Blake gave him a wave and drew back to the rear of the herd. The cattle moved faster, then began to run. Blake let them go. He watched as they reached the narrow creek and settled down to drink, then he rode Sundown into a clump of trees.
Two – Nothing for Pioneers
Outcast County loomed up before the herd, a sprawling town of houses, stores, barns and shacks set out in helter-skelter fashion. The streets seemed to have been laid as an afterthought. The main street was a long, winding thoroughfare that opened up broadly and cornered five times before it petered out at the prairie’s beginning. Riding back to Durant, Ben Adamson, still looking tired, shouted:
“Don’t know much about the place except that years ago they had town corrals when the railroad used to come through. I reckon we should corral them and see what happens from there.”
“Sounds the logical thing to do,” Blake told him.
They had worked the right side of the herd into a swing when gunshots sounded. Adamson looked worried but Blake went about his work effectively, pushing the cattle along the back of the town until they reached the yards. A tall, lean, clean-shaven man in businessman’s clothes dropped off the porch of an office building. Then, skirting the yard, he hurried to open the gate Ben Adamson was approaching at the head of his herd. Adamson, finally seeing the townsman, drew rein, and after giving him a wave of recognition cut back along the side of the slow-moving herd to assist Durant. It took them only five minutes or so to get the herd into the yards. The lean man closed the gate and sat on its top rail, long legs dangling, a spent cigarette drooping from his lips. His eyes were dark and deep-set, revealing nothing.
“Ben Adamson, from Bible Creek way, mister. These your yards?”
“Yep, all mine. Glad to have them filled. Name’s Weedon, Reg Weedon.”
“May be only for a night, Weedon,” Adamson said. “I struck some trouble coming up the plains and I’ll have to sign on another couple of hands to help me get these steers home. You can maybe help me in that.”
“Sure, sure,” Weedon said affably. “Plenty of spare hands in town looking for work. Pity about you only stayin’ one night, though, but I guess a man has to be thankful for small blessings.”
“I’ll pay a fair price, Weedon,” Adamson said, then he waved towards Durant. “Friend of mine, Blake Durant. He’s the only man besides myself with the right to check out them steers.”
Weedon nodded, his dark eyes clouding just a little. Blake had no idea why. Weedon dropped his boots to the ground and looked the cattle over.
“Nice, healthy looking bunch, Adamson. What was the trouble you mentioned?”
“Three men killed,” Adamson said, his voice high and angry. He touched his shoulder. “Got to see the sawbones myself and then make a report about it to the sheriff. Where do I find those gentlemen?”
Blake saw a gleam of amusement in Weedon’s eyes then. Weedon said, “Doc’s place is right across the street and the jailhouse is seven doors up. Traversi, he’s the sheriff, will be right interested to hear your story, Adamson.”
“And I’ll be right keen to fill him in on the details,” Ben Adamson tossed back. “You going to stay and watch these beeves for me while I do that other business?”
“Goes with the price,” muttered Weedon. He stole a careful look Blake Durant’s way and Blake had the feeling that he was being measured. He ignored the man. The cattle had settled down peacefully as he turned his horse away. He and Adamson crossed the street together, then Adamson said,
“You go on, Durant. I’ll catch up with you in the saloon after I’ve talked to the sheriff and we’ll have some drinks and some grub.”
“Fine,” Blake told him and went on. He rode the crooked, dusty main street, taking in the townspeople he passed. To him they looked an ordinary bunch, but a couple of cowhands, one wearing a double gunbelt, eyed him speculatively. Blake reined in outside the wide-fronted garishly painted saloon and thought briefly of Carver City and another saloon which had held a lot of big trouble for him.
He came out of the saddle. This was not Carver City. This was Outcast County, and although the town didn’t impress him much, he had no reason to expect it to be as trouble-riddled as Carver City had been. Sundown was drinking from the trough when Blake pushed open the swing doors. A bellow of noise hit him in the face and he stopped momentarily, looking around. The place was crowded. Men were packed along the walls behind the card tables and a tight bunch were at the bar counter. The barkeep, a ruddy faced individual in a rye-stained apron and unruly red hair hanging across his tired eyes, was sweating at serving the customers on his own.
Durant made his way through the noisy crowd until he reached an end of the counter. He dropped some loose change on the boards and waited. When the sweating barkeep came, he ordered a double whiskey. He had so much dust in his throat, the drink had no taste as it went down. He ordered another and took his time with it.
He’d turned his back to the counter and was looking at the customers closest to him when a big, rough-faced cowhand jumped to the top of the piano in the far corner of the room. He was wide-shouldered and deep-chested and as burly in the waist as a bear. Thick, heavily muscled arms waved as his voice boomed out, demanding silence.
The silence was a long time in coming and in fact the big man had to bellow angrily before most of the noise died. Above the remaining commotion, he shouted:
“Listen here now, damn you! Everybody quiet. There’s gonna be some fun here if you want it.”
Blake Durant watched the big man look in every direction as his boots scraped the varnish off the piano top. The pin-headed piano player below him, looking up anxiously, had his mouth open in protest but no words of censure came from him.
The noise faded and some of the customers began to bunch up near the piano.
The big man’s rugged face broke into a smile. “That’s better now. Knew you folks wouldn’t mind quietenin’ when a man has somethin’ important to say.” He lifted his glass and gulped off the rest of a beer, then he tossed the empty glass down to the red-faced piano player. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grinned wider. Then he beckoned to someone in the crowd. “Come on up now, Bede, and show yourself to those who don’t know you.”
There was a shuffle of movement in the crowd packed around the piano and then another big man planted his boots on the piano keys. The discordant sound brought howls of appreciation.
Somebody called, “Don’t you know another tune, Strawbridge? Heard that one too damn many times.”
There was loud laughter. Strawbridge waved his hands for silence again, then he grabbed the second big man by the shoulder and planted him at his side.
“This here’s my brother, Bede. My name, for those of you who ain’t had the pleasure of knowin’ me, is Bo. Bede and me, we come outa the same egg thirty years ago and we kinda grew the same. But neither of us has growed so powerful that we can scare too many people in a wild-livin’ bunch like we got here today.”
“Was that a lizard’s egg, Strawbridge, or maybe a coon’s?” came a voice from the side. Bo Strawbridge glared down, trying to pick out the jester from the sea of rough faces. When nobody ventured to pick out the speaker, he made a gesture of dismissal and went on:
“That joker now, he ain’t exactly the kind I’m talkin’ to so he better shut down till I’m through.” Bo Strawbridge punched his brother Bede in the chest and said, “Bede and me will lick any two men in the saloon for two dollars. Cash up and winner take all.”
There was a rumble of comment but no takers stepped out. Bo Strawbridge eyed his brother intently a moment and Bede gave him a nod.
“Okay then, gents, Bede and me’ll take any three, same stakes.”
There were still no takers and the talk died. Blake Durant let his gaze sweep the crowd. There were enough big men there to match the Strawbridge brothers, but the reluctance of them to come to grips with the twins suggested to him that the Strawbridges were as rough as they looked.
; The silence was beginning to deepen when Blake saw a good looking dude stand up at the card table to the right of the piano player. Bo’s look went speculatively to him and a glint of amusement entered his blue eyes.
“Cherry, are you takin’ us on? Who you got backin’ you? Couple of them gamblin’ boys maybe want to try their luck?”
Cherry waved the challenge away and smiled broadly. “Nope, Strawbridge, brawling is not in my line, as you very well know.” He held up a ten dollar bill and turned, showing it to the crowd. “The cards have been going my way tonight but I’m not a man to keep the good things of life to myself. Nor am I a man who will stand in the way of other men’s enjoyment. So I’m offering this to the Strawbridge twins to put on a little fistic exhibition for us and belt themselves into silence so we can all have a little peace here.”
Bo Strawbridge glowered down on him, but his eyes strayed finally to the ten dollar bill. He licked his lips and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His brother Bede didn’t respond in any way to Cherry’s offer except to glance at Bo.
“If my offer is accepted as I think it will be,” Cherry announced, “the ten dollars will be divided between these two equally, the loser to pay his share to the winner.”
A roar of approval greeted this. Cherry lifted the bill above his head, tore it in half and handed the Strawbridge brothers the two halves.
“Bede,” he said, “has beaten you twice before, Bo, as I remember it. So here’s your chance to get something back on him and earn yourself some real fine drinking money at the same time.”
Bede looked flatly at him as he took the half bill. “I’m Bede, Cherry. He’s Bo.”
“My mistake,” Cherry said and pointed to Bede’s bandanna. “And a natural one, as everybody will agree. So to make things simple for the men here, take that off.”
As Bede’s hand rose to his grimy bull neck, Cherry, eyes glinting with amusement, turned back to the crowd. “Bo will wear his bandanna and Bede won’t. That way you men will know who you’re backing. I’m laying them both. Take your pick, your six to my five for a start.”
Bo Strawbridge glared down furiously at Cherry’s sleek haired head and pinched his mouth between thumb and forefinger. But before he could make up his mind about the matter, hands reached to help him down. The crowd surged forward, some now assisting Bede down from the piano. In the onrush of bodies the piano player scurried away to the corner, looking tremendously relieved not to have been trampled underfoot.
Cherry cleared the card table and began to lay bets. By the time Bo Strawbridge had been carried outside, Cherry had filled the first page of a notebook. Blake Durant finished his drink and paid for another, telling the barkeep to take a drink to the piano player. He moved along to the back of the crowd and looked across a sea of heads into the yard. Bo Strawbridge had been lowered to the ground and Bede was standing near the fence, looking at the torn bill in his big left hand.
“I backed you, Bo,” a tall cowhand told Bo Strawbridge, “and by hell you owe it to me to win for that dollar you borrowed a week back and ain’t paid up yet. Win and we’re square.”
Bo studied the cowhand sourly for a moment before somebody pushed him towards his brother. Bede, mistaking this approach for enthusiasm on Bo’s part, tossed his bandanna away, stuffed his half note into his pocket and slammed a fist into his brother’s mouth. Bo staggered two paces and let out a roar.
“By hell, Bede, that weren’t fair, not by any figurin’, so I’ll even that and then we’ll see from there.”
Bo stepped in and was hit again on the side of the head. His knees buckled and his face distorted with anger. He swung and hit Bede flush on the jaw and sent him reeling into the fence, then he closed in and hit Bede on the other side of the jaw. Bede rolled with the punch and the matter-of-fact interest he had shown in this fight now became raging fury. He charged at Bo, fists flailing mightily.
Blake Durant watched while Cherry moved about, calling changes of odds as the fortunes of the fight fluctuated. When Bo went down he called out two-to-one against Bo Strawbridge and a rush of men carried him back to the wall of the saloon. The crowd was yelling lustily now, encouraging the twin contestants. Bo, cursing and bleeding from a gashed mouth, heard the odds called against him and went wild.
There was a brutal savagery in the fight from that moment—toe to toe slugging with neither man giving an inch. For five minutes the twins, all kinship forgotten now, belted each other back and forth, from the fence to the saloon wall and across the yard, forcing the crowd to break continually to give them room. Cherry kept laying the odds until he had filled three pages of his notebook. He then closed the book, stuffed it in his vest pocket and found a position for himself on the back step. Blake Durant regarded him coolly, feeling that all this was unnecessary. He was sorry to see the big men so harshly exploited. Bo had just knocked the feet from under his brother when Blake Durant turned away. He found the barkeep standing behind him, craning his neck above Durant’s shoulder to get a better view.
Blake said, “I’d like a drink.”
The barkeep’s mouth opened and his face clouded. “Hell,” he moaned, “there’s always somebody to spoil a man’s fun.”
“Never mind,” Blake told him. “I’ll help myself.”
He eased the barkeep aside, ignored the distrusting look thrown at him, and crossed to the counter. When he’d had his drink, he turned to look at the backs of the crowd. Cherry was gazing intently at him, his face tight with interest. For a brief moment their eyes met. Then a roar from the crowd took Cherry’s attention back to the fight.
The thud of punches continued until suddenly there was a gasp, followed by silence, that ended in the scrape of boots from the yard and then the stamp of boots on the saloon boards. Cherry crossed to the card table, laid out his money and began tidying it. A group of men, grinning, went over to him, hands held out for payment. The drinkers came in, talking excitedly. Durant learned that Bo had sent Bede crashing through the fence, then, heeling about in triumph, he’d pitched forward on his face, out cold.
Ben Adamson appeared at Blake’s shoulder and pushed forward money for drinks. He looked anything but pleased with himself, and he explained gruffly, “The doc fixed me fine and says I’ll be sore for a couple of weeks, but there’s nothing to worry about. But that damned Traversi listened to my story of the raid and the killings like I was talking about the weather.”
Blake asked, “No investigation?”
“Nope. He said it happened outside his town. Damn him, he’s about the coldest-hearted damn ...”
“Don’t let it bother you,” Blake tried to console him. “You’ve still got other worries.”
Adamson nodded grimly and wiped sweat from his face. He had three quick drinks before he took time to check out the men about him. Most of the talk was still about the Strawbridge brothers’ fight and Blake filled him in on the details. Adamson proved Blake’s opinion of him to be correct when he muttered:
“That’s a hell of a thing, lettin’ kin beat the stuffin’ out of each other.”
Durant merely nodded. When Adamson had satisfied his thirst, Durant suggested a meal. They left the saloon and sought out the eatery, leaving behind them a saloon full of men drunk on whiskey and excitement.
Sheriff Red Traversi eyed his deputy, Lem Edey, calmly as the tall, boyish-faced lawman entered the jailhouse. Edey swiped the hat from his head, and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, grinning widely.
“What was the commotion about?” Red Traversi asked him.
“The Strawbridge pair again. Cherry wrangled up a fight between them and they beat themselves senseless. They’re both still out in the saloon yard. I left them there.”
Traversi stood up behind the desk and rolled his wide shoulders. He was forty years of age and looked younger. This he attributed to his ability to keep all his thought and movements down to the barest minimum. He refused to let anything cause him deep concern. At the same time he claimed he was capable of h
andling any situation, and this was his constant boast to the hero-worshipping Edey.
When Traversi walked around his desk, Edey tossed his hat idly onto it.
“The Adamson girl wants to see you,” Edey said casually.
The words brought Traversi heeling about. Edey beamed at the surprise in the sheriff’s face, then nodded his head.
“Yeah, she wants to see you. In her room. Guess maybe she’s taken better stock of you than you figured, Red. If you don’t want to go, I don’t mind filling in for you.”
Red Traversi’s eyebrows arched. “Well, well,” he said. “Been a while coming, ain’t it?”
“You always were a waiter, Red. Guess maybe that’s something else I can learn from you.”
Traversi picked up his hat and fitted it to his head. He inspected himself in the tiny wall mirror and his smile broadened as he decided he was not the ugliest man in the world.
Walking to the door, he said, “Don’t do anything about the cattle. Not yet. See Moulson and Day and tell them to lay low, just in case. If Weedon calls, tell him the same. We got all night and I don’t see no reason to lock horns with Adamson’s trail friend, Durant, unless it’s necessary.”
Edey nodded and Red Traversi went out. He strode along the boardwalk, taking in the cool evening air. Life was one big laugh for him and Maria was on hand when he needed her. Now the Adamson woman had thrown out a bait for him. He had no idea what she had on her mind. Even if it wasn’t romance, he’d let Edey think he’d added another woman to his collection.
Traversi entered the saloon, spoke briefly to the barkeep, then checked the yard to find Bo and Bede Strawbridge sitting groggily against the broken fence. Traversi answered the greetings thrown his way and went up the stairs. He was unaware of the interest Dane Cherry showed in him as he climbed the stairs, but even if he had noticed it, Red Traversi was not a man to let that sort of thing worry him. He had a high respect for Cherry’s ability with a gun, but this was his town and nobody could lock horns with him and expect to come out a winner.
The Loner 6 Page 2
