in the head.

      He picked up the three spent cartridge cases that had been ejected and juggled them in his hand until they were cool enough to put in his pocket. Then he relieved Diggs of all the money in his wallet, which was considerably more than what he had paid him. Petrie got back into Brennan's car, turned around, and drove back to town.

      An hour later Clyde Nortwick and his wife Mabel came down the twisty rutted road that extended two miles to their ranch house. They were on their way to town to stock up on groceries and pick up their mail. Nortwick saw the body by the road and told his wife to stay put while he checked to see if the man was still alive. One look at Digg's head told him he wasn't. He got back into his car and gunned the motor. "I guess I better call the Sheriff about this when we get to a phone," he said.

      Driving to Las Cruces, Petrie felt pretty pleased with himself. He had almost convinced himself that killing Diggs had been a public service.

      As he drove down Main Street he saw Rand's Chevy with its Texas plates parked near the Deluxe. He parked nearby and walked back toward the car, wondering who was driving it. He was still standing beside the car when Rand came out of the cafe, looking dapper and well-rested.

      Petrie stared at him open-mouthed.

      "Well, I see you made it back to town all right," Rand said affably.

      Petrie had a hard time talking. The words chocked up in his throat. Finally he said, "I see you made it back, too."

      Rand got into his car and started the motor. He leaned toward the window and peered out. "You want a lift someplace, Petrie?"

      "No thanks," Petrie said.

      He was already wondering how to tell Brennan that little bastard Diggs had lied to him. And he'd taken the money, to boot. He'd thought Diggs had more character than that.

      Then he wondered how Diggs got all that blood on him.

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