A long table occupied the center of the floor. A manlike shape lay on top of it, lengthwise, covered with a sheet. The head lay at the end of the table nearest the window. A pair of booted feet protruded beyond the bottom of the sheet, toes-up.
Not a sound escaped Vince Stafford save for slow, heavy breathing.
Barton went out of the room to give him some privacy, not that Stafford had requested any. He closed the door behind him and walked to the open window at the end of the hall. Glad of the fresh air, he filled his lungs with it and looked out. He was sweating.
In the storeroom, Vince stood at the table’s head, reaching for the sheet. His clawlike hand was steady as he turned the sheet down, uncovering the figure to its shoulders.
Bliss Stafford lay faceup, a rolled towel under the back of his head propping it up. He was dead only a few hours but already something stiff and waxy had crept into his face. His eyes were closed. The blood had been wiped clean from where it had spilled down the corners of his mouth, chin, and neck, but his shirt collar and front were stained with it.
Vince studied him. A long, unruly forelock curled down over his son’s forehead, the tip of it hanging down into his eye. Vince brushed it back out of the way, smoothing it in place with the rest of the hairs on Bliss’s head. A beat later, it came undone, once more falling over an eye.
The corners of Vince’s lips quirked upward in what might have been the ghost of a smile, one as quickly laid as raised. His face resumed its stony stolidity, mouth clamped down in a tight line.
Looking out the window, a flash of motion caught the sheriff’s eye just as he heard the doorknob on the storeroom door turn. Down near the Cattleman Hotel, several figures dashed from one side of the street to the other, seemingly to no purpose. He cursed under his breath.
He turned as Stafford stepped out in the hall. Vince’s eyes were dry, his face cold. “I’ll take care of things. Have him moved.”
Barton nodded.
“I’m done here,” Stafford said, starting toward the front of the building.
Barton followed, passing the sweeper. “Leave the front door unlocked, Jess. Some of Mr. Stafford’s men’ll be along directly for the body. Stay here till they come, then lock up and go home.”
“Yessir, Sherrif Mack.”
Vince and Barton went out. Small birds fluttered in the boughs of a shade tree on the small plaza’s square plot of grass. The Ramrod bunch hadn’t moved.
Clay was guarded, watchful. Quent stared off into space, mouth hanging half open, his thoughts, such as they were, far away.
Vince went to his horse, resting both hands on the saddle horn before hoisting himself up into place. The horse sagged noticeably under his weight. He walked the animal to the head of the column of riders.
Barton moved along the column slowly, the mass of mounted men looming up like a wall on one side of him. His face was leaden, his tread light. The next few moments would be critical.
“Clay, send a couple of the boys to fetch Joe Delagoa. He’ll get the body ready for burial,” Vince said.
Clay turned his horse, looking down the line toward the men who were more ranch hands than gun hands. “Farrell, Ritchie! Go fetch Joe Delagoa.”
The two exchanged blank glances. “Who’s he?” Farrell asked.
“The old Portugee carpenter, down to the lumberyard. Have him bring a wagon for Bliss. And, uh, be polite,” Clay added as an afterthought.
“Gotcha, Clay,” Farrell said. He and Ritchie peeled off, riding south down a side street.
Vince motioned Clay to him. They put their heads together. Vince was doing the talking, giving Clay some instructions. He spoke too low for Barton to make out the words.
Sitting up high on his white horse, Oxblood was rolling a cigarette. He opened the drawstring mouth of a tobacco pouch.
Barton ambled over to him. “When did you start riding for the Ramrod, Red?” The sheriff’s tone was matter of fact, conversational.
“Since this afternoon, Sheriff,” Oxblood said, a white-toothed grin splitting his wide, ruddy face.
“Selling your gun again, eh?”
“Just renting it.”
“Can’t stay away from the life, can you? You did a good job for the folks around here a little while back when you turned against Harbin and helped clean up the gang. You got pardoned so you could make a fresh start.”
“That I did. But I like to keep my hand in, from time to time.”
Pushing back his hat, Barton used his sleeve to mop a sweat-damp forehead. “This don’t hardly seem like your kind of job, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“You’d speak up whether I minded or not. That’s what I like about you, Mack,” Oxblood said.
“I thought you liked Damon.”
“I do. Everybody does ... present company excepted.” Oxblood cut a side glance to indicate the Staffords. “I ain’t going against Damon. I’m here to balance the wheel in case Creed Teece steps into the play.”
“That’s what Damon pays him for.”
“So now Vince is paying me.”
“Teece is fast.”
Holding a cigarette paper creased down the middle in one hand, Oxblood poured a small mound of tobacco into it from the pouch. Holding the drawstring between his teeth, he pulled the pouch closed, dropping it into his breast pocket. “Always wondered which of us is faster. What do you think, Mack?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the sheriff said.
“Maybe soon we’ll all find out. If Teece steps in, I step in. Else, I’ll just sit tight and watch the fireworks. I’d advise you to do the same.”
“I ain’t taking sides.”
“If you ain’t with Vince, you’re agin’ him. That’s how he sees it.”
“I’m for Hangtown.”
“But is Hangtown for you? Good luck.” Oxblood smoothed out the tobacco in the paper and started rolling it up, evening it out with his fingertips. He raised it to his mouth to lick the ends of the paper to stick it in down in place.
“Seeing as how you’re giving out advice, Red, I’ll do the same. A couple friends of yours are siding with Damon,” Barton said.
“Who?”
“Johnny Cross and his one-legged pard.”
Oxblood’s face remained unchanged, but the hand-rolled cigarette crumbled, coming apart in his hands. “Dang! What for are they horning in?”
Barton shrugged meaty shoulders. “Who knows why that Cross kid does anything? You tell me.”
“He’s a wild one. Hellacious. As for the gimp, he goes where Johnny goes, simple as that.”
“They’re siding Damon. So’re a couple other fellows. Flint Ryan and Charley Bronco.”
“Bronco I know, not t’other one.”
Barton flashed a tight, nasty grin. “Maybe more fireworks than you expected, huh?”
“Anyone ever tell you you look real mean when you smile, Sheriff?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t go up against friends,” Oxblood said with an air of nonchalance. “As for the others, the only one I’m being paid to tackle is Teece. Him I don’t like him, not even a little bit.”
“Just letting you know the lay of the land,” Barton said.
“And I appreciate it.” Oxblood nodded.
Vince finished talking to Clay and glanced at Oxblood, annoyed. Ever alert to Vince’s moods, Clay said, “What’re you doing, Red? Telling the sheriff your life story?”
“Just jawing,” Oxblood answered. “Man’s a friend of mine.”
“You ain’t being paid for talking, gunfighter,” Clay pointed out.
“I do it for free, seeing as how I’m naturally a sociable type fellow.”
“We’re through talking,” Vince Stafford hissed.
“Fine,” Oxblood said.
Barton circled around to the front of the column, casual-like, standing in the middle of the street facing them.
“That’s the second time you’ve gotten between me and the town,” Vince said, scowling.
Clay rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. Quent lost the dreamy-eyed look, becoming aware of his surroundings for the first time in a while. His small round eyes widened, then narrowed. Behind the Staffords, a couple horses pawed the dirt with front hooves.
Sensing resistance, Vince Stafford didn’t like it. “Straighten this out for me. Where were you when Bliss got kilt?”
“It was all over when I got there,” Barton said.
“My boy was shot down like a dog in the streets of your town.”
“He wasn’t no boy. He was a man carrying a gun, and he knew how to use it.”
“The gambler who shot Bliss, he in jail?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Bliss was pushing it. Damon wanted to walk away, but Bliss drew first. You can’t jail a man for defending himself. That’s the law.”
“I don’t rightly care for your kind of law. I follow a higher law. ‘Blood shall have blood,’ like the Good Book says. An eye for an eye.” Vince spat.
“You didn’t bring your whole outfit to town to take Bliss back home. What do you figure on doing?” the sheriff asked.
Vince reached down to one side of the saddle.
Barton almost slapped leather and drew until he realized the man was reaching for a looped circle of hempen rope. The coiled lariat was fixed to a saddle ring.
“I’m gonna hang the man who kilt my boy,” Vince cried, brandishing the rope, shaking its looped length in the air. “But don’t get yourself in an uproar, Sheriff. I’m gonna do everything right and proper, the good old-fashioned Hangtown way. I’m gonna slip the noose around the gambler’s neck by myself and stretch him from a limb of the ol’ Hanging Tree.” Vince’s voice quivered with malice, reveling in it.
Spewing little flecks of spittle, he went on. “That ain’t all I’m gonna do. I’m gonna fix the whore what led my boy astray, too—cut her face up good and proper so that after this day no man’s ever gonna be able to look at her again without puking!”
Clay started. “That’s crazy talk, Pa! The girl had nothing to do with it!”
Vince turned on him. “How do you know? Was you there? Hell, no! So just keep your trap shut.”
“I know Bliss, the way he was around women. Everybody knows! He saw a pretty girl he just had to have her, come hell or high water. If it wasn’t this one, it would have been another,” Clay quipped.
“But it was this one,” Vince pressed. “What’s her name? Francine? Sure, that’s it. Francine. He talked about her enough, back at the ranch. Francine! She’s the gambler’s whore and because of her Bliss is dead and she’s got to pay! They both do, and they will.”
Clay’s face reddened, teeth bared in a half snarl. “I didn’t come out here to fight women, I came to get my brother’s killer and—”
“You came because I told you! And you’ll do like I tell you! And that’s the end of it,” Vince hollered, “unless you feel like bucking me, boy. Do you?”
After a pause, Clay made a visible effort to control himself. “You’re the boss, Pa.”
“Damned right, and don’t you forget it.”
Quent snickered. “Never learn, do you, Clay? There’s no going agin’ Pa once he’s got his mind set—”
“Shut up, Quent. I take it from Pa, but I don’t have to take it from you.”
“Both of you shut up.” Still holding the coiled lariat, Vince rested one hand on top of the saddle horn, put the other hand on it and leaned forward, glaring down at Barton, impassive and unmoved. “Now what do think of that, lawman?”
“I think Clay’s talking sense and you ought to listen to him,” Barton said. “Bracing Damon is one thing, but hurting a woman, cutting her, that’s another. That’s awful raw, even for Hangtown. Folks in these parts don’t cotton to a man putting a bad hurt on a woman.”
“Respectable women, not whores.”
“Whores, too. There ain’t so many of them around here that we can afford to lose one, especially not a pretty one.”
That got a couple chuckles from the men, mostly the top guns who didn’t give a damn and the riders too far in the back for Vince to know it was them laughing.
Vince got more irritated. “I showed my hand. Now it’s time for you to lay your cards faceup on the table, Sheriff. What’s your call? You plan on bucking me?”
“I didn’t get this badge for being dumb,” Barton began.
Some of the tension left Clay’s face. Dan Oxblood smiled knowingly. Some of the men nodded their heads.
“I’m hired to protect Hangtree. I ain’t so much of a fool as to risk the town getting tore up and innocent folks hurt and maybe killed to save Damon Bolt’s neck. ’Sides, Damon’s pretty good at taking care of himself ... and he’s got some friends with him.”
“That’s our lookout,” Clay said.
“The gambler and the whore, I want ’em both,” Vince said. “And I’ll have ’em.”
Clay frowned. “Damn it, Pa, he’s going along! You don’t got to rub his face in it.”
“He’s got to go along all the way.”
“There’s a condition,” Barton drawled.
“I don’t hold with conditions,” Vince said.
“You want to fight a private war with the Golden Spur, that’s your business. I may not like it, but I have to take it. But it’s strictly between your crowd and his. Keep it private and the rest of the folks safely out of it.”
“Nobody’ll get hurt unless they get between me and what I’m after. If they do, God help ’em because I surely won’t.” Vince looked skyward, as if calling on the Lord to witness the truth of his words.
“Don’t let things get out of hand, Vince.”
“Suppose they do? Who’s gonna stop me, you?”
“That’s right.” Barton nodded.
After a pause Oxblood laughed without mirth, breaking the deathly silence. “Whew! You do speak right up, don’t you, Mack?”
The Ramrod riders flashed dark looks and muttered harsh words.
“Easy, men,” Clay cautioned.
Vince gawked in disbelief. “I must’ve heard wrong.”
“You heard right,” Barton advised. “Listen up, Stafford, and that goes for the rest of you, in case any of y’all are hard of hearing.”
Quent swelled up, stung. “That’s Mister Stafford to you—”
“Shut the hell up. Now get this. No man buffaloes Hangtree, no matter how big he thinks he is or how many guns he’s got riding for him. It’s been tried before and it never took and it ain’t gonna take now.”
“Big talk for one man,” Vince said, sneering.
“I ain’t alone.” Barton turned, angling his body so he faced Vince and West Trail Street, careful not to turn his back on the Staffords. The rest of the bunch wouldn’t make a play unless and until one of the family got the ball rolling first, he figured.
Raising his left arm slowly and deliberately, so as to not spook anybody into shooting, Barton waved a hand in the air. Armed men poured into the street from the front and side doors of the Cattleman Hotel and the Alamo Bar across from it.
“Don’t nobody get trigger-happy, gents. You don’t want to spoil your fun,” Barton said.
Figures armed with rifles, shotguns, and handguns massed in the center of the street, filling it. A crowd of thirty or forty men stood facing the Ramrod riders. The hard-core center of them were Dog Star toughs, paired with hard-bitten ranchers and cold-faced townmen. Together, they made up the Hangtown militia.
“What’s this? What do you think you’re pulling?” Vince Stafford blustered.
“Hangtree got through the war without being sacked and burned by Yankees, deserters, or outlaws, and we aim to keep it that way. Them folks over there ain’t minded to stand by and let the town go to Hades just because you or anyone else wants to run roughshod over it,” Barton said.
“S
eems to me you made a slight mistake in your calculations, Sheriff,” Clay said, keeping his voice level. “Them fighting shopkeepers and store clerks and whatnot of yours—real bad hombres, I’m sure—they’re down there. But you’re here, all alone with us.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Barton said, unimpressed.
“You’re taking them, by God!” Vince cried.
Barton had been unsure whether the likes of Wade Hutto and Squint McCray could marshal their respective factions and get them in the street when the time came. That was the chancy part. Now that the confrontation had come to a head he felt cool, ready. “Them bad hombres you’re making small of have homes and businesses to protect against looting and burning. Most of them were in the war and they can take care of themselves if they have to. See that they don’t have to.
“Go fight your fight with Damon. That’s your business. It’s the Ramrod against the Spur and that’s where it better stay. If it gets out of bounds, slops over where it can foul our nests—we’ll make it our business. Savvy?”
Quent’s open hand hovered over the butt of his holstered gun. “Almighty sure of yourself, ain’t you?”
Barton eyed him, fixing him with a cold stare. “Just as sure as I am that you ain’t gonna pull that gun, you overgrowed sack of horse droppings.”
“Why, you dirty—”
“Don’t try him, Quent,” Clay said quickly.
“Back off, boy!” Vince yelled.
Quent held the pose for a beat, then slowly lowered his hand to his side, well clear of the gun.
“What I thought,” Barton said, sneering.
“Don’t crowd your luck,” Vince cautioned. “Don’t crowd us.”
“You’ll have your hands full with Damon and his pals. You’re too smart to go against him and the town both,” Barton said. “And don’t forget about the Yanks at Fort Pardee. Give them an excuse to hunt you down and they’ll clean up on the whole bunch of you and confiscate your herd and ranch for their troubles.”
A voice from one of the militia men in the street called, “You okay, Sheriff?”
“Yeah!” Barton replied, not taking his eyes off the Ramrod riders. “I’m gonna walk out of here now and tell the folks you know the facts of life and will abide by them.”
A Good Day to Die Page 17
