Cross-Draw

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘You can understand that, can’t you, Dan? You can understand about loving?’

  ‘Sure,’ he answered slowly, ‘I can understand, but...’

  She placed a finger against his mouth: ‘No, Dan, no buts. Not now. Not for us. You must see, you and I, Dan, together we can have what we want. We can have each other and ...’

  Stewart brushed her finger away. ‘We can have nothing, Bathsheba. Nothing!’

  ‘Dan!’

  ‘You talked about love, how things won’t work without it. That’s enough.’

  ‘But I love you, Dan, You must see that. Know it. Feel it deep within you. It’s deep within me, Dan, I...’

  Stewart sprang up from the chair and headed for the door, his face taut and white. Bathsheba ran after him, grabbing at his arm, attempting to stop him, to pull him back.

  ‘Let go!’

  ‘Dan! Listen to me!’

  ‘I have listened. Listened till I’m sick of the sound of your voice, your smell, the sight of you.’

  ‘No!’

  She wailed her cry and flung herself in front of him, both arms tight about his neck, legs pressed hard against his body. He struggled with her but she held fast as if she was holding onto the most precious thing in her life, onto life itself.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, let me go!’

  He yanked one of her arms away and she held him all the tighter with the other, lifting her face towards his, her eyes, her mouth filling his vision. Then her lips were pressed onto his and he felt her tongue forcing its way into his mouth like a lizard, a snake.

  He tried to shout at her and as his lips parted she was kissing him long and deep.

  ‘Jesus!’

  He grabbed at her hair and pulled her face away from his own, stared at her, then wiped at his mouth with his free hand and spat down onto the carpet.

  ‘That’s what I think of you, Bathsheba. You and every other blasted woman I ever met.’

  ‘That’s right!’ she sneered. ‘That’s right. You ain’t a real man at all. No real man would wipe off a woman’s kisses that way. You ain’t natural, Dan Stewart, you just ain’t natural!’

  He slapped her face, twice, making her head rock back and forth with ringing blows that brought fresh blood from the side of her mouth.

  She banged her bunched fist at his arm and as he went to fend her off, she pulled the Remington .44 free from the holster at his chest.

  Stewart stared down at the barrel, inches away from him, her two hands on the butt now, holding it as steady as her nerves and excitement would allow.

  ‘Now kiss me, Dan Stewart, now kiss me before I blow a hole in you for being the bastard you are!’

  He saw her fingers begin to tighten on the trigger and bowed his head towards her own, closing his eyes as her mouth moved over his. He felt the warmth of her lips and smelt her perfume more powerfully than before; her tongue was probing inside him again and this time he could taste her blood from where he had hit her. Salt richness of her blood.

  Stewart moved his hands quickly, reaching for her arms, for the gun. She grabbed at his waistcoat with one hand, biting down on his lower lip, clinging to him.

  There was an explosion that seemed to fill the room and both bodies rocked apart, then collapsed against each other. For several seconds they performed a strange, slow dance, feet unmoving, bodies swaying in time to some silent rhythm.

  Then Bathsheba began to slide towards the floor, the gun still in her hand. Stewart stepped away from her, staring at her face as it looked up at him in wonder. He moved his head and gazed down at his chest.

  The front of his waistcoat was singed with the firing of the gun and a dark circle of blood centered round his breastbone. He lifted up his hand and saw that it, too, was thick with blood.

  Bathsheba Emerson was on her knees, trying to keep her head inclined upwards so that she could see Stewart. But it was a struggle she was losing with every second; with every second that her life poured from the gaping wound at the top of her blouse, between the V of the gold pendant.

  What had been the shiny skin of her neck ...

  What had been living flesh ...

  The gun tumbled at last from her grasp and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Stewart gazed down at her and her eyes sought him out for a last time.

  Found him: flickered: faded: died.

  How long Dan Stewart stood there he wasn’t certain. It seemed like far longer than it could have really been. At last he picked up his gun from the floor and replaced it in his holster. There was someone shouting from outside the front door. Stewart walked through and opened it, still slightly dazed.

  A man in his sixties stood there with a hammer in one hand and an old rifle in the other.

  ‘Hitch up a wagon!’

  ‘I don’t know, marshal. I ...’

  ‘Hitch up a damned wagon!’

  And Stewart turned on his heel and went back into the house. It was going to be a long ride back into town. Long and lonely—with only a dead woman for company.

  It was a strange sight: the marshal sitting up in front of the wagon, bolt upright, looking straight ahead and paying no attention to those folk who clamored towards him from both sides.

  His face was set, blank, pale with strain.

  Behind him, lying in the bottom of the wagon, was the mistress of the Double C ranch. Bathsheba Emerson, her long dark hair combed out on either side of her face; eyes closed, refusing the sun.

  A white sheet had been used to cover her body, lain over her with the hem touching her neck.

  As the people of Liberation realized the grisly contents of Stewart’s wagon, they stepped back for a moment, stunned and silent. Then curiosity grew and they pushed forward again, anxious for a glimpse of the dead woman’s body, eager to ask the Marshal for information.

  Herne was down at the far end of the street when Stewart arrived. He walked steadily up towards the office, seeing the crowd gather and uncertain in his mind what the reason might be.

  Then he saw Dan Stewart and the wagon and thought he knew.

  Hoped that he was wrong, but inwardly knew that he was right. Two ranch owners, two of the most powerful people in the territory, and both dead in so short a space of time.

  Without them, the trouble could just blow over—but Herne didn’t feel it that way.

  He stepped up onto the boardwalk and almost knocked over a small boy who was scuttling through the outside of the mob to get a better view.

  ‘Hey, sonny!’ Herne caught hold of him by the shoulder. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re goin’?’

  The boy struggled, then realized who had hold of him. His eyes popped and he stared up at Herne in a mixture of fear and wonder. ‘Gosh, marshal, I didn’t mean nothin’. I just wanted to see who Marshal Stewart had killed now. My pa, he says that you an’ Marshal Stewart are goin’ to kill half the town before you’re done.’

  His blue eyes flickered over Herne’s face. ‘Is that right, marshal? Are you and Marshal Stewart really goin’ to kill half the town?’

  Herne’s fingers gripped the boy’s shoulder until he cried out with surprise and pain. Then he let him go and stood and watched him as he scrabbled his way through the crowd of adults that had thickened even further.

  Damn! said Herne to himself. Sweet damn!

  And he made a path for himself to the wagon.

  Stewart was instructing a group of the townsfolk to lift Bathsheba from the back of the wagon and take her over the street to the undertaker’s. His face was still taut and pale; Herne thought it was he first time he had seen any sign of real worry and caught a sudden glimpse of how Stewart would look if he lived to get old.

  Old as he was himself.

  Old as his pa, Long John Stewart, stone blind in Omaha: waiting for the coming of the rainbow whose colors he’d never be able to see again.

  ‘Come on, folks, it’s over now. There ain’t nothin’ left t’ see. Get on about your business.’

  Herne stood sternly by the
head of the wagon, staring down into the crowd, waiting while it broke up into little groups of twos or threes.

  At the back of the throng he saw the portly figure of Wilbur Merz and beyond him, standing in the doorway of The Cattlemen’s House, Quentin Faulkner.

  He wondered just how the town council would greet this latest death. Whether they would be relieved or angry. He guessed that before very long he and Stewart would get to know.

  He glanced round at Dan, still standing by the door to the office, his eyes unusually dull and revealing nothing. At that moment maybe seeing as little as his old man.

  Herne turned and went over to him, put his hand to Stewart’s arm: ‘Come on, Dan, let’s get inside.’

  They sat and drank coffee laced with whisky for the best part of an hour, saying little all the while. After that hour had gone there was a knocking on the door and Herne opened it to let in the banker, Merz, and some of the town council. Faulkner was not amongst them.

  They stood round looking important and disapproving while Stewart recounted the basic events that had taken place at the Emerson ranch. When he had finished, they waited, expecting more by way of explanation. Realizing there was to be none, Wilbur Merz patted his belly and took a step forward. Like he was about to address a meeting.

  ‘I think you should, er, understand our position, marshal. We hired you to keep the peace in this territory. Now being responsible with your deputy here for the deaths of two such important folk as Clifford Hastings and Bathsheba Emerson rings strangely when seen in terms of maintaining the peace. The Double C and the Broken Bar are responsible for a goodly share of the prosperity of Liberation ...’

  ‘An’ a hell of a lot of its trouble,’ put in Herne, but the banker ignored him, addressing his remarks to Stewart.

  ‘It is only fair to tell you that the council will have to call an official meeting of all its members to reconsider your appointment.’

  Merz harrumphed and hemmed and hawed and made a whole lot more strange sounds, but still Stewart made no obvious reaction. Finally, Merz stood back and looked at the other men in his party. All were decidedly uncomfortable. Herne got up and pushed open the door.

  ‘Okay, you said your piece. Now get your asses out of here.’

  ‘Really, that is no way to ...’

  Herne’s hand moved towards his gun. ‘I told you to get!’

  Merz nodded quickly and waddled through the door, the rest following close behind. Herne slammed the door so hard and fast that the last member of the council was almost knocked off his feet.

  He poured two more shots of whisky into their mugs and swilled water round the coffee grounds. Much as he would have liked to avoid it, there were questions he himself wanted to ask of Dan Stewart.

  ‘Dan, I guess you don’t want to talk about this business, but...’

  Stewart looked over at him with tired eyes: ‘Go ahead, Jed. I owe you answers. More than them parasites.’ He stared at the door in disgust.

  ‘This thing with the Emerson woman, how she got shot. You said she grabbed for your gun and in the struggle it went off—what was goin’ on before that, Dan? What was it she wanted to see you about so all-fired sudden?’

  ‘She wanted me to deputize her men. Go in and shoot Hastings out. She didn’t know what you just now told me about him bein’ dead.’

  Herne nodded, stood with one foot on the seat of the chair, not wanting to sit down. ‘That’s all, Dan? Nothin’ personal?’

  Stewart blinked, then looked at the floor. After a while he said quietly: ‘What difference does it make, Jed?’

  ‘Damn! It sure makes a difference to me. If’n you fought with her ‘cause she was tryin’ to put a bullet through you that’s one thing. If’n it was over somethin’ between you an’ her, that might be somethin’ else.’

  Stewart stood up fast, knocking his chair back. ‘Say what you mean, Jed. Stop stallin’.’

  ‘All right. There’s bin a lot of rumors flyin’ round. Remarks folk’ve made. Things you’ve said yourself about women that just don’t seem right. Don’t seem ...’

  The words slid off his tongue into silence.

  Stewart came closer to him, blood back in his cheeks. ‘Normal, Jed, that the word you’re lookin’ for. Don’t seem normal. Say it, Jed. Say it!’

  Herne stood to his full height. ‘I asked you before what happened back in Ogden to make you quit. You wouldn’t say. If’n it was over some shootin’ I reckon you’d have come out with it. First, I thought it was somethin’ over a woman. But, no, it weren’t that. Not a woman, Dan. Trouble all right. But over a man.’

  The atmosphere inside the room was like the silent, still moment before the storm breaks. The two men stood facing one another, hands never far from their guns, eyes locked across the short distance between them.

  Finally, Stewart relaxed and looked away. ‘Yes, that’s right. A man. Young feller who worked behind the bar in the saloon. Folk got to know how I... how I felt about him. Took my badge an’ run me out of town.’

  The last few words were almost too soft to be heard. Herne stood there, looking at the man he had thought of as his friend, finding it impossible to stop the waves of disgust that were running through him.

  Stewart walked over to the jail door then turned around. Tm glad I said it, Jed. Not many folks I could have come out with it to. Not like that. But I’m glad I did.’ He spread his hands wide for a moment, then let them fall back by his sides. ‘If’n you want to quit, that’s okay by me. I’ll understand. My job here’s on the line anyhow. An’ with Hastings and the Emerson woman gone, I don’t reckon there’ll be too much trouble. No more than I can handle.’

  Herne stood there, looking at him and listening, scarcely taking it in.

  Stewart came towards him: ‘Thanks for your help, Jed. Maybe we’ll run into one another again sometime.’

  He held out his hand: Herne looked down at it for a second, then spun round on his heel and walked out, leaving Stewart standing there, fingers outstretched, seeking friendship.

  Chapter Twelve

  The owner of The Five Aces wasn’t any too pleased to have Jed Herne patronizing his place. Herne knew it and he didn’t care: he didn’t give a damn.

  The Cattlemen’s House was too big; there would be too many folk hanging around, all wanting to ask fool questions. Herne wasn’t interested in answering others’ questions. Right now he had enough of his own.

  He’d taken the bottle and glass from the surly saloon owner without a word; dropped coins onto the wet, stained counter and pushed chairs out of the way till he reached a table over by the wall. He sat down and rocked the seat back so that it was perched on its back legs, his shoulders resting against the wooden boards.

  He saw the few regular drinkers looking at him while pretending not to. Sensing his mood and not daring to do anything that might cross him. Herne let them do what they wanted. Just sat and drank. Not heavily, not quickly. A steady, absorbed drinking while daylight ran through and began to change into night.

  What else was happening while he was sitting there Herne didn’t care. What Dan Stewart was doing or thinking he didn’t care either. Why the hell should he?

  Herne felt betrayed. He had known Stewart as a friend, an open, honest man worthy of riding alongside, fighting with—maybe even dying with if it came to it.

  And now something stuck in the back of his throat that tasted bitter as gall.

  Damn him!

  Herne slammed his fist down onto the table and sent his glass flying, whisky spilling across the surface of the wood and onto the floor.

  Men turned and stared and Herne ignored them; he got up and scooped up the glass; refilled it; drank.

  Oil lamps had been lit and the smoke from them drifted up to the ceiling, the smell mingling with that of spilt beer and stale tobacco smoke. No girls in pretty green dresses here, no roulette wheels or faro tables. Only a solitary whore in torn, shabby clothes and a pack of cards at the end of the bar for anyone who fancie
d a game to take and use.

  Men mostly came to The Five Aces to drink, not to gamble or socialize.

  Herne stretched. Glancing down, he saw the deputy marshal’s badge still pinned to his chest. He pulled it off, tearing the front of his shirt, and tossed it into the middle of the room. The badge clinked, rolled, came to a halt in a puddle of slops and spit.

  ‘That ain’t goin’ to save you!’

  The voice was high, young. Herne let his chair come forward onto four legs, hand moving away from the bottle towards his hip. Yes, he could see him now. Hadn’t noticed him come in. Standing by the end of the bar closest to the door.

  The kid from the Double C.

  The one who he’d talked down that night in The Cattlemen’s House; from whom he had taken the pair of guns.

  Well, now he’d got fresh ones. There in the twin holsters, worn too low just like before.

  The kid looked over at Herne, his gaze made disturbing by the cast in the right eye. Spiky hair jutting up from his head, the weak moustache shaved clean.

  ‘Throwin’ that badge ain’t goin’t’ help.’

  Herne looked at him and knew that shooting it out with him was the last thing he wanted. Now. Now he didn’t trust himself too well, his reactions or his reasons.

  ‘You got too much to pay for. An’ I’m goin’ t’ see you do.’

  ‘Kid, I come in here fer a drink. You do the same or get on out. I ain’t got no quarrel with you, not anymore.’

  The youngster’s fingers almost touched his right hand gun, then pulled clear as though aware he was making his move too soon.

  ‘I told you, you ain’t talkin’ your way out of it. Not again. You did that to me before but not this time. I ain’t goin’t’ let no man talk me out of a fight again. You understand that?’

  His left hand was pointing direcdy at Herne, the right grazing his gun butt.

  Herne sighed and lifted the glass to his lips and sank the last of the whisky. ‘I hear you, kid. Bleatin’ like somethin’ that ain’t bin weaned.’

  ‘Don’t you talk t’me like that, you bastard!’

  Herne pushed the table to one side and stood up. Everyone in the murky saloon was watching him. Herne’s eyes flickered over them all, checking them out to see if the kid had any support. For a couple of seconds his eyes rested on the owner at his place behind the bar.