Tom Monday had a curiously high, thin voice. He spoke to the bartender: “Draw me a beer.”
“Mr. Monday, I—”
“Shut up. Put it by my left hand.”
The bartender did as he had been told, and then scuttled away down the backbar slot. Without taking his eyes off the door, Tom Monday reached around behind him with his left hand and picked up the beer. He sipped foam off the top, watching the door over the rim of the tankard.
He put down the mug and wiped his lips on his left sleeve. “Hey, you—reporter.” He did not look at Rafferty.
Rafferty said, “What?”
“You’re a damn fool if you stay there. Nobody’s got it in for you, at least not me, but where you’re standing right now the fuse is lit. Knock that table over and get down behind it if you got to stay here.”
“All right. Thanks.” Rafferty tipped the card-table over on its end and hunkered down there.
“I hope you got lead in your pencil,” said Tom Monday, “because this will be one to write down for sure. This is the night Britt Hazlitt gets his. I been waiting for this day. It’s been a long time coming.”
Rafferty said, “What have you got against him?”
“He tries to throw too long a shadow.”
Boots rang hollowly on the boardwalk. Rafferty tensed. He saw Monday’s hand drop off the bar. A voice called through the front door: “Tom—Tom Monday.”
“Who’s that?”
“Otis, from Lance Head.”
“All right.”
A burly gunman rolled inside. “Hazlitt ain’t come to town. But there’s a bunch of them on the way up here—spotted them coming up the road.”
“Who’s with them?”
“Hard to see in the rain,” said Otis. “I picked out that wall-eyed one, Smiley. But Hazlitt ain’t with them, nor Matthew Dane.”
“Too bad,” Tom Monday murmured. “All right. Take a post uptown.”
Otis hurried out. Monday stretched his mouth into a thin smile under the curled mustache. “I half figured Hazlitt would back down.”
Rafferty said, “Maybe he doesn’t know you’re here.”
“Could be,” Monday said in a calm voice. “Well, I ain’t in no rush. I’ll kill him when the time comes. You know, reporter, there ain’t—”
Monday didn’t get a chance to finish whatever it was he had meant to say. There was a crackle of gunfire from the street outside. The voice of the tough called Otis rang out:
“Look out, Monday!”
There was a second flurry of shots out in the street. A number of horses galloped around. Rafferty heard a tinkling of broken glass and a hard thud, the crash of someone or something falling down. Several voices shouted.
The back door of the saloon slammed open. Rafferty’s head swiveled in surprise. He saw a redheaded man on crutches, both legs in splints, bracing himself within the doorway. Tom Monday had wheeled and drawn his gun. Monday said, “Latourette—you damn fool, man!”
And then a heavy body smashed into the front door, driving it open. Monday wheeled back to face that threat. A heavy man catapulted inside, off balance, falling to the floor. Monday ignored that man, hurling his attention upon the one who followed—Jack Smiley. Smiley’s eyes seemed to be pointed at opposite corners of the room. Rafferty had the eerie sensation that Smiley was staring right at him. It was all in a split instant of time: Smiley roared into the room, his six-gun leveled; and Tom Monday, at the bar, slapped his holsters and whipped both guns up. The right-hand six-gun settled just as a shot from Smiley’s gun splintered the mirror behind Monday.
Dan Latourette was yelling something; Rafferty didn’t catch it, but a corner of his vision caught a flash of reflected light racing fragmentarily along the barrel of Latourette’s deliberately rising gun.
Tom Monday’s right-hand gun roared. The shot slammed Smiley’s body around, but did not knock the man off his feet: instinctive reaction closed Smiley’s trigger-finger and his shot screamed off the edge of the bar. The heavy gunman who had broken the door down now rolled over, bringing up his gun. Latourette fired a carefully aimed shot: It pierced the gunman’s wrist. He dropped the gun.
But Smiley, shaken by a bullet in his chest, was still on his feet. He cried out with half-crazy rage and began to fan the hammer of his six-gun. The booming of his shots all ran together into one deafening extended explosion, which was cut off abruptly by the sharp crack of the gun in Tom Monday’s right hand.
Monday’s coolly placed bullet snapped Smiley’s head back; Smiley’s unmatched eyes rolled back in his head and he jerked in a single great spastic twitch. His feet flew out from under him and he crashed to the floor violently. The gun wheeled away from his limp hand.
The gunman on the floor, with his wrist shattered, reached gamely for his gun left-handed. Monday shot him point-blank.
Rafferty’s ears whistled. He heard a thump to his left, and turned his head in time to see Sheriff Latourette fall off his crutches and pitch to the floor.
Monday was on his way to the door. He nudged Smiley with his toe and then stepped across the dead gunman. He had almost reached the door when a harsh voice slapped at him:
“Stop right there, Tom.”
It was Jeremy Six in the doorway above Latourette. Six had his gun out and it was aimed straight at Monday.
Monday glanced down at Latourette. “I didn’t do that, Jeremy.”
“Just stand still a minute,” Six grated. He dropped to one knee and reached for Latourette’s wrist. Latourette was sprawled on his side, his legs askew. The crutches had slid away. Six’s eyes were on Tom Monday, and a brutal flame burned in them. He dropped Latourette’s lifeless wrist.
Rafferty spoke: “Jack Smiley was spraying lead all over the room. It must have been one of his.”
Six said, “Who gives a damn which one shot him down? The man was crippled.”
Monday still had his guns in his hands. Out in the street, there were no more shots. Someone out there called, “Let’s get home!” and a drumming of hoofbeats swelled up in the rainy twilight.
Six was on one knee beside the sheriff’s body. Rafferty shrank back behind the upended table. The savage glitter of Six’s eyes horrified the reporter. Six said, “Put your guns away, Tom.”
“These two busted in on me,” Monday said. “It was self-defense, Jeremy. I don’t know which one of them shot Latourette, but maybe the reporter’s right about that. Anyhow it wasn’t me.”
“Leather them.”
There was something so fierce in Six’s eyes that Monday simply did what Six ordered. He holstered both guns.
Six got to his feet. His face was ashen. “Take a message for me, Tom. I want the word spread. The Concho Basin’s full of bravos. I want them all out of the basin by sundown tomorrow.” Six’s gun was rock-steady in his fist. “That includes you, Tom.”
“Are you crazy?”
Six said flatly, “Any bravo who sets foot in this town after tomorrow sunset will be shot on sight. I will give no quarter and no warning and that is my final word on the subject.”
Twelve
When Monday was gone from the place, Jeremy Six stalked across the room, pausing by Smiley and the other dead bravo. He went as far as the front door and looked out; then he turned and came back toward the sheriff’s body.
Rafferty set the table upright and the bartender came out from his place of refuge behind the bar. The bartender was quivering. “I feel like one big goose pimple.”
Six told the man, “Get the undertaker over here and take care of those two bodies.”
“What about Sheriff Latourette?”
“I’ll take care of that myself.”
Six’s expression did not encourage the barkeep to argue. The bartender went away without dallying.
Rafferty’s wide eyes followed Six around the room. Six made a complete circuit and came back again to Latourette. Six’s face was troubled and Rafferty thought that gave him an opening:
“What you said to
Monday. Were you serious?”
Six glanced briefly at him. “Does a man talk like that just to hear his own noise?”
“How in hell can you expect to fight every gunman in the whole basin?”
“One at a time,” was Six’s answer. “There’s enough ammunition for all of them.”
“You’ve sure changed your time since last night.”
The front door was still standing open. A horseman came up in the rain, dismounted and came inside. He was a big, broad-shouldered man who carried a lot of muscular weight. With one glance at the two dead gunmen, he said, “I didn’t order this done.”
Six said, “Who are you, then?”
“Tave Lockyear.”
Six said, “I’ll give you the same message I gave your hired hand. Any bravos who stay in the basin after sundown tomorrow will be shot on sight.”
Lockyear bristled. “Who gave you the right to send messages to anybody?”
Six’s gun whistled up. “This.”
“And just who the hell do you think you are?”
Six removed the badge from Dan Latourette’s vest. He pinned it over his heart. “That’s who I am, Lockyear, and that’s all you have to know.”
“By sundown tomorrow,” Lockyear snapped, “whoever you are, you’ll be dead.” He tramped out of the place and got on his horse and rode out of town.
Six’s dismal glance shifted toward Rafferty. “The sheriff must have come into town in a buggy. Find it and bring it around here.”
Rafferty was shaking his head in disbelief. “Six, I knew you were tough. But no human being can make that stick.”
Six said, “They asked for a blood bath. All right. I’m going to give them one. Get out of here and find that wagon.”
Two men had been killed, and three men wounded, in the free-for-all out in the street. Both sides had retired from the fighting. People of the town, not talking, went around picking up the bodies and helping the wounded and staring with dull eyes at the bullet-smashed damage in windows and walls.
Jeremy Six stalked down the street as far as the sheriff’s office. He went inside and lighted the lamp, and spent a moment studying the arrangement of the room. Then he went directly to the gun rack on the wall. One by one he took down the weapons and examined them. He finally settled on a heavy over-and-under weapon which had a single-shot .38-56 rifle barrel superimposed on top of a twelve-gauge shotgun bore. He found ammunition in the desk drawer and filled his pockets.
Armed with the multi-purpose rifle-shotgun, he returned to the saloon. Rafferty had drawn up a buckboard. The saloon porch was crowded with mute, curious townspeople. Jeremy Six rammed through the crowd, using shoulders and elbows indiscriminately. He crossed the room and knocked two kneeling men aside, bent down and picked Dan Latourette’s body up in his arms.
When he turned around, the crowd fell back and made a path for him. The badge made a dull glitter on Six’s chest. He carried Latourette outside and laid the man down in the back of the buckboard.
A businessman stepped forward from the crowd. “Mr. Six? I’m Lionel, I own the store over there. Look, the bartender told us what you told Monday and Lockyear. But we’ve got trouble enough without—”
“Shut up,” Six said hoarsely, “and stay out of this. It’s between me and the bravos. You people just get behind cover and stay there. I’ll clean up your town for you.”
Lionel said, “But Mr. Six, you’re not even duly constituted to act as sheriff here. Don’t you think—”
Six wheeled on him. “Who’s going to stop me, Mr. Lionel—you?”
Lionel’s eyes shifted away. Six grabbed a fistful of the storekeeper’s shirt-front and yanked the man forward. “I’m going to give this town law—whether you people want it or not.” He flung the man away from him and turned to climb onto the buckboard.
Rafferty was on the high seat with the reins in his good hand. He looked at Six and said, “I’ll drive. You ride shotgun.”
“Get down, Rafferty.”
“You may need both hands free,” Rafferty said. “You’ve made a few enemies in the past ten minutes.”
Rafferty clucked at the horses. The crowd made way for the buckboard. Six said, “You’re a damned fool.”
“I wouldn’t miss any of this for the world.”
“You can’t send any dispatches from the grave.”
“I’ve already been shot once,” Rafferty said. “I figure that’s my quota. I feel kind of lucky from here on out.”
The horse lifted to a lope and hauled the buckboard out of Rifle Gap. At some time, unnoticed, the rain had quit. The last gray light of dusk drained out of the sky. The buckboard was Latourette’s, and Rafferty trusted the horse to find its own familiar way home; he held the reins relaxed. He said to Six, “When Napoleon set out to defeat all the armies of the world, somebody had to go along and hold his coat. I expect to get the story of my career, Six, so please don’t try to shake me off.”
“If you’re dead set on dying, I won’t stop you,” Six said. He was scrubbing his hands together; his face was taut with bitter anguish.
Rafferty said in a quieter way, “I guess the sheriff must have been a pretty close friend of yours.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes grief can make a man say and do things he regrets later.”
“Follow along if you have to,” Six said, “but keep your goddamn mouth shut, Rafferty.”
“What will you do? Kill me?”
“It wouldn’t be hard to throw you off this wagon.”
Rafferty shrugged. “I’d just dust myself off and come on along after you. Quit fighting me, Six. You’ve got enough enemies. Look, I’d like to help you if I can. I’ve seen what’s happened here when there was no law. I’ve learned a hell of a lot in the space of a few days. And one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t expect to have any rights if you don’t stick up for them. Those people in town have a right to peace, but they haven’t got peace because they didn’t fight for it. So you came along and now you’re angry enough to do their fighting for them. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
Six picked up the rifle-shotgun and laid it across his knees. His eyes keened the night: the first paralysis of rage was wearing off, and he became gradually alert to the dangers the night might hold. In a while he murmured in echo, “Yeah, maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
They reached the Latourette house and Six stepped down from the buckboard. A light burned in the window. He lifted his hand to knock, and then hesitated. Rafferty’s head dropped toward his chest; he sat on the wagon seat and dragged the back of his wrist across his eyes, blinking rapidly. Finally Six straightened his shoulders and knocked lightly at the door.
When Mario answered it, Six took his hat off. He could not speak. But the woman’s eyes moved from Six to Rafferty, back to Six and finally down to the sheriff’s badge pinned to Six’s chest. She understood; she took a single backward step and her hand rose to her mouth, but then she nodded stoically. All she said was, “I couldn’t tell him not to go. I couldn’t be that kind of wife to him.”
Six said humbly, “I’m so sorry, Mario.”
“Don’t be. This was his way.” She stepped past him and moved toward the back of the wagon. Six could hear her speaking in a low voice: “The Lord is my rock and my fortress ...”
Rafferty got down and stood beside Six. Six was frowning and Rafferty murmured, “You may not believe in God right now, but He believes in you.”
“Maybe.” Six moved over to the woman.
She said, “He wanted to be buried on the hill behind the house.”
He reached over the side and picked up Latourette. She said, “I knew you wouldn’t leave us.”
Six’s eyes closed momentarily. When he opened them, he said, “I wish Dan had known that. I didn’t have a chance to—”
“Never mind,” she said. “He knows.”
They buried Dan Latourette by lamplight. There was no coffin because he had wanted no
ne. Latourette had been a man of the earth, a farmer by birth. Rafferty held the lantern. When Six laid the body in the grave he had spaded, the woman tossed a handful of earth. Then she took up a second shovel and helped to fill in the grave. Afterward, she wept, and Six read the words from the Bible. She said, “Tomorrow I’ll make a marker.”
Six closed the Bible and held it in his left hand. Rafferty turned the lantern wick down. Mario said to Six, “I’m glad there’s someone to do what Dan would have done.”
“Dan might not have done it my way.”
“He’d have put his trust in you, Jeremy.”
Above the woman’s head, Six saw Rafferty watching him silently.
Thirteen
Nick Story sat in the parlor of Lockyear’s Lance Head house. He was smoking a cigarette and the ash tray by his wrist was full of butts. He polished his glasses on a handkerchief. Back through the house, the office door was open and he could hear Tave Lockyear arguing with Tom Monday, but he could not make out the words.
Little Carolyn was playing in the yard. He could see her through the window by his chair. She had caught a lizard; she was stroking its head and the lizard was squirming. Finally she put it down and the lizard ran away into the weeds. The little girl smiled in the sunshine.
Julianne came into the room, drying her hands on her apron. She did not see Story in the chair until he spoke her name. Then she came over to him and stood by him, looking out through the window at her daughter. The morning sun made long shadows across the yard.
Marshal Jeremy Six #3 Page 9
