by Ralph Cotton
Clay, seeing the darker image move back and forth in front of his face and feeling the air stirred by Graft’s hand, ducked his head slightly. On the boardwalk, Little Dog, frightened by the boots having hurried over toward them, turned and growled low.
“Aha!” said Graft. “I told you he ain’t blind, he saw my hand!” Grabbing Clay’s coat sleeve, he said, “This old Negro is a phony. He’s no more blind than I am.”
“I wish it was true,” Clay murmured, tapping his walking stick around gently, probing toward the sound of Little Dog’s growl. “Easy, Little Dog,” he said, trying to quiet the frightened animal.
“Yeah, you better settle the old mutt up,” Graft warned, “before I feed him the toe of my boot.” As he spoke he stamped his foot toward the shaking animal. But instead of the gesture settling the dog, it made him worse. He growled louder and crouched as if ready to charge Graft’s boot.
“Leave the old dog alone, Joe,” said Belton. “Send the old Negro on his way. He can’t see nothing, just shadows is all.”
“Huh-uh, he’s faking for sure, and I’ll prove it,” said Graft.
“Oh yeah? Just how are you going to do that?” Belton asked.
“How? I’ll show you how,” said Graft, slipping his gun from its holster. “I bet he’ll dance when he sees a bullet shot at his feet. Won’t you, old man?”
On the boardwalk Little Dog growled louder, seeing Graft as a threat to his master. “Get out of here, you old mutt!” said Graft, again stamping his boot at the dog. This time Little Dog took a dive at the threatening boot even though Clay called out trying to stop him.
“Bite me, you little son of a bitch?” Graft snarled, swinging his gun toward Little Dog.
Sensing what was going on by hearing the gun cock, Clay shouted, “No! Don’t shoot him! This poor dog is just old, and scared! He thought you were hurting me!”
“Come on, Joe, the old dog’s not worth a bullet,” said Belton, chuckling, sounding bored by it all.
“You’re right,” said Graft. Instead of firing the gun, he gave the old dog a swift, vicious kick in its brittle ribs, sending it rolling across the boardwalk and onto the dirt street. Clay, hearing the kick and the dog’s sharp yelp of pain, swung the walking stick without hesitation and broke it in half across the gunman’s nose. Graft staggered backward and crumbled to his knees. Blood flew.
“My God, Graft!” Belton shouted, stunned by the blow. He stared at the walking stick broken in two, half lying on the boardwalk, half flying out into the street. “This old blind Negro has put you down on your knees!” He gave a short startled laugh.
Clay had dropped onto his hands and knees and searched frantically and clumsily for the edge of the boardwalk, calling out to Little Dog.
“He’s down there, Negro,” said Belton. He stood and gave Clay a shove with his boot, sending the man sprawling into the dirt, where his hands found the small dog whining pitifully, gasping for breath.
“He’s broken my nose! Shoot him!” Graft shouted. His own gun had flown from his hand and skidded along the boardwalk.
“You want him shot? Here, you shoot him,” said Belton. He bent over to pick up Graft’s gun, but a boot seemed to come from out of nowhere and clamp down on it. “Take your hand away from the gun,” the ranger said quietly but firmly, his free hand already grasping Belton’s Colt and slipping it from its holster.
Belton straightened, raising his hands. “I wasn’t going to shoot him, Ranger.”
“No,” said the ranger, “you were going to let this other snake do it.” His gun barrel swung fast and merciless and cracked Belton across the side of his head, sending him to the boardwalk.
Graft scrambled to his feet quickly, a hand cupping his bleeding nose. He held out his free hand at arm’s length to keep from getting the same thing he’d seen Belton get. “I’m hurt, Ranger!” he said. “Look at me!”
“Not enough,” said the ranger, taking a step toward him. Graft stumbled backward and once again found himself on the boardwalk.
In the dirt, Clay gathered the gasping dog into his arms and stood up. “My dog is hurt bad, Mr. Ranger! I got to get him home! He’s scared to death out here in the street!”
Sam stepped down from the boardwalk, keeping his eyes on Graft. “Come on, Mr. Clay, I’ll get you home.”
“Ranger, what about our guns?” Graft called out as Sam led Clay away toward the alley leading back to his shack.
“Come and get them anytime,” Sam said menacingly. He looked back at the bloody gunman as he and Clay walked out of sight around the corner of the building.
No sooner had Clay and the ranger gotten out of sight than Mike the Fist and Roundhead stepped out of the mercantile store, Roundhead holding a bag of supplies up under his arm. The ornate ivory-handled Colt stood in a new slim-jim holster. The Fist wore a brand-new Stetson stockman’s-style hat.
“What the hell’s going on out here?” Roundhead asked, seeing one detective knocked cold and the other on the boardwalk bleeding from his nose. He looked at the broken walking stick lying in two pieces. “That old blind man did all this?” he asked.
“Hell no, he didn’t do all this!” Graft denied, standing up from the rough plank boardwalk. “But I’m going to kill that old blind son of a bitch, you better mark my words!”
Inside the mercantile store, Woodrow hurried to the door, slipped the latch into place, and turned to his wife, who had started walking out of the stockroom. “What are you doing, Woodrow?” she asked. “We’re not closing because of them!”
“Oh yes, indeed we are,” said Woodrow with determination. “There’s trouble brewing. I want no part of it. We’re taking the afternoon off, letting whatever this is blow over.”
“You’re talking crazy,” said Ethel Hayes.
“Have you ever seen a bunch of gunman hurrah a town, Ethel?” Woodrow asked. Not waiting for her to reply, he said, “Well, I have. And I don’t want to ever see it again.” As he spoke he opened the cash drawer beneath the counter, jerked out a handful of bills and coins, and stuffed them into a canvas bag.
Chapter 19
The ranger stood beside Clay as the blind man laid the injured dog on a saddle blanket at the foot of the small bed the two shared. Even without benefit of his walking stick or Little Dog in front of him, Clay moved with efficiency inside his familiar habitat. Sam watched, noting the dog’s labored breathing.
“This dog is too old to take a kicking,” Clay commented, reaching down, finding the dog, and rubbing its head gently. Little Dog raised his muzzle weakly and licked Clay’s hand. “But I know horses and dogs. He’ll be all right,” Clay offered, in order to ease his grave concern for the animal.
The ranger looked at the Remington laying on the table. “What about you, Mr. Clay? Are you going to be all right?” Sam asked.
“I’m good, Ranger,” Clay replied without hesitation. He felt around for a chair at the table. Finding it, he sat down, his hands flat on the tabletop, on either side of the big gun. “I woke up this morning feeling like something bad was about to happen. Something told me not to take this Remington with me to the saloon. It’s a good thing I didn’t. Somebody would have died.”
The ranger recognized his seriousness, even though he couldn’t help but question the man’s capability. “Your feelings were right on target this morning, Mr. Clay,” he said. “This would be a good time to stay indoors the next couple of days, if you can.”
Clay turned his face to the ranger. “There’s trouble brewing? Law trouble?”
“Yes, law trouble,” said the ranger. He did not want to get into any more details than necessary, yet he felt as though he should warn the man.
“You and Sheriff Gale together?” Clay ventured, without pressing. “Against the railroad posse, I’m guessing?”
It was more than the ranger wanted to reveal, but he saw no harm. “Yes, we’ve had some trouble between us and the posse, Mr. Clay. I hope you’ll heed what I’m saying and stay off the streets.”
“I’m obliged, Mr. Clay, and I know Sheriff Gale is too,” said Sam, meaning it. “But we’d both feel better if townsmen like yourself would stay back and give us room to do our job.”
“I see,” Clay said, bowing his head slightly in thought for a moment. “This trouble you and the sheriff have with the posse…it’s all private trouble between you?”
The ranger gave him a curious look, impressed by his perception. “As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, not wanting to go any further talking about it.
Clay detected the ranger’s reluctance by the slightest tightness that came into his voice. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, Ranger. I won’t ask you nothing more about it.”
“Obliged,” Sam said, realizing Clay was a hard man to keep anything from.
“But let me ask you this,” Clay said. “Has the moon been on the wan these past nights?”
“Yes,” said Sam, finding his question peculiar. “Why do you ask?”
“Just checking, so I can keep up with it,” said Clay with a shrug. “I always like knowing where the moon is, don’t you, Ranger?”
“I haven’t given it much thought lately,” Sam replied. This man clearly had a reason behind everything he did or said. “I hope you’ll stay in tonight and look after you pard there,” he said, nodding toward the dog even though Clay couldn’t see his gesture.
“I will take care of him, sure enough. And if I hear shooting, I’ll keep my curiosity to myself,” Clay anticipated.
“The sheriff and I would both appreciate it,” said the ranger.
Clay nodded, then stood up and felt his way to the bed and sat back down, reaching out to the dog and rubbing its muzzle. “I’ve got plenty to do looking after this old dog and finding myself a new walking stick, Ranger,” he said sincerely. “I won’t be out there.” He paused as he heard the ranger step toward the door and turn the handle. Then, letting his words trail, he said, “But if there’s anything I can do for you…”
On his way to the street, the ranger didn’t realize that Emma Vertrees had seen him as she carried a feed bag of oats and a pail of water to the buggy horse she’d hitched in the shade, out of sight in a grown-over lot across the alley. She ducked behind the cover of a rickety abandoned chicken coop until the ranger disappeared around the corner. Then she moved quickly and quietly and continued on with her chore.
When she finished she walked back to the house, put away the feed bag and water bucket, and walked inside. Hearing her at the door, Memphis Beck had slipped the Colt from under his pillow; but upon hearing her call out to him from the kitchen, he put the gun back and sat on the side of the bed, his strength returning steadily.
“Well, it’s good to see you up and around,” Emma said, walking into the room, seeing he had gotten up and dressed himself.
“I had the best of care,” Beck said as she came over to him and he put his arms around her. “Much obliged, ma’am, for everything,” he said, thinking about the two of them beneath the warm quilt in the night when she’d spread open her robe and drawn him against her, her warmth infusing him.
She nestled his head to her stomach. “The buggy horse is fine. I grained and watered him. Are you going to be able to ride tonight?” she asked.
“I can ride right now,” said Beck. “But since I’m not all the way up to my game just yet, we better wait and leave under the cover of darkness. Besides, I want to take the rented roan back and get my dun out of the livery. His bruise ought to be healed up enough for him to tag along behind the buggy.”
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Emma said. “I don’t care where we go, or what we do. I just want to get going.”
“We will, Emma,” said Beck. “It won’t be much longer now. We’ll be together just like before.”
On the street out in front of the saloon, Sam met Sheriff Gale, who had started carrying a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in the crook of his arm. From inside the saloon came loud quarrelsome voices above the sound of tinny piano music. Two townsmen who drank regularly at the Little Aces Saloon came through the batwing doors and walked briskly away with scared looks on their faces. They didn’t even notice the sheriff when he spoke and touched his hat brim toward them.
“Hear that, Ranger?” Gale said, nodding toward the loud voices beyond the batwing doors. “They’re just loud enough to run away the regulars.”
“I figure they’ll get worse between now and dark,” Sam said, noting the sun had already started descending in the western sky.
“The colonel’s men must’ve started knuckling everybody down right after you confronted them at the hotel this morning.” Gale’s eyes moved all around the town as he spoke. “I’ve had complaints all day. The colonel’s men are on the prod. A desk clerk said they’re roasting two pigs in the yard behind the hotel.”
“Where do you suppose they got the two pigs?” Sam asked.
“Oh, I’m certain they lassoed them out of a backyard near here,” said Gale. “Either the owner hasn’t noticed they’ve been stolen yet, or else he’s afraid to say anything.”
“A pig roast and an old-fashioned town hazing,” the ranger commented. “I ran into some trouble out front of the mercantile store. Only in this case two of his men met their match with Curtis Clay. He broke his walking stick over one of their noses.”
“Good for him,” said Gale.
“But one of them kicked his dog and hurt it,” the ranger added.
“The sons a’ bitches,” said Gale. Together they watched Woodrow and Ethel Hayes walk toward them along the boardwalk at an excited pace. “Looks like another complaint coming,” Gale said, adjusting the shotgun in the crook of his arm.
“I’m wondering if Clay is going to cause us a problem once the colonel’s men make their move,” Sam said. “He feels like it’s his civic duty to help us out.”
“You told him what’s going on?” Gale asked, seeming surprised.
“Just what I thought he needed to know, enough to keep him off the streets tonight,” the ranger replied.
“I never know what to make of Curtis Clay,” said the sheriff. “He’s a blind man all alone in a blind man’s world.” He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know what things are like in there.”
“Sheriff Gale! There you are,” Woodrow Hayes called out as he and Ethel drew closer. “I want to report two of the railroad detectives coming into my store and bullying me out of fourteen dollars’ worth of stock and dry goods…and a sixty-dollar engraved Colt pistol, with ivory grips.”
“What else did they take, Woodrow?” Gale asked with no sign of surprise in his tone of voice.
“They took a two-pound bag of salt, three tins of ground black pepper, three air-tights of apples, and a black Stetson hat, the stockman’s model—the hat and Colt are two of the most costly items in the store.”
“They shouldn’t be hard to spot,” Gale said, “wearing a stockman’s hat and carrying an engraved ivory-handled Colt. If we see them we’ll get your items back for you, Woodrow. Meanwhile, I’d like for the two of you to get off the street for the rest of the evening.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Woodrow, “so there is trouble here with that railroad bunch. I told Ethel that’s what I thought.” He looked all around the near empty street. “Don’t worry, we’re getting out of town for the evening, Sheriff.” He paused, then added hesitantly, “That is, unless you need for me to load a bear rifle and come help you.”
“Obliged, Woodrow,” said Sheriff Gale, “but the ranger and I have things under control. You two go enjoy the evening off.”
Woodrow looked at his wife and said as he guided her away from the two lawmen. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“That’s how it’s been,” Gale said. “Earl
ier, the barber come and told me a detective walked in, got a shave and haircut, had his hat blocked and his boots cleaned. Told the barber to put it on his tab.”
Sam started to reply, but just as he did, a rifle shot hammered into the dirt only inches from his boots, causing him and Gale to dive for cover. Sam’s Colt came out of his holster as he hit the ground and came up in a crouch behind the cover of a water trough. In the open upper window of an unoccupied building across the street, he saw rifle smoke drift sidelong on the air. He waited, poised, ready to fire. But he saw no movement in the window.
“Do you see anybody?” Gale asked, crouched in the alleyway, near the corner of the clapboard saloon building.
“Nothing,” said the ranger. Still watching the window, he cut a sidelong glance along the empty street, seeing no one run out to see what had happened.
“They’re starting early,” Gale said.
“No,” said Sam, “this was just to make sure everybody in town has gotten the message to stay off the streets.”
Nodding toward the building, Gale said, “The place used to be the land title building. It’s sat empty for the past three months.”
“Good place for an ambush,” Sam said, still watching the window. He noted that someone had opened it while they were talking to the mercantile store owners.
“Which do you want, the front door or the rear?” Gale asked.
“I’ll go straight in,” said Sam, already figuring whoever had made the shot was gone, but knowing they needed to use caution all the same. “You take the scattergun around back, see what I can send out to you.”
The ranger ran across the empty street, his Colt in hand, and ducked inside the empty building. Covering the ranger, Gale waited until he saw him slip inside. Then he ran across the street and around the building to the rear door. Noting that it stood wide open, he let out a breath, knowing the rifleman was gone. Yet he waited, keeping a watchful eye inside the shadowy building until he saw the ranger come back down the stairs and walk toward him, lowering his Colt on his way.
