by Lauran Paine
The gunfighter rolled dimming eyes over at Klinger, then at MacCallister, as he said faintly: “For seventy thousand, Sheriff, a man will take a chance … even if it’s a poor one.”
Mather peered down at Thorne and rapped out: “Thorne, you lied to me. You lied to me all through this, didn’t you?”
“Sure,” the gunfighter answered, a look of scorn washing over his face. “Sure, I lied, fat man. What of it?”
Mather started to speak, checked himself, and, along with the others now crowding around, watched Thorne’s chest fall in, watched his eyes glaze, watched his head go slack upon MacCallister’s arm.
It was Klinger who ordered: “Clem, go fetch the coach.”
Ethan stood up, gazed around, saying to DeFore: “How about you and your boys going back for the horses … all of them, Dick? We’ll tie the dead ones across their saddles and take Thorne back with us.”
DeFore nodded. He took one last look at the gunfighter and then grimly walked away, followed by his men.
Ethan let them get beyond earshot before he turned to Charles Mather to say: “Mather, you made one bad mistake.”
“Yes, I realize that now. Thorne. I’m sorry, Deputy. I’m sorry for all the things I said as well.”
“You going to make another one, Mather?”
The fat man’s florid face looked somewhat offended. “What do you mean?”
“With Richard DeFore. He’ll dedicate Cheyenne Pass … let it become a regular roadway. But there are some conditions attached to that.”
Mather spread both his hands out, palms up. “Anything,” he said. “Anything at all, Deputy.”
“Closed land on both sides of the road, a turnout to be built below the top out, no passengers to be let out in the pass … and your word that you’ll respect his rights.”
“I’ll give you my word to those terms, Sher … Deputy …” His eyes shifted over to Klinger. “And to you, Sheriff.”
Klinger said dryly: “Give your word to him, Mr. Mather, not us, and maybe you’d better give it to Mr. DeFore in writing.”
“Certainly, Sheriff, certainly. I have paper and pen in my valise on the coach. I’ll write him out an agreement right now. And, Sheriff … I apologize again.”
“Seems like some men got to live through a battle before they get any sense,” John said. “Best get your satchel and write up that agreement now. DeFore’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Mather hustled over to the coach, accompanied by the two mine guards. They halted where Clem was tooling their coach back into the roadway, heading toward the mouth of the pass.
MacCallister looked around with a squint as DeFore came walking back, leading their animals as well as the horses belonging to Thorne’s would-be outlaw crew.
“Son,” Ethan said to John. “You’re exactly what I thought you were … a damned good lawman.” He swung back and smiled. “Now suppose we get back to town and see if maybe we can’t talk your wife … my daughter … into cooking us up a big breakfast. I’m hungry enough to eat a steer, horns and all.”
They retrieved their mounts from DeFore, staying clear as Charles Mather took a long look over at Richard DeFore, then walked out where the old cowman was grimly standing with his horse, watching his riders lash the dead renegades across their saddles.
Neither MacCallister nor Klinger could hear what those two said, but they saw them shake hands. They also saw DeFore accept a piece of paper from Charles Mather and pinch up his face as he laboriously read what Mather had written. And finally, they saw the rugged old cowman incline his head and once more shake Mather’s hand.
Clem, high atop his seat, called down that he was ready to head back, so both the lawmen mounted. When all were ready and settled, they eased out, heading northward back up the road toward Winchester.
When the town finally came into sight, MacCallister looked over and said to his son-in-law: “You know, in the last week or so, you’ve gotten ten years of experience all jammed up into a few days. I admit I had my doubts from the start how this would affect you as it played out. But you came through fine, and I doubt like the devil if anything like this will come up again for another ten years.”
John Klinger smiled. “Ethan, if you’re still with me when it comes the next time, I won’t care.”
THE END
About the Author
Lauran Paine, under his own name and various pseudonyms, has written over a thousand books. He was born in Duluth, Minnesota. His family moved to California when he was at a young age, and his apprenticeship as a Western writer came about through the years he spent in the livestock trade, rodeos, and even motion pictures, where he served as an extra because of his expert horsemanship in several films starring movie cowboy Johnny Mack Brown. In the late 1930s, Paine trapped wild horses in northern Arizona and, for a time, even worked as a professional farrier. Paine came to know the Old West through the eyes of many who had been born in the 19th century, and he learned that Western life had been very different from the way it was portrayed on the screen. “I knew men who had killed other men,” he later recalled. “But they were the exceptions. Prior to and during the Depression, people were just too busy eking out an existence to indulge in Saturday-night brawls.” He served in the US Navy in the Second World War and began writing for Western pulp magazines following his discharge. It is interesting to note that his earliest novels were published in the British market, and he soon had as strong a following in that country as in the United States. Paine’s Western fiction is characterized by strong plots, authenticity, an apparently effortless ability to construct situation and character, and a preference for building his stories upon a solid foundation of historical fact. Adobe Empire (1956), one of his best novels, is a fictionalized account of the last twenty years in the life of trader William Bent and, in an off-trail way, has a melancholy, bittersweet texture that is not easily forgotten. In later novels like The White Bird (1997) and Cache Cañon (1998), he showed that the special magic and power of his stories and characters had only matured along with his basic themes of changing times, changing attitudes, learning from experience, respecting nature, and the yearning for a simpler, more moderate way of life.
