by Lauran Paine
His eyes twitched as he grew more nervous watching the former sheriff walk over, lean upon the wooden counter, and put an appraising gaze upon him. When MacCallister said nothing, the stage-line manager blurted out: “I’m going to quit. I’m not going to have Denver send up a man like that to tell me what to do … not after I worked so hard for this company for twelve years. I’m going to quit and can’t anyone talk me out of it.”
Dryly, MacCallister said: “You need a drink, Hank.” Then he fished around for his tobacco sack and cigarette papers. “Get hold of yourself. That coach isn’t going to leave town tomorrow.”
“What?” exclaimed the stage manager. “Not leave town? Thorne’s already given the orders, Ethan.”
“I don’t care. It’s staying right here in Winchester.”
“You can’t do that, Sheriff … I mean … Deputy …”
“No? Who says so?” MacCallister asked as he lighted his smoke, exhaled a blue stream of smoke which he watched float toward the ceiling. When he shifted his eyes back to Weaver, he asked casually: “Why can’t I, Hank?”
“W-Well …” Weaver stammered.
Shifting his stance to get comfortable where he was leaning upon the counter, MacCallister pointed a finger at Weaver and said: “You’re not saying I can’t forbid the coach from leaving, are you? As far as Ray Thorne is concerned, I haven’t seen anything of this letter of his saying he’s now the boss here in Winchester. So, tomorrow morning that coach doesn’t leave town.”
Weaver’s eyes blinked rapidly and shifted aimlessly around the room for some place to settle other than on the deputy sheriff.
He put the lawman in mind of a trapped wild animal, full of desperation and uncertainty, full of a terrible dread of something he could anticipate but could not define.
“You don’t have to tell Thorne his coach isn’t leaving town,” MacCallister said as he pushed up off the counter. “I’ll take care of that when the time comes. You understand?”
“No,” whispered the troubled stage-office manager candidly. “But I won’t say anything to him, Ethan. Still, I am going to quit … just as soon as Denver can get someone else up here.”
“No, you’re not,” MacCallister said in a soothing voice. “You’re too good a man for the stage company, but that doesn’t mean you should quit. Besides, if you did, then Thorne’s in charge for sure, and you don’t want that to happen do you?”
“No!”
“And that’s why you’re not quitting. Good night, Hank.”
Chapter Five
Klinger was already at the office when MacCallister showed up a little later than usual the following morning. The younger man didn’t look as though he’d slept well the night before. He was making coffee over at the woodstove when his father-in-law walked in, and immediately, his face indicated he was relieved.
MacCallister noticed this and said: “You give me up for dead?”
Filling two cups with coffee, Klinger waited for MacCallister to settle in before he answered. “Ruth heard about what happened up in the pass yesterday … about Thorne. She was pretty worried.”
“Yeah, I know,” mumbled MacCallister as he picked up his cup, thinking about the state his daughter had been in last night when she had stopped in the office. “Sort of worried is right,” he said as he took a sip, smiling before he added: “You know, that’s one thing I just never can do … make decent coffee. So I just concentrate on making it hot.”
They went over to the desk and stood a moment regarding each other. The sheriff put his coffee on the top of the desk, untouched, then said: “I heard about Thorne ordering the stage out this morning.” He waited for MacCallister to comment.
Instead of making any retort though, the deputy sheriff finished off his coffee, then drew forth a thick gold watch from his pocket, flipped it open, and gazed at the spidery black hands. He flipped it closed and pocketed it.
“Let’s take a walk up to the stage office,” he said. “I found out last night Thorne’s hired a duo to ride along with him. Rough-looking, down-at-the-heel bronc-stompers, from the looks of them.”
Klinger’s brows drew inward and downward at this unexpected revelation. “What do you aim to do … arrest the lot of them?”
“Maybe … maybe not. That depends on Thorne. But I’ll tell you one thing we’ve got to do, John. Keep that coach from leaving Winchester, because if we don’t, and if Thorne and his friends go up into the pass, this time there’s going to be a fight.”
“How long can we keep this up?” Klinger asked, getting more frustrated. “I mean, sooner or later Thorne’s going to sneak out of town with a stage.”
“Well, I wired the stage company’s head office in Denver last night asking if they’ve appealed to the courts for a settlement of this feud. Should have an answer back in a day or two, I reckon, but until we do hear, we’ve got to keep on trying to delay things. So let’s do that.” MacCallister crossed to the door, opened it, and waited for his son-in-law to walk on out into the dazzling brightness of the summertime morning.
As Klinger brushed past, Ethan said: “At some point today, we’ve got to go see Dick DeFore. There are two sides to this mess. If we can delay ’em both a few days, I think the stage line will take DeFore to court. That’s about the length of our implication so far.”
Out on the plank walk, Klinger turned to look back at MacCallister, saying: “You sure got it all figured out like there’s a simple way to handle this. I think different. I think Thorne’s going to make a battle out of this. That’s the only way his kind can keep drawing their big wages.”
The two men walked northward with Winchester bustling in its usual fashion around them. They had very little more to say to one another until, with the stage office directly ahead, they saw Clem Whipple drive his coach out through the side road from around back and turn to bring the horses to a halt in front of the office, the customary procedure for loading passengers. Only this morning, there were no passengers in sight, except for the two rough-looking men standing under the overhanging roof in front of the office and idly looking over the town.
“That pair,” said MacCallister, nodding his head in their direction, “Thorne’s reinforcements.”
“He’s not particular when it comes to selecting friends, I see,” the sheriff responded after running a narrowed look at the two. “If ever I saw a brace of mavericks, those two sure fit the description. Did you happen to get their names?”
“Didn’t ask,” MacCallister replied, shaking his head as he kept a close eye on the two. “Besides, if they take our advice and move on today, no one’ll care what their names are. If they don’t move on …” He let the words trail off as he lifted his burly shoulders and let them fall, his meaning amply clear.
Alone, Clem Whipple sat perched on the high seat of the stage. He slowly looped his lines upon the brake handle, throwing a worried look backward as he twisted to the left and right. Clem’s face suddenly cleared when he saw the lawmen approaching. He sprang down with sudden alacrity as Hank Weaver walked stiffly out through the office door.
Weaver had on his usual green eyeshade and rumpled suit. He was even carrying the clipboard he always had in hand when the coaches were arriving or departing.
Force of habit, MacCallister thought to himself, studying Weaver. Out loud he commented: “Why is it that some men, when their world starts falling apart, hang on to established rituals tighter than ever?”
“I assume you’re talking about Hank,” his son-in-law said. “In his case, I’d say it’s just plain fear.”
They were still a hundred feet south of the stage office when the immaculately attired two-gun man walked out onto the plank walk. Ray Thorne did not even glance in their direction, probably because as he emerged from the building, his two hirelings drew themselves upright to catch his attention.
Both lawmen watched as Thorne said something to
the two down-at-the-heel cowboys. MacCallister also noted that Clem and Weaver turned to gaze over where the three stage passengers stood talking.
Speaking softly but crisply, the former sheriff said: “I’ll split off here, John. You walk on up and engage with Thorne.”
“What are you going to do?” the sheriff asked.
“While they’re all concentrating on you, I’m going to go around the far side of that coach and unhitch the wheelers.”
“Be careful,” Klinger advised.
When MacCallister was sure they weren’t paying any attention to his movements, he stepped off the plank walk, angling wide enough so that the rear of Clem’s coach ultimately hid him from the view of Thorne and the others in front of the stage-line office. He picked up his pace as soon as he saw that his son-in-law had become the focus of the group. MacCallister could hear everything being said once Klinger got up close and halted to address Thorne, but he couldn’t see those men beyond the horses anymore.
Though he could not see who John was addressing specifically, he heard him say: “The stage isn’t leaving town.” A period of silence followed this announcement. MacCallister remained stock-still as he waited for a response. Finally, he heard Thorne’s soft but lethal voice.
“Sheriff, you’re beginning to get on my nerves. Unless you have a legal writ, just how do you figure to keep this stage from leaving?”
Working as fast as he could, MacCallister got the traces unhitched from the doubletrees behind the right-hand wheel horse when he heard his son-in-law say in that same sharp-edged tone: “Mister, I don’t need a writ. Not to keep the peace. And I’m telling you this stage doesn’t leave Winchester.”
MacCallister worked his way over to reach for the hooks behind the left-hand wheel animal. From his new position, he happened to glance up. Clem Whipple was staring straight at him, the only man out of the group standing some twenty feet away, who was not concentrating his entire attention upon the sheriff. Clem’s face was pale to the eyes as the deputy released the second set of chain harness tugs, leaving the horses unhitched to the stage except for their collar hitches. MacCallister eased back to work his way forward and complete his job at the same time Ray Thorne spoke up.
“That’s not good enough, Sheriff. This here coach’s going south for all you know, not north.” Thorne paused, turned, and jerked his head sideways at his two hirelings. “Get aboard,” he said.
Both cowboys started for the coach’s side door. Clem now moved with a gray face but with solid resolve to block the doorway. One of the cowboys dropped his right hand and snarled at Clem.
The driver turned, gave the cowboy a stare, and said: “Either one of you fellows know how to tool a coach and four?”
This temporarily diverted everyone’s attention. Even the gunfighter gazed over at Whipple.
“Driver, get up on your box,” Thorne ordered impatiently. “Don’t mix in where you’ve got no business.”
MacCallister knew what Clem was doing and mentally thanked him. Clem’s little respite had given him all the remaining time he’d needed. The stage horses, although they did not appear to realize it, were standing in front of their coach, but they were no longer harnessed to it.
The former sheriff stepped around the nigh lead horse, which put him fifteen feet behind the six men. At once the two cowboys saw him, but neither Ray Thorne nor Hank Weaver did. They lost all interest in little Clem and steadily regarded MacCallister. That he was their enemy, that they recognized him as such, was plain in both their faces. But neither of them made a move toward the guns they wore because, exactly as MacCallister had done once before, he had drawn his six-gun unnoticed. He now stood flanking all of them with his gun up and ready.
When he cocked the gun, though, this little grating sound warned Thorne. But it wasn’t the gunfighter who moved. It was badly frightened and completely astonished Weaver. Thorne stood like stone caught between Sheriff Klinger in front and Deputy MacCallister behind. He was far too seasoned to buck odds like that, so he stood motionless with his narrow, fierce face turning steadily dark and wrathful.
Weaver whipped around at the sound of the six-gun being cocked behind him as though propelled by strings. He looked out of bulging eyes at the deputy and dropped his clipboard, his eyelids flicking.
“Easy,” MacCallister warned. “Get out of the way, Hank.”
The stage manager got out of the way completely. He walked stiffly but rapidly back into the building behind them and did not reemerge.
“Mr. Thorne,” MacCallister said, watching for even the slightest movement from the gunfighter, “you’re not going anywhere.” He paused, switching his attention to the stiffly standing cowboys, before saying: “You two … go get your horses, and ride on out of town. Don’t be in Winchester one hour from now, or you’ll get locked up for vagrancy.” MacCallister jerked his head. “Get going!”
For several seconds the two cowboys glared at the deputy. They were not cowards, which was obvious, and they were angered at being ordered out of town like this. But neither, apparently, were they fools, which they would have had to have been to argue with the deputy’s cocked six-gun.
The one with the longer hair seemed to lose the tension from his body first, then the other one also relaxed. They turned as one and, without a word or glance at the man who had hired them, went striding in the direction of the livery barn.
Not until then did Clem Whipple lose his rigidity and breathe evenly. Even John Klinger seemed to sense that there would not be any gunfire exchanged.
Thorne turned, hooked both thumbs in his black shell belt, and put a smoky look upon Ethan MacCallister. For a long while, Thorne just stared, but ultimately, he shared his assessment of the situation.
“I keep underestimating you, Deputy. This makes the second time you got the drop.”
“Unless you leave town, too, Thorne, there’ll likely be a third time.”
Thorne shook his head at this, and his meaning was very clear. “No third time, Deputy,” he grated. “Next time, you’d better shoot whether you’re in front of me or behind, like now, because I’m going to.”
Klinger dropped his right hand as Thorne threatened his father-in-law. He was convinced the gunfighter was going to try and draw and fire. So was Clem. But MacCallister, giving Thorne stare for stare, surprised them both by gently shaking his head at the gunfighter.
“Draw if you’re of a mind to,” he said. “But the coach isn’t leaving town even if you do, Thorne. You see, those horses are unhitched. They’re just standing there out of habit. But you shoot a gun beside them, and in five seconds they’ll be charging up the road, running free. Since they’re the only team for that northward run … or even a southward one … and since I doubt like the devil you’d be able to fetch ’em back before nightfall … like I said, Thorne, the stage remains in town today.”
For a full minute, Ray Thorne kept regarding the deputy sheriff. Then he slowly turned, stepped to the plank walk’s edge, looked down at those loosely hanging tugs, and let out a resigned sigh. He didn’t seem so cold and angry now at all. In fact, when he faced about and looked over at MacCallister, his steely eyes were almost respectful.
“I wonder just how good you are with that gun,” Thorne mused aloud. “You’re clever, Deputy, I’ll hand you that. But how many times can you come up with clever delays? What happens when you have to rely on that pistol?”
MacCallister put his head a little to one side. He’d known dozens of gunfighters in his time. Some were psychotic murderers, some were simply men who could not bear the thought of other men being better than they were in anything. Some, like two-gun Ray Thorne, were coldly calculating and icily efficient. They were the worst of the lot and certainly the most deadly.
“I’ll tell you, Thorne,” MacCallister said firmly. “If you keep trying to force a fight, you’re going to find out about me and this gun. I’ll tell
you something else, too. I’ve been using this gun for over twenty-five years, and I’m still above ground. You’re not the first gunslinger I’ve had to tangle with. The ones I’ve met … well, they’re all dead now, and I helped plant my share of ’em.”
Thorne nodded. He was not angry now. He was quietly calculating instead. He had known his share of lawmen, and while he did not say so, legend had it authoritatively that Ray Thorne had planted a number of them over the years.
“How do you want it, Thorne?” MacCallister asked. “I can have Clem whip those horses up and chase ’em out of town, or I can save a lot of horse-hunting time if you’ll agree that you’ve lost this round and that you’ll stay in town today.”
Thorne smiled with his lips but not with his eyes. He swung toward Sheriff Klinger and said: “I understand he’s your father-in-law as well as your deputy. Well, Sheriff, I’m going to give you a piece of advice … fire him by tomorrow, or I’ll kill him.”
Thorne turned on his heel, walked past Klinger, and struck out for the Teton Saloon across the way. He didn’t walk fast, and he never once turned to look back. He had said exactly what he intended to, and he was certain that none of those men who’d heard him had any doubt whatever that he was a man of his word.
Deputy Sheriff MacCallister leathered his weapon, wiped sweat off his forehead, then addressed the stagecoach driver and his son-in-law: “Clem, put up the coach and horses. John, let’s go get our animals and ride on out. Thorne won’t leave town, but we’ve got to make damned sure nobody rides into town.”
From his office window, Hank Weaver peered out. He was terrified. He had been unable to hear what had transpired, and all he could do was watch the pair of lawmen stroll away and then sink into a chair weakly.
Chapter Six
The telegrapher caught MacCallister at the livery barn where he and Klinger were saddling up. He had an answer for the lawmen from the stage company’s head office down in Denver.
