“So you’ve done that. You want to sell me some patent medicine?”
“No, I hope you never need my professional services, Mr. Sudden, though I suppose that’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Meaning?”
“Well, because everybody’s expecting you to start something violent, I guess.”
“If I was a pill-roller then maybe I’d have time to sit around listening to gossip, but I don’t. But if there’s any trouble coming, it could start right here if you don’t stop blocking my view, sonny.”
Tom Sudden sounded as though he meant it, yet Babylon’s youthful ‘pill-roller’ just laughed easily, said, “Hope you’re in better temper next time we meet, Mr. Sudden,” and strolled on. In so doing the man showed a coolness Sudden might have wondered about had he been less preoccupied.
Moments later the street corner was empty ...
This time he walked all the way down Joshua Street until he stood directly across the street from the Murdock house.
He had seen Tara at a distance late that afternoon and the sight of her had twisted something inside him like a wrench forcing a rusty bolt. He’d known this part of his homecoming would be hard but hadn’t guessed it would be as hard as this.
“Tara ...” he murmured.
A stir of sound close by. Sudden’s right hand whipped down and came up filled with gun.
“Relax, Sudden,” a voice said from deeper beneath the trees.
“Show yourself.”
Duke Benedict stepped out, big, long-barreled Peacemaker in his right hand. “Texas standoff, Sudden,” he said.
“What the hell game do you think you’re playing, bounty hunter?”
“No game. What are you doing here?”
“My business. And you’d better put that shootin’ iron away before I force you to use it.”
“I could have killed you six times over, Sudden. I could kill you now if I wanted to, so let’s not waste breath on threats. Now, I’ll ask you again. What brings you here at this time of night?”
“Why don’t we get rid of the hardware first, Benedict?”
“After you.”
Sudden thrust his Colt away without hesitation. This bounty hunter wasn’t the kind who would gun you down cold, his judgment told him, and Sudden’s instinct was as sound as the U.S. Mint.
Benedict holstered and Sudden relaxed a little. “I’ve been walking and thinking, Benedict. I just happened to walk down here is all. Does that satisfy you?”
“No. It would if Tara Murdock didn’t live here, and if you and she hadn’t been close once.”
“You seem to know a hell of a lot.”
“I know you have this town walking scared, Sudden, but that doesn’t include me.”
“So you’re one hellion, Benedict. So?”
“Just this, hardcase. It struck me that a man with as big a grudge as you have might get the idea of squaring accounts with a girl who chose to marry somebody else. That’s what brought me along here tonight—just in case.”
“You think that I’d harm Tara?” Sudden was genuinely astonished. “Hell’s flames, bounty hunter, you couldn’t be more wrong. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “You sound convincing, Sudden …”
“Maybe it’s because I’m telling the truth. But you’ve got me wondering, Benedict. How come you’ve appointed yourself Tara’s watchdog?”
“I feel we’ve talked enough, Sudden.” Benedict gestured towards Front Street. “Shall we?”
Tough Tom Sudden was annoyed by the bounty hunter’s high-handed manner, but impressed as well. With a final glance across at the house, he started back along the street with Benedict moving easily at his side.
“Whose side are you on, Benedict?” he asked abruptly when they had travelled some distance.
“I don’t get you.”
“In the feud between Tom Sudden and Bourne Murdock. Where do you stand?”
“Neutral. I want a man named Billy Quinn. I’m not interested in you or Murdock.”
“Just Tara?”
“She’s a fine lady. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”
“That makes two of us.” Sudden walked a few paces, then asked, “This Quinn, is he the pilgrim who shot all those people in Colorado?”
“Yes.”
“He must be loco.”
“Most likely. But he’s also clever. His record shows that he’s got brains, education, all sorts of talents, including an ability to charm people, particularly women. The massacre in Colorado started over a girl. Quinn seduced the young daughter of a man named Smith who horsewhipped him. When Quinn recovered he went to Smith’s house and shot the entire family, then vanished.”
Sudden frowned. Even in the State Penitentiary, that sort of crime would have made Billy Quinn unique. “Well, I can only wish you luck, bounty hunter, for that breed surely belongs on a hangin’ tree. But what makes you think he’s here in Babylon?”
Benedict halted to light a cigar. “Everything points to it, but we’re making no progress. Brazos went out scouring the countryside this afternoon in the hope of picking up something there. He should be back by this.”
“He is. I saw him coming in and he didn’t look like a man in a hurry. So I guess he didn’t carry good news.”
They started on again, Benedict’s features lifting from the gloom each time he puffed on his Havana. “Perhaps he isn’t here ...” he conjectured, “but I still have this feeling in my bones that he is ...”
He broke off as a tall figure lurched into sight around the Front Street corner. It was Deputy Sheriff Virgil Murdock and he was as drunk as a fiddler’s bitch.
Sudden and Benedict halted in surprise as Murdock came towards them. The deputy stumbled into a picket fence then lurched across the path to bounce off a Joshua tree. Maybe the walk was long enough for Virgil Murdock but it was a mite too narrow.
Now Murdock was leaning forward perilously, his big feet moving fast to keep up with his body. That was how he went between two puzzled spectators, and didn’t even see them. Murdock was singing something that sounded like a bawdy-house ballad.
“Curious, mighty curious,” Tom Sudden observed as the weaving figure receded. He was frowning hard as they turned and continued slowly on their way. “Virgil Murdock didn’t touch liquor in the old days.”
“He’s touched plenty tonight by the sound of him.”
“Maybe I’m the cause ...?”
“You mean Virgil Murdock might be afraid of you?”
“No, those Murdocks don’t scare easy. But my coming back might have nagged at his conscience about what they did to me.”
“I heard you claimed it was the sheriff who framed you.”
“What one Murdock does, the others all know about. Closer than fleas in an old horse blanket, those four.”
“I haven’t been here long, Sudden, but during the time I have been here I’ve had more to do with Sheriff Murdock and seen more of him than I might have wished. I’ve heard people say some hard things about the man, about him standing in the way of the railroad, and clamping down too hard on everybody, but I haven’t heard one whisper that he was anything but straight. And that backs up my own judgment of the man. It just doesn’t seem to fit Bourne Murdock that he would frame an innocent man.”
Sudden halted under the Front Street corner light. His tone was savage when he said, “Don’t tell me, mister, because I was innocent and I sweated out three years’ hard labor for something I didn’t do.”
Benedict shrugged. “Well, as my partner might say ... confusing but not amusing. And speaking of him, I’d better go find him.”
Sudden nodded, and watching the tall figure stride away towards the central block, he stroked his hard jaw thoughtfully. “Smart dude ... and steely tough ... but don’t get under my feet, bounty hunter ...”
A girl’s tinkling laughter sounded from the upper balcony of the Longhorn Saloon. The sound drew Tom Sudden away from the shadows a
nd the muted lights of Joshua Street, away
from the only woman he’d ever loved, the green-eyed woman with the chestnut hair whom Sheriff Bourne had stolen from him like a common thief ...
Chapter Seven – Powder Keg Town
CANADA SMITH, AFTER four horse changes, reached Jones City at the railhead shortly before sundown. He didn’t like the place. It was too big, too noisy, too crowded. He didn’t like the railroad locomotives huffing and hissing as they rumbled back and forth in the yards, taking on water and fuel. On the streets, railroad men reeled in and out of clapboard honkytonks. Thick-muscled Irish Micks were getting rich laying new tracks from first light to after dark, or so the story had it. Smith didn’t know, didn’t care. Slogging away in blazing sun or winter wind for a railroad company pay packet did not appeal to him.
Canada got down and led his lame horse across the glistening steel tracks. Through the depot window he could see the agent slumped back in a swivel chair, his feet on a desk, reading a newspaper. Night was falling on Jones City, the signal lamps were already lit, as were the town’s stores and saloons and the ugly cluster of clapboard shacks. The telegraph key rattled fitfully in the gathering dusk.
There was something about a chattering telegraph that always put Canada Smith on the alert. It was a sound that could call marshals, summon posses, make trouble for him.
He set his shotgun to one side before entering the depot office and felt naked without it.
It was a big, cold barn of a room with benches lined up along the walls, a wood box beside the inevitable potbellied stove. The depot agent set his paper down at the sound of steps and turned to peer at him through his iron grille. He blinked when he saw the size and the bearded face of his customer.
“Yes, sir?” he got out, nervously touching his green eyeshade.
“Next westbound?”
“Not until dawn, mister. Want to buy a ticket?”
“How far do tracks go?” Smith’s vocabulary was limited and stilted but he never had any problem getting an idea across. People always seemed eager to understand him, the quicker to be rid of him.
“Fort Lucas. You’d arrive there at dark tomorrow night.”
“Babylon. How far then?”
“About fifty miles.”
“Gimme a ticket.”
He paid for the ticket and went out again. The shotgun cradled in his huge arms again, he turned to the lighted office window and smiled. The agent in the green eyeshade was tipping a flask to his lips.
“Little man,” he chuckled. Then his brief humor died as in the misted, shimmering glass of the office, his imagination conjured up seven graves. He untied his horse and headed for the wild side of town, searching for a place where they sold sour mash whisky and didn’t ask questions of those they served.
Realtor Dave Harriman turned into Nero Nash’s Longhorn Saloon on Front Street, pushed open the swinging doors, held them to allow the banker to follow, and led the way to the bar. Despite the cold night, the Longhorn was doing good business. Poker tables were crowded with men back to back, and there was an undercurrent in the atmosphere that had been there ever since the arrival of the Sudden bunch. Wisps of smoke drifted around the lamps as the two men walked to the private booth where Nero sat in solitary splendor.
The saloonkeeper didn’t respond to their greetings and they soon realized why. Nash was intently watching a group of men by the piano. It comprised Sheriff Bourne Murdock, Deputy Stacey, and two of the Sudden bunch, Tarp Hilder and Rod Crowdy. The sheriff was wagging a finger at Hilder, who had shortly before smacked a faro-dealer on the chin. Hilder looked sullen and half-drunk but took his reproof meekly enough.
Nash didn’t speak until the black-garbed lawmen had left, and then he spoke very softly.
“It’d be a terrible thing if one of those hellers were to gun down the sheriff.”
For a moment they thought the saloonkeeper was actually concerned that such a thing might happen. But only for a moment. For then florid-faced Nero turned to them and they saw the glitter in his agate colored eyes.
Harriman started to smile. “It would indeed, Nero. It’d be even more terrible if somebody were to take those wild men aside and offer them a handsome fee for doin’ just that.”
Now it had come out in the open ...
“No!” banker Petrow breathed. “I know you don’t mean it, boys, but you shouldn’t even joke about things like that.”
A wet-lipped smile showed on Nero Nash’s meaty face. He’d been squeamish, too, until he realized that he was getting precisely nowhere with Sheriff Murdock.
“Like you say, only a joke, Wayne,” the fat man said, signaling for drinks. The ‘joke’ wasn’t mentioned again that night, but the seed of an idea had been sown.
Stacey Murdock sat behind the jailhouse desk drinking coffee, his low-crowned black hat on the blotter, dark hair gleaming in the lamplight.
Virgil occupied the chair across from him, grimacing down at the contents of his mug. His saturnine face was still blotchy from liquor.
Putting a shine on his deputy’s star with his coat sleeve, the ox-shouldered Morgan was the only one of the brothers looking even tolerably satisfied with life right then. The badge was the reason. Today, Bourne had lifted Morgan’s suspension and put him back on full-time duty because of the presence of the Sudden bunch. It was Morgan’s belief that Tom Sudden and his four hell-raisers should be rounded up and jailed before they started trouble, not wait until after it happened.
Bourne Murdock seldom relaxed but he was leaning now as he stood in the doorway looking out into the street. The sheriff’s strong face showed deep lines of strain. With bounty hunters, a suspected killer, and five ex-jailbirds walking the streets of his town, the responsibility of maintaining law and order rested on Bourne Murdock’s broad shoulders. The strain of waiting showed.
The move must come from Tom Sudden, the sheriff figured. Sudden had sworn to get square and he had been hard at work ever since his return, questioning those who had testified at his trial. Sudden was searching for evidence to prove he had been framed, and when he failed to find it, he would be forced to use other means.
Morgan Murdock still thought it best to get in first but Bourne would not agree. The sheriff would not arrest the Sudden bunch because so far they had committed no crime since their arrival.
And regardless of what Tom Sudden might believe, Bourne Murdock would not deliberately arrest any man unless he had broken the law.
It was a stalemate, with peace balanced on a hair.
“Come in, Addie,” Tara said. She looked seductive in a deep blue blouse with a velvet band around the collar and pleated red skirt. Her chestnut hair hung loose to her shoulders and she was brushing it carefully. Her manner with her sister-in-law was friendly but formal.
“Oh, are you going out, Tara?” Addie asked. In contrast to Tara, Addie Murdock was a thin plain girl with work-reddened hands and nervous eyes.
“Yes I am, Addie,” Tara said, setting the brush down and taking out a ribbon for her hair. “Is there anything I can get you up town?”
“No, thank you.” Addie looked worried as she watched the younger woman fix her hair. “Tara ...?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you should be going out late at night? I mean with those outlaws in town and all?”
“Gracious, Addie, you sound like my husband! Tom Sudden would never harm me.”
She sounded so assured and looked so poised, Addie thought with a twinge of envy. Nothing ever rattled Tara. She was like a queen, Addie thought. Small wonder everybody doted on her.
“You won’t mind being alone, Addie?” Tara asked as she drew on her waist-length jacket.
“No, I’ll be fine. I have some mending to do.” Addie smiled. “Virge tore his trousers last night getting home.”
Tara paused. “That was strange, Virgil getting drunk at a time like this. I wonder why he did it?”
“I don’t know, but when Stacey was helping him to bed I
heard him say over and over, ‘All my fault ... all my fault.’ What do you think he meant by that, Tara?”
“I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
“I feel sorry for Virge, he seems so lonely. I wish he’d meet a nice girl ...”
“He will someday.”
“If he ever stops carrying that torch for you, Tara.”
“That’s foolish talk, Addie.”
“Love’s often a foolish business though, isn’t it?”
Tara smiled, dimples showing, green eyes dancing. “Addie Murdock, are you going to keep me here talking all night?”
“Sorry, Tara. I do prattle on at times, don’t I?”
“I love to hear you talk,” Tara assured her, touching her shoulder as she went to the door. “But I really must be off.”
“Where are you going, Tara? I mean, in case Bourne asks?”
“I’m going to the apothecary’s,” Tara replied, going out. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”
“Always the apothecary’s,” Addie said to herself as the front door closed. “For a healthy woman, Tara spends more time running to that drugstore than just about anybody I know ...”
Chapter Eight – Like Babylon of Old
“MA’AM,” HANK BRAZOS said, polite as always when there were womenfolk around, “do you reckon as how you might stop molestin’ my partner long enough so’s we can talk a little business?”
Pretty Angie Cord, unattached to Morgan Murdock these days and reveling in her new-found freedom, leant across the table in the Longhorn Saloon and tickled the Texan under the chin.
“Moe-lest, big boy?” she smiled, mocking his Southern drawl. “I wouldn’t mind molestin’ you some night.”
Brazos blushed to the roots of his corn-colored hair. Angie Cord was about as forward as the cow-catcher on a loco, and she sure as hell wasn’t wearing any more clothes than she had to.
Benedict came to the rescue. “Give us a few minutes, Angie baby. There’s a good girl.” He patted her bottom familiarly as she got up to go and Brazos stared at the ceiling.
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