Free In a Deadly Vein by Brett Halliday Page B

with the suspicion of a whine.
    “Jasper deserves it, too,” Fleming said after a long silence. “He has been grubstaking half the prospectors in Central City for years. It’s high time he got something back. A man can’t keep on doing credit business.”
    “Wall, I dunno ’bout that.” The slyness came again to Strenk’s pale eyes. “Notice he still gets to N’York every year on what he calls buyin’ trips. I reckon he ain’t so doggone broke.”
    Shayne was conscious of a tension between the sheriff and the aged prospector. Though the words of both had been spoken without stress, there was the impact of a clash across the narrow wooden table. More than ever, he recognized his inability to gauge these men of the West by their spoken word.
    Sheriff Fleming said, “Jasper figures he gets better discounts buying direct from New York than in Denver.”
    Wrinkled lids veiled Cal Strenk’s watery eyes. He wiped foam from his mouth with elaborate unconcern. He gazed absently past both Shayne and Fleming and said, “Mebby so. Feller like me wouldn’ be knowin’ much about business. There’s some that think Jas is doin’ right well by hisself. Seems like he does some smart steppin’ with the swells durin’ Festival time.”
    “A man’s got a right to have some fun once a year like we do in Central,” the sheriff said indulgently. “If you’d put on a clean shirt, Cal, and scrape off your whiskers you might sport some of the ladies around.” He grinned amiably.
    Strenk was unresponsive to his humor. He drained the last drop of beer from the glass and sucked noisily at the foam. Shayne ordered a third round for the two of them.
    Strenk’s grizzly chin sunk against his chest and his blue-lidded eyes were half closed. He began talking drowsily:
    “Funny thing about Pete since we come back an’ filed our claims. Seemed like he got all over hatin’ to have folks come to the cabin. He ast ’em in, b’gosh, an’ sometimes talked hull sentences. Seemed like he got a kick outa havin’ his pitcher took an’ hearin’ Eastern folks say how quaint he was. Quaint, by God. Makes a he-man sick to his stummick. Me, I had to move out.”
    “That was after news got around about Pete’s rich strike,” Sheriff Fleming explained to Shayne. “There was a piece about him in the Register-Call with his picture, and the Festival crowd pestered him a lot. You got to admit that striking it rich changes a man a little,” he ended apologetically.
    Shayne said, “Yeh. That’s natural, of course. Any particular people you can mention?” he asked Strenk.
    The old miner’s expression changed quickly from disgust to one of sly pleasure. The provocative hinting at untold secrets filmed his eyes again. He waggled his head and said, “Don’t know’s I can name any of ’em—me not takin’ any part in it and not bein’ quaint enough for pitchers to be sent back home.”
    “Could you describe any of Pete’s visitors?” Shayne asked.
    “Waal—yes. A couple of flashy sports an’ a older one not so flashy. They was allus buyin’ drinks for Pete ’round town.”
    Shayne stiffened. In careful detail he described Two-Deck Bryant and his gunmen. “Would they be the men?”
    “Could be, but the town’s so dang full of dudes it’s hard to say for sure.”
    “Would you recognize them if you saw them?”
    “Reckon so. Could try.” Strenk sucked on his half-filled beer mug.
    Shayne turned to Fleming. “That might be an important lead, Sheriff. Sounds like a New York gambler who is suspected of being out here on the trail of a welsher. He has a reputation for collecting overdue gambling debts with a gun. It couldn’t be Pete’s trail he was on,” he mused wearily. “I don’t suppose he has been in New York recently.”
    “Not in the ten years I’ve knowed him,” Cal Strenk said drowsily. “He ain’t been to Denver—or even Idaho Springs.”
    Shayne said, “I’d like to have you see the men I’m thinking of.