“Arker’s already home,” Cameron said. He dropped to the ground and patted the roan. “Give him a good dollop of oats tonight.”
“You saw Rafe?” Todd demanded.
“That’s right,” Cameron nodded. He started up the board sidewalk, leaving the boy staring after him in obvious admiration for his casual attitude.
“You’re faking it a little,” Cameron gibed at himself. He was too old a hand at the law business to feel casual about someone like Rafe Arker. But at the same time he was realist enough to know the value of a public attitude such as this. And Tod Purcell would spread the word that he had had his first meeting with Arker and had come through without a scratch.
And he needed the kind of admiration a story like this would bring, Cameron admitted honestly to himself. Since his first months in Cougar Hill, he knew this was the country he had been looking for. Eleven years of drifting — cattle work along the border, mining in the mountains, and finally law work in Colorado and Wyoming and Montana — with the need to sink his roots growing greater with each passing season. And now he was prodding thirty and soon the settling down would grow harder as the drifting habit bit deeper.
As he had explained to Jenny Purcell that night they realized that they felt the same way about each other, “There comes a time when every man likes to have something to put his back against. That’s why I put what money I had into the ranch and why most of my salary goes to it for quite a time yet. That means we won’t be able to get married as quick as I’d like.”
She had kissed him in her quick way and answered, laughing, “You’ll be marshal soon, Roy, and then you can afford the ranch and me both.”
Cameron had taken the deputy job here with the understanding that he would be first in line for the marshal’s job when Balder retired. For a time, when that would happen made little difference, nor did it seem of great importance. But that all changed when Jenny agreed to become his wife; and now Cameron was encouraged when the town fathers showed open approval of his work. Because it would be men like McTigue, who owned the livery and the hay and feed store just to the north of it, and Marcus Stedman, the banker, and John Colby, his cashier — these and two or three others would decide if Cameron was the man they wanted to replace Balder. And as Balder grew more openly eager to retire, the attitudes of these men grew more important.
And yet Cameron was was no man to curry favor, and more than once he had ruffled feelings, stepped on toes. He had openly told the townsmen and the valley ranchers that their refusal to extend the jurisdiction of the local law beyond the town limits was foolish penny pinching, and he made it clear that as marshal one of his first moves would be to fight for spreading the law through the entire Cougar valley country.
But they were fair-minded men for the most part, Cameron admitted. They knew that as the valley settled, the law would have to become stronger. And their concern at getting the right man stemmed from this realization.
He passed the Hay and Feed, the barber shop and bath house, the smaller of the two mercantile stores, and stopped on the corner of Hill Avenue. His handling of Rafe Arker just might be the final test, he thought.
Crossing Hill, he passed in front of the hotel, and momentarily he forgot Rafe Arker as memory of the stranger returned to him. He sought again to place the man, and again he failed. Frowning, he walked on toward the jail building.
It was quiet, but no more so than usual on a Thursday night. Darkness had shouldered aside the last of the evening light and there was a hint of fall in the cool air that drifted down from the hills. As Cameron passed the weedy vacant lot that separated the hotel from the jail, the lamps came alight in the Widow Crotty’s boarding house to the north. Across the street, light already came from Jenny Purcell’s Café and from the bank just south of it. The end of the month, Cameron thought. Stedman and Colby would be working late for a night or two.
The jail office door was open and he turned in, finding Balder bent over a pile of paperwork on his desk. Balder looked up with a frown. “You’re late tonight.” His voice held a meaningless gruffness. He was a small man, dried with age like a California raisin grape, and uncompromising in his beliefs. But he seldom interfered with Cameron’s handling of the law, even when it went against his ways.
Cameron said quietly, “I was talking to Rafe Arker.”
Balder showed little surprise. “The stage driver was noising it around that Rafe got let out of the penitentiary. I was wondering when he’d get back here.” The interest in his voice was obvious. “He give you any trouble?”
Cameron told him briefly what had happened. Balder grunted. “Rafe’s a fool in some ways. He don’t know when to quit when he’s ahead. He’ll do everything he can to run you out of this country. He’ll try to make you look bad so you’ll have to pack up and ride. My advice is — make the first move. Every time he comes to town, roust him hard.”
Cameron shook his head. “What happened today is valley business, and separate from my job here. If Arker starts trouble in town, then I’ll use my authority. But I don’t intend to roust him until he gives me a reason.”
“He threatened you, ain’t that reason enough? And he’s been in prison,” Balder snapped.
This was the major disagreement between the two men. Balder believed firmly that a leopard could never change its spots. That once a man had been in prison, the mark would be on him forever. And that a man who consorted with criminals or criminal types was infected and would always have to be watched. Tod Purcell and some other growing boys had ridden with Rafe Arker when his greatest crime was bullying; and though they had all straightened out quickly enough and left when his true nature became plain, Balder refused to trust any of them.
“You keep Rafe reminded where he’s been and he won’t be’ so eager to do something that’ll get him put back there,” Balder went on in a sharp tone. “The same thing goes for his friends. Make them know what being a jailbird is like.”
Cameron had no desire to rake through the ashes of an old argument and so he said nothing. Balder glared challengingly at him. “Unless you don’t figure you can stand up to Rafe,” he snapped. “He ran my last two deputies out.”
“So I heard — a dozen times,” Cameron answered dryly. “I’ve faced up to men as big. I think I can handle him.”
Balder made a snorting sound. “If you aim to prove who’s boss by outdrawing him, you’re wasting your time. Everybody knows you got the fastest draw around here. The town won’t think you a hero for running Rafe away on the end of a six-shooter. Especially when the law says that nobody but you and me can carry a gun inside the city limits.
“If you want to put Rafe down and keep him down, you’ll have to whip him with your hands,” Balder went on. “And that’s a chore many a man has tried but none ever finished. Just remember that, because Rafe’ll try to make you fight him — no holds barred. If he gets you in that position and you use your gun instead, the whole town’ll think you’re afraid.”
He paused and added heavily, “If that happens, I won’t have any choice but to find me another deputy.”
“I’ll worry about it when the time comes,” Cameron said. “Right now I want some supper.”
Balder pushed the paperwork aside. “So do I,” he said. In a characteristic sudden change of mood, he grinned at Cameron. “I’d like to have seen Farley draped all over Rafe there in the cut!”
“It’s not something Arker will forget quickly,” Cameron said. With a nod, he went out. He stopped on the edge of the board sidewalk and automatically glanced both ways along the dusty street. Things were still quiet, with no lights south of Hill except for the two saloons on the west side and, far down, the livery on the east.
He was about to start on again when a tall, slender figure came out of the hotel and crossed diagonally to the southwest corner. He walked just beyond the range of lamplight spilling from the bank, so Cameron could make out little detail. But the memory brought back by the way the man carried himself, the
way he moved, was even stronger than before.
The sound of singing same softly from the north. The Widow Crotty was playing the organ and her determined contralto almost drowned out the music. Cameron smiled. The Widow was holding her Thursday night singfest, as she called it, and all of her boarders except Cameron would be grouped around the organ, not to mention other town and valley people she had managed to corral, he thought.
Then the name of the song being sung struck him. It was Lorinda. And now the memory of Saxton Larabee came sharply to his mind. Memories of the times they had ridden together, drunk together, fought together. Sax was a little older, just enough to have been in the war near its end. He had a good voice and he had sung Lorinda a lot, had whistled it softly many a time when he rode night herd. But most of all, Cameron remembered him singing it softly and sadly in his cell at the Colorado prison.
This was a memory Cameron tried to keep far back in his mind, but there were times when it refused to stay there. A time like now — because he knew who the stranger reminded him of. In size and build, in the way he walked and held himself the man could have been Sax Larabee.
Cameron laughed shortly, mocking himself. To think that a man like Sax Larabee would come to an isolated mountain town such as Cougar Hill was absurd. His concern about Rafe Arker was making him dream up ghosts, Cameron thought. Sax Larabee was part of a past dead and buried all these years. It was foolishness to think that past could come to life again.
Moving quickly now, as if to escape from the song drifting down to him, Cameron went into Jenny’s café. The supper hour was almost over and the only customer was Obed Beggs, perched on one of the three counter stools. The room was small, with only four tables besides the counter, and the fragrant odors of stew, freshly boiled coffee, and newly baked pie were packed tightly in the air. Cameron nodded pleasantly to Obed Beggs and sniffed hungrily as he slid onto a stool.
Jenny Purcell was behind the counter, the sleeves of her plain green dress pushed to her elbows and her hands in a full dishpan. Cameron looked down for a moment at the crown of her wheat-blond hair, and then she lifted her head and touched him with the warmth of her smile. She was a pretty woman with hauntingly large gray eyes, but their beauty was darkened by a shadow of concern. Cameron guessed she had heard the rumor about Rafe Arker.
“I saved a piece of apple pie for you,” she said in her husky voice.
“And after you eat it, you’ll be so contented you won’t be able to say no to a favor I got to ask,” Obed Beggs put in. He was a tall, spare old man, owner of the biggest cattle and mule ranch in the valley. It was a piece of his range Cameron had bought.
“I know,” Cameron said, “you want me to help with the roundup next week.”
“I got about everybody else except for a few drifters,” Obed said. His eyes gleamed. “And I’ll need just about twice as many riders as we got people in this Cougar country. Did you hear that the army wants three times more horses and mules than they ever bought from us before?”
“I heard,” Cameron said.
“Those bankers’ll have to be working nights for quite a while to keep track of all the gold there’ll be in these parts,” Obed chortled. “Think of all the mortgages that’ll get reduced! And all the little debts men can pay off with the money they make in the roundup. It’ll be the easiest winter most folks ever had to look forward to.”
Jenny smiled at Cameron. “I offered to turn the café over to Manuel and help out, and I think Obed’s about to agree.”
“I’ll take anybody can sit a horse,” Obed said. “When the ranchers put me in charge of this shindig I didn’t know what I was getting into. I thought the way my horses and mules are scattered all over summer range was bad enough, but you should try to find some of the critters Val Vaught and Toby Landon own.”
He gulped down his coffee and stood up. “Try to find time from your law work, Roy. Now I better get or the Widow Crotty’ll think I’m dodging her singamajig.” He hurried out.
Cameron watched Jenny dry her hands and then move gracefully about in the small space behind the counter. She brought him a bowl of stew and thick slices of homemade bread. Then she stepped back and silently watched him eat.
“You heard about Rafe Arker?” Cameron asked. She nodded and he said, “If you’re worried he might come here, I can get you a gun.”
“I have one under the counter,” Jenny said. “But Rafe would never hurt me personally.”
“Then you’re afraid of what he might try to do to me?”
She touched his hand with the warm tips of her fingers. “I’m afraid,” she admitted. She shook her head as if to deny her own words. “I’m not afraid as long as you can face him. I’ve seen you fight those big cavalrymen. It isn’t that. It’s what could happen when you turn your back. Rafe has never cared how he gets what he wants, just so that he gets it.”
She could be talking about Sax Larabee in the old days, Cameron thought. And he felt a stir of anger directed at himself for not being able to keep from thinking about Sax Larabee.
Before he could answer Jenny, the door burst open. Tod Purcell staggered in, his freckles standing out with excitement and his mouth open while he sucked in air.
“Rafe’s come to the Silver Strike with Joe Farley, Roy. And they’re causing trouble already!”
Cameron spooned up a mouthful of stew and waited. Tod caught his breath. “Both of them refused to check their guns with the barkeep. More than half the customers have already got up and left The swamper came and told me to find you.”
Cameron swallowed his stew and slid off the stool. “Is Rafe drinking?”
“Just one whiskey, I was told.”
Cameron nodded at the stew. “Keep it hot; I’ll be back in a while.”
“I’ll do that,” Jenny said, and turned quickly away.
III
CAMERON STRODE down the board sidewalk toward the Silver Strike Saloon. It was the most southerly of the two on Main Street, and the place that caused most of the trouble on a Saturday night. Most of the drifters and miners patronized it, while the sawmill workers and the settled cowhands and the small ranchers went to the Cattleman’s Bar three doors to the north. The well-to-do, both from town and valley, did their drinking in the hotel bar.
But for all that the hotel bar was quietest; Cameron checked it with the same thoroughness he checked the other saloons. And he was as insistent that Obed Beggs check his gun as he was that the poorest drifter do so. That was Balder’s law — no one but the marshal and his deputy carried hardware inside the town limits.
Tod Purcell trotted alongside Cameron. “What do you figure on doing, Roy?”
“Make Rafe Arker and Joe Farley check their guns.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they get out of town the same as anyone else. If they kick up a fuss, they’ll have to cool off in a cell. They’re no different from other people.”
Cameron stopped just short of the heavy plank door of the saloon. “You get back to the livery,” he said.
“There are a few in there that’ll side with Rafe if they get a chance,” Tod said.
“I expected as much,” Cameron admitted. “But if the law had to have outside help everywhere it went, it wouldn’t be much force. This is my job. If I can’t do it, I’d better quit being the law.”
Tod moved reluctantly away. Cameron watched until he was back in the livery, safely out of the way. Then he started toward the door. He stopped to loosen his gun and to set his hat. He felt no fear and wondered at his own hesitancy. Sooner or later, he would have to face down Rafe Arker. It was just another lawing chore that had to be done.
But the question came sharply to his mind: Had he slowed down after these months of quiet living? Fear that he might have, he realized, explained Balder’s attitude and Tod Purcell’s hesitancy.
It was a question that he knew only one way to answer. He pushed open the door and stepped into the saloon. Kicking the door shut with his boot-heel, h
e stood quietly, his head moving from side to side as he measured the men in the room.
It was a small place with a short bar at one end, a cleared space for dancing on those rare occasions when hurdy-gurdy girls trouped through town, and room for three card tables at the back. All three tables were occupied, two with card players. The third held the Dondee brothers who were too busy staring at Cameron to worry about the cards and chips in front of them.
Cameron was surprised to find them here on a week night but he gave no sign of his interest. He was more concerned with Rafe Arker. He and Joe Farley were bellied up to the bar, Rafe in a position to have his broad back turned contemptuously toward the door, and to have his .44 visible on his hip.
Two other men at the bar were backed as far from Arker as they could get without leaving. Cameron noted that the younger one was Nick Ramey, one of Obed Beggs’ hands. The other was a stranger to him.
The barkeep was a sallow-faced man with an oversized mustache covering his upper lip. He was pouring Ramey a drink. When he finished, he backed against his liquor rack and watched Cameron.
Rafe Arker kept his back to the door. “Get out, lawman,” he ordered in his heavy voice. “This is a private party.”
“The law says you check your guns when you first hit town,” Cameron stated in his quiet way. “Now both of you draw slow and easy. I want to see that hardware on the bartop. Now!”
Silence came down over the small room. Cameron stood apparently relaxed. But inside he was taut, holding himself ready for any move Arker might make. What the man did at this moment would determine the course of things from now on.
Arker straightened up and turned slowly. His right side was next to the bar now and he stepped away to give his gun arm room.
“My gun stays with me,” he challenged.
Jupe Dondee called out, “Better watch yourself, mister. The deputy here’s a real gunslick.”
Cameron’s glance moved around the room, lingering longest on Nick Ramey. From the expressions he saw he realized that Balder had been right. It would mean nothing for him to beat Rafe Arker to the draw. He would have to prove his authority over this mountain of a man with his fists.
The Desperate Deputy of Cougar Hill Page 2
