Free Operation Fireball by Dan J. Marlowe Page A

door behind which I was concealed. I peered out through the crack near the hinged side. A pillow was lying carelessly atop the card table, concealing the money. Score one for Erikson, I thought. “Yes?” he was saying at the outer door. I couldn’t see who was standing in the corridor.
    “I’m lookin’ for Earl Drake,” a western voice drawled. “I’m Deppity Sheriff Ed Calkins of White Pine County.”
    I reached across my chest and drew the Smith & Wesson.
    “I’m Drake,” Erikson said. He opened the door wider. “Come in.”
    Before I could react either to Erikson’s claiming to be me or the invitation to come inside, a lanky individual in a tightfitting business suit and carrying a dun-colored Stetson in his left hand moved into the room. “What can I do for you, Sheriff Calkins?” Erikson continued.
    “Answer a few questions,” the deputy said. He had weather-beaten features and a capable look.
    “Questions?” Erikson’s tone changed. “Is this an official visit? Should you be informing me of my legal rights?”
    “I thought we could keep it friendlier’n that.”
    “I’ll be the judge of that,” Erikson said. His tone was freezing.
    Through the crack in the door, I could see Calkins sizing him up. Whatever the deputy had expected to find, it plainly hadn’t included the impressive-looking, six-foot-four-inch blond Viking confronting him. Calkins’ manner was wary and his tone conciliatory. “We had a little ruckus up our way a bit ago, Mr. Drake,” he said. “On the ranch of a woman named Hazel Andrews who lives north of Ely.” He waited, but Erikson said nothing. “Do you know Hazel Andrews?”
    “I’ll reserve my answer to that until I know the purpose of your question.”
    A touch of steel came back into the deputy’s voice. “It was the type of ruckus that don’t get into the papers much, but the kind the law can’t turn its back on. A bunch of snotty-nosed kids got way out of line and like to killed a man. Maybe they did—there’s still wranglin’ goin’ on about the autopsy—but the point is the kids collected a load of lead from someone who caught ‘em at the job. Maybe they had it comin', Mr. Drake, but we don’t hold with vigilantes in White Pine County.”
    “The kids were killed, too?”
    “No. This unknown party dealt ‘em a bullet apiece slick as you please. By the time we were called in on it, there was no one at the ranch but Mrs. Andrews. It was her stepfather who was killed, an’ she climbed my boss an’ turned him every way but loose. She can handle a gun but not like that. Besides, we got a description from the kids of the man who did the job.”
    “And I fit the description?”
    “Not by six inches an’ fifty pounds.”
    “Then, why are you wasting my time?”
    “Because I followed Mrs. Andrews from her ranch right straight to this hotel,” Calkins said doggedly. “She came in, but she didn’t register. I did some nosin’ around an’ I found out she talked an assistant manager into lettin’ her into your room here, Mr. Drake.”
    “So it seems I’m not unacquainted with Hazel Andrews,” Erikson said. “But I don’t fit the description—”
    “You might know who does.” Erikson was silent. “Mr. Drake, do you know a man five-ten, a hundred seventy pounds, ruddy complexion, who’s capable of goin’ up to Mrs. Andrews’ ranch an’ puttin’ on a turkey shoot like Bill Cody never saw in his Wild West days?”
    “Why didn’t your boss tell you to ask Mrs. Andrews that question, Deputy Calkins?”
    “Mrs. Andrews is the biggest taxpayer in the county, Mr. Drake, an’ my boss is plannin’ for reelection next year. He’s got to do what’s right, but he don’t figure he’s got to stick his neck in the wringer to do it.”
    Erikson’s attitude turned crisp. “I’ll state categorically that I didn’t do the shooting in White Pine County. When was it, did you say?”
    “A month ago. Lackin’ a day.”
    Erikson looked at his