Riders of Judgment

by Frederick Manfred

  Homer’s eyes rolled in their fat sockets.

  Cain whirled. His own eyes still hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark interior of the store. “All right, Alias, wherever you are, come out. You’re just the one I’m lookin’ for.”

  Hunt stepped into the main aisle, tall, lean, cold smile cutting back into his cheeks. He had on a dark winter overcoat with the beaver collar open at the throat. His cartridge belt gleamed some in the low light. His gun hung hidden under a fold of the coat.

  Cain’s left arm hung half-crooked over his gun. He studied Hunt’s face. It galled him that Hunt had eyes hard to hold up to. Cain said, “Alias, I might’s well come right out with it. I’ve come to town to kill you. Have you got your affairs in order?”

  Hunt stood with his legs wide apart, both hands down, calm, easy. “As good as I’ll ever have them.”

  “You’re all set then for Judgment Day?”

  “As set as I’ll ever be.”

  “Take off your overcoat.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can draw better and faster, you murdering black-hearted bustard. I want this to be a fair shake.”

  Fat Homer shimmied behind the roll-top desk, ready to duck. “Boys,” he said, weak, “boys, if you must shoot, how about tryin’ the street?”

  Cain said, “Take off your coat.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I gave you your chance. You are ready then?”

  “I am.”

  “No regrets over all the murderin’ you done?”

  “Who’s talking about murder?”

  “You ain’t killed then?”

  “Yes, I’ve killed. Sure. Because the law said someone needed killin’. But murder? That’s something else again.”

  “What about Gramp?”

  “He needed killin’. And I was glad to do it.”

  “What? What’d he ever do to you or to the law that he needed killin’?”

  Hunt showed teeth. “That’s my affair.”

  Homer Fox tried again. “Uhh … Cain, what make of bullet did you say again?”

  “I said, Colt .45.” Cain set his bowlegs wide too. “But now that you mention it, give me a couple of boxes of .38-56’s.” He watched Hunt’s face. “For a certain Winchester I found up in the hills last month.”

  Hunt’s gray eyes held steady.

  “Draw, you high-headed devil you. Draw!”

  “This ain’t my fight. I didn’t pick it.”

  “I’m next on your list to get shot in the back, ain’t I? I’m giving you your chance to get your shot into me frontside.”

  “Hammett, let me ask you something.” A mocking smile moved under Hunt’s mustache. “You sure no one ever did you a favor?”

  Fat Homer bubbled,“Hunt, deuce take it, but every time you call on me, seems like somebody’s always gunning for you.”

  Cain barked,“Draw!” His left hand hung clawed and ready to strike.

  “Boys!” Fat Homer cried.

  Cain said, “Draw.”

  Hunt stood with both hands down, gun still under the fold of his coat.

  “Hunt, tell Homer here what your real name was back in the States. Before you was run out of the country and you took on your present summer name.”

  For the first time hatred glittered full in Hunt’s eyes.

  Homer Fox suddenly broke for the door.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Cain called, trying not to follow Homer with his eyes.

  “Get Sheriff Sine. I don’t want my store all shot up.”

  Cain allowed himself a quick look after Homer. “Homer, hold up. I want you as a witness to this shooting bee.”

  The quick look gave Hunt his chance. He spun on his heels and dove for the back door. When Cain looked around again, Hunt was gone.

  It was just after supper when Cain next ran into Hunt.

  Hunt was in Butcherknife Bain’s saloon smoking a pipe. He stood alone at the far end of the bar, one leg up on the brass rail. He’d been nursing a shot of whisky. At the other end of the bar, back to the door, stood Sheriff Ned Sine. Butcherknife was at his usual stand.

  Two oil lamps with reflectors glowed over the mirror. Three lanterns hung from a wagon wheel up on the ceiling. The gentle smell of fresh sawdust was laced with the pervasive stench of horse manure.

  Cain legged up beside Sheriff Sine. “Hi, Ned.”

  “Hi, Hammett.” Ned Sine was a good half-foot taller than Cain. He had a flushed face and a knowing offhand manner. He wore gray with black boots and a silver star. His feet and hands were small. He carried a .41 six-gun on the theory that it had less kickback than the conventional .45 and was faster for close-in work.“Well, and what brings you in town, Cain?”

  “Him.” Cain nodded in Hunt’s direction.

  Hunt smiled back. He took pipe from mouth and said, “Yeh, how about that, Sheriff? Hammett says he’s come to town to kill me.”

  Sheriff Sine slowly straightened up.

  Hunt said, “Sheriff, I know Cain and his gang elected you into office. That you ain’t exactly friends with Jesse. But you will see that right is done, won’t you, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Sine puffed some. “Law is law. No matter who makes it or breaks it.”

  Cain said, “Alias, I see you’ve took your coat off. That you wear your holster tied to your leg. I hope you’ve got your back up finally to fight me.”

  “Boys,” Butcherknife said, “have some tarantula juice on the house.”

  “Not for me,” Cain said. “I aim to stay clearheaded tonight.”

  “No more for me,” Hunt said.“This dram has fixed me up just right.”

  “And no more for me,” Sheriff Sine said. “I already got on a talking load.”

  Butcherknife gave all three a wise rolling look; then turned to face his own image in the mirror. “Well, how about you, Butchie old boy, have one on the house, huh?” He allowed himself a smile at his own wit. “Don’t mind if I do.” He drank up in one throw of the shot glass. “Ah, it’s like I always say—whisky is the juice of beautiful sentiment.”

  Cain said, “Sheriff, have you found a witness yet to my brother Dale’s murder?”

  “Not yet.”

  Cain grunted. “You won’t find him either. Our friend Alias there always makes sure about that.”

  Sheriff Sine said, “Now wait a minute. Are you accusing someone?”

  Cain said, “Ask that tiedown man Alias there to see what I mean.”

  Hunt laid his pipe on the bar. “Butcherknife, you got a piece of sandpaper handy?”

  “How so?” Butcherknife stared at Hunt a moment. “No,” he said then.

  Hunt said, “Well, maybe this knife will do.” Hunt got out a bone-handle jackknife. He clicked open the big blade. Slowly, patiently, he began scraping the surface skin off the inside of his trigger finger. The steel blade gleamed slow silver in the mellow oil light.

  Cain watched the scraping. He knew that in a close squeak a sensitive trigger finger was sometimes the difference between a shot past the ear and a shot in the eye. Hunt with his coat off looked like he was going to fight after all.

  “Boys,” Butcherknife said, “have some tornado juice on the house.”

  “Thanks,” Cain said, “but I don’t like bein’ pickled just as the ball is about to commence.”

  “Thanks,” Hunt said.

  “That goes for me too,” Sheriff Sine said.

  “Oh, come on, boys. You know as well as I do that whisky has been branded for lots it didn’t do. Let’s all be friends tonight.”

  Cain said, “Hunt, tell me, what is it you’ve got against us Hammetts?”

  “The same thing you’ve got against yourself. What’s eatin’ you.”

  Cain said, “Sheriff, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Sheriff Sine reared back.“Me leave? What fer?”

  Cain said,“I’m about to make Alias here draw on me. And I wouldn’t want you to get an eyeful.”

  Sheriff Sine took out his blue
.41 and laid it on the bar in front of him. “Gents, if there’s any shootin’ to be done around here I’ll do it.”

  Cain stepped around Sheriff Sine and edged toward Hunt. He was careful to stay well away from the bar to make sure his left hand would be free for action. “Alias, how about stepping outdoors with me?”

  Hunt said, “You sure no one did you a favor?”

  “Hell’s fire!” In his rage Cain had to set his teeth to keep them from chattering. He said through set teeth. “Hunt, that’s the second time you’ve said that. What are you tryin’ to tell me?”

  Hunt closed his knife and put it away. “You figure it out.” He took up his pipe and sucking hard got it going again.

  Cain said, “I see you got your shootin’ finger honed down finally. All right. Fill your hand, blast you, and may the Lord have mercy on your miserable soul. Because where I’m sending you they’ll fry you crisper’n Christ.”

  Sheriff Sine picked his gun off the bar and held it on Cain. “Draw, either one of you, and by the Lord we’ll all go down and get fried.”

  Butcherknife said, “How about a drink on—”

  Hunt said, “You ask about my killin’s. All right. Let me tell you something. When I kill lice I don’t play favors.”

  Cain said,“Draw, you murderin’ blackhearted bustard. Draw, and be a man.”

  “And have the sheriff here lock me up after? When I’m part of the law myself? No, thanks. I value my job as stock inspector too high for that. I ain’t finished the job for Jesse yet.”

  “Hah. That means I’m next on the list to get shot in the back. Strapped to my hoss, toes down. As a warning to all the other little stockmen around.”

  Hunt cocked his head. “The man I’m now after has got winnin’ ways with cows. He can talk a cow out of its calf. Calves just naturally follow his saddle across the prairie.”

  “Hunt, ye’re a liar.”

  “Cain, that’s enough now!” Sheriff Sine roared. Clapping a heavy hand on Cain’s shoulder, Sheriff Sine tried to turn him around.

  Cain slid out from under the hand. “Ned, stay out of this. Each man to his own snakes.” Cain turned back to Hunt. “Alias, ye’re not only a liar, ye’re a coward.”

  Again Sheriff Sine put a gripping hand on Cain’s shoulder. “That’s enough of that now!”

  Once more Cain slid out from under the hand. “Alias, ye’re not only a liar, and a coward, but ye’re a thief t’boot.”

  Hunt’s eyes flickered. Yet his hands lay quiet, at rest, before him on the bar.

  “Hunt, by God, I’ve called ye the worst three fightin’ names I know, and yet, by God, ye still hain’t filled your hand. Do you wear that gun as a watch fob? Or what?”

  Hunt said, “Where do you get that ‘thief’ part?”

  “Hunt, I don’t know if you ever stole a calf or not, but I’m calling you a thief anyway. Because I want you to go for it. Now, throw lead, damn you, because it’s time you took the big jump.”

  “I pick my own time to fight.”

  “Hunt, I knew there was a coward in you. But I didn’t think you had it that bad.”

  “I’ll fight when it’s my fight. And run it off my way.”

  “All right, Hunt, if not with guns, let’s fight it out knuckles and skull then. We’ll let the sheriff hold our guns and knives.”

  Butcherknife leaned heavily across the bar.“Listen, I don’t give a hoot in hell how smoky you two old stubhorns want to get, but I want you to go outside to do it.”

  “So you go on the theory it’s safer to pull freight than pull your gun, eh, Hunt?”

  Butcherknife finally had enough. He reached under the bar and came up with a blunt sawed-off shotgun. “All right. That’s enough. The first man that breaks or raises gets a quart of buckshot in the belly.”

  All three, Cain, Hunt, Sheriff Sine, looked at the shotgun.

  After a moment, Hunt clopped out his pipe in his hand and dropped the burnt tord into a brass spittoon at his feet. Then he turned his back on Cain and went over to the wall and took down his black coat from a peg and put it on and went out into the night.

  Cain followed Hunt in the dark. Weak lamplight from an occasional house or store just barely lit the way. Cain stayed a good block behind Hunt, taking the frozen street instead of the booming plank walk. Hunt walked rapidly, long-legged; he didn’t look back once. Cain walked light, sure-footed, across rough wagon ruts and deep hoof pocks.

  Cain thought: “It ain’t that he’s without guts. You got to hand him that. Because even to shoot a man in the back takes some kind of guts. Because it is killing. And you’re adding to the load inside. No, it ain’t that. It’s that he wants to kill cold-blooded. Not hot-blooded. And that he don’t mind the load. Because he hates, cold.”

  Cain thought: “But he’s nobody’s fool. He ain’t going to grab the branding iron by the hot end. He ain’t going to kick a loaded polecat in the arse. He’s going to wait until the iron has cooled some. Till the polecat has unloaded his tail.”

  Cain thought: “But I aim to make him fight anyway. My way. I’ve got to.”

  Somewhat to his surprise, he saw Hunt head straight for Dad Finfrock’s livery barn. “Ah, he’s going to ride out to Jesse and make a report. Good. I meant to look in on Lonesome anyway afore this. Two birds with one stone, as the man says.”

  The big barn door rolled back and Hunt’s long figure showed briefly in the opening against lantern light. Then the door rolled shut.

  Cain approached the big dark door cautiously. He thought: “That devil. He knows I’m following him. Yet he’s pretending he don’t know. The better to throw me off guard and get me when I follow him inside.”

  Cain drew his gun. He stood a moment outside the door lis tening. He tried to peer through a crack of light in the door but couldn’t make out anything. Vaguely he heard voices inside. One was Dad’s. The other was low, indistinct. A horse neighed. The lone stallion in his box stall sounded his primordial stud call.

  After a bit, listening, all ears and feelers, Cain changed his mind. Hunt wasn’t waiting for him on the other side.

  Cain set his teeth. “This time I’ll get him. I’ll make him want to draw on me. I’ll cut loose my wolf and throw part of it into him and make him rear up. If he ain’t got animal enough in him I’ll borry him part of mine.” With a lunging jerk he rolled back the big door and sprang sideways through the lighted opening into the first stall. Frozen horseballs crunched underfoot.

  There was no shot.

  Then Dad yelled from the back of the barn, “Close that door! We got us a sick horse here. There’s a draft.”

  A sick horse? Cain stepped out of the stall, gun still in hand. Near the back, in wavering lantern light, stood Dad and Hunt. Dad looked up from a crouch, glaring; Hunt stood stiffly erect, smiling.

  “Close the door!” Dad yelled again. “And what’s the idee of all that hardware?”

  “I forgot,” Cain muttered, feeling foolish, putting gun away. He rolled the door to with a slam.

  It was yeasting warm in the barn. Four lanterns burned in a row down the center. There was hardly enough light to make out the individual stalls down the sides. A few of the stalls were occupied: a span of teams on one side, Sunday riding horses on the other. Manure had been pitched into the middle aisle, making the footing considerably higher than in the stalls. The footing gave on each step, juicy with moisture, rustling with straw.

  As Cain slowly approached the pair in back, Hunt said, “Like Gramp, I see you Hammetts are still hard on horses and women.”

  Cain said, “How’s Lonesome, Dad?”

  “Bad off.” Dad held a lantern into the open stall. Orange light fell on Lonesome lying in deep yellow straw. A red-striped gray blanket lay over his ribcase. His eyes were half-closed. His noble head lay in an awkward, even ugly, angle to the body as if it were not a part of the carcass. Lonesome breathed loud and hoarse, just barely guttering through lardlike phlegm.

  “Pneumonia,” Hunt said.
r />   “That’s it,” Dad said.

  Cain settled on his heels. He put his hand on Lonesome’s neck and shook him, gently, lovingly.“What’s the matter, old man, huh?”

  Lonesome’s gaunt black head lifted level. His eyes fluttered open. Clots of bubbling snot ran out of the hollows of each nostril. Lonesome tried to whinny; couldn’t quite make it. His head fell into the yellow straw again, loosely, like a bass fiddle dropped to one side.

  “Pneumonia all right,” Hunt said again, teeth showing yellow-white.

  “What’s the matter old boy, huh?” Cain said low, petting Lonesome.

  “Just like your Gramp all right,” Hunt went on, smiling, fingering the ends of his mustache. “Never learned that rib wrenches was to be used as reminders, not punishers.”

  “That’s it,” Dad said.

  It galled Cain that he’d been caught at wronging a horse. Had it not been for Rory and Hunt he would never have committed the wrong in the first place. He rarely used spurs. Some time ago he had even taken the trouble to file down his spurs, making them blunt, and had done it out of love for horseflesh. The dark hollows in his cheeks showed assharp and as deep as the dents in his black hat.

  Hunt said, “Now you take my horse there”—Hunt pointed across the way at a deep bay with a black tail—“take Fireball there. Give him the least motion of the knee and he minds. I never have to dig him. That’s the way to use a horse.”

  “You can shut up now,” Cain said.

  Hunt laughed, low.

  The laugh burned Cain. He jumped up, squaring and setting himself all in one motion. He roared, deep, powerful, “Go for it! Now.” He bellowed so loud that echoes came out of the mouths of the stalls one by one, little and big, then all together.

  Hunt only smiled.

  Dad’s mouth dropped open, showing pink gums and four old yellow teeth and a snakelike quivering tongue tip. The lantern in Dad’s hand suddenly cocked off to one side, stiff, the flame flutting on the wick, once, twice. The four lanterns overhead swayed too.

  “Go for it!” Cain threw his will power, deliberately trying to set it in Hunt.“Now!”

  Hunt smiled, black-edged gray eyes gleaming. He stood mesmerized, as if in bondage to Cain’s will rather than hot with it.