Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) Read Free Page B

the glint of blue water through the opening.
    “Thanks,” I said, and she turned to leave, then hesitated.
    “Mr. Sheridan,” she said, keeping her voice low and deliberate, “if I were you I would make any excuse that comes to mind and leave as quickly as possible, and I mean tomorrow. Make any excuse—any at all—but leave. When you get back to town, if you are wise, you will leave Arizona.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
    “I have read your books, Mr. Sheridan. None of the others have. I may be a fool, and you will probably think me one, but don’t stay in this house after tonight. And please do not repeat what I have said.”
    “My books are harmless enough.”
    “You’re very thorough, Mr. Sheridan, and a book such as you may write can be dangerous. I do not know why you were invited here, but you must realize that there is little interest here in either books or writers…rather to the contrary. Colin does like guests, but he does not care for strangers. For some reason, Mr. Sheridan, you are very special.”
    “Colin Wells introduced you as his sister-in-law,” I said.
    “His brother was married to my sister.”
    “Was?”
    “They were killed. They were killed last year in an accident when their car ran off a cliff over east of here.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    She walked away from me then, and I stood watching her go, a lovely girl, but a strange one.
    Why had she taken enough interest to warn me? She was related to these people, in a sense at least. Was she a highly nervous, neurotic girl? I did not think so, not for a minute. She was a bright, intelligent girl, and not at all the type to be an alarmist.
    Yet she had made a point. Why was I invited here? How did it happen that of all places I should be invited to the very place I wished to go? Did they hope that my being here might publicize the ranch so they might perhaps make a better sale? Were they celebrity collectors? Neither of these reasons seemed likely, and the uneasiness I had been feeling ever since being called to look at the body of Manuel Alvarez suddenly sharpened.
    The room was spacious, cool, comfortable. As I undressed and showered I considered the situation. After all, this was what I had been looking for, and surely somebody here could tell me about the Toomeys. This was, I felt sure, the place they had elected to stay.
    Only a few miles away was the Verde River, all the peaks mentioned as landmarks were nearby. This had to be the place.
    Yet I had been advised to leave. Had the mystery of the vanishing brothers not been so far in the past I might have suspected a connection, but how could a ninety-year-old mystery possibly matter to anyone except someone as curious as myself?
    But I was a man who preferred to avoid trouble, having seen enough of it in every way. I decided I would take a couple of rides around the country, but would arrange to leave very soon, as soon as I had scouted the terrain a little. I did want to see Lost River, and I wanted to be inside that old stone building for a few minutes at least. I had a hunch about that building, and if the hunch paid off, I might have the answer to many of my questions.
    Irritating, nagging little suspicions kept coming to mind. After all, my training had been such as to make me notice, and I had noticed. Yet what did it all add up to?
    Floyd Reese’s odd expression when I mentioned Lost River…well, why not? It was a remote, unlikely place for a stranger to know about or ask about. His expression was natural.
    The clerk in the land office? He had looked a bit startled when I asked about the Toomeys…more so than a man would who knew, as he maintained, nothing about them. He had handed me the T file and walked away, and a few minutes later, returning the file to its case, I had overheard him on the telephone.
    I heard him say, “Yes,
Toomey
. That’s right…
Toomey
.”
    And when I left the land office, the fat man was outside. He had been in the motel lobby and