Maverick Marshall

by Nelson Nye

  He sensed the girl was in motion. He made a desperate attempt to reach Tularosa’s holstered pistol, but the grip that kept Tularosa from trying also balked Frank. The saddle-horn prevented Frank from reaching his own.

  The girl cried: “Keep out of this!” and snatched up her whip. Frank heard the snarl of Church’s breath. The thump of his stride broke around the near end of the wagon.

  “I’m goin’ to cut you down to size!” Church sheezed.

  Frank’s left hand, fisting, hit Tularosa on the side of the face. He struck once more but he couldn’t get steam enough into the punches.

  The gunfighter grated, “I’ll remember you, mister,” and tried again to get a boot braced against his saddle.

  With the flat of his hand Frank cracked Tularosa across the bridge of the nose. The man yelled. Church fired. Tularosa’s horse squealed and, flinging its head down, went to pitching. The gun-fighter’s legs lost contact and the dropped sprawl of his weight dragged Frank off the dun.

  They fell into a dust-streaked haze of flying hoofs. Frank lost the man. The smothery stench of powdered earth enveloped them and through this fog Frank glimpsed the hobbling approach of a lantern. The dim grumble of Church’s steady cursing was lost in the racket of hoofs and shouts. Frank’s need to relocate the killer became more acute with each passing instant. It was then, as Frank came onto his knees, that he discovered the full meaning of the word ‘desperation’. In the fall or the rolling he had lost his gun.

  He swayed aside, barely avoiding the lashing hoof of a horse. The dust was so thick he couldn’t see two yards in front of him. His face and clothing were gritty with the stuff, his burning eyes were filled with tears. He faintly heard the girl cry out, and he was groping blindly toward her when hardly beyond the stretch of his hand a man sharply screamed. Frank’s legs crashed into something yielding, upending him. Back of him someplace a gun’s report bludgeoned out of the uproar.

  The dust started clearing in an updraft of air. Horses and men materialized out of it and patches of oil-yellow light from the store fronts. He caught the shape of the wagon with the girl standing in it. Someone yelled, “There he is!” and Frank flung himself around just as Church fired again.

  Frank came out of that crouch with a wildly furious swing that took Church full in the wind. Frank gave the big ranchman no time to recover but tore into him with a ferocity that drove Church back into the crowd. Frank jerked the gun from Church’s grip and whacked him across the neck with the butt of it. Church yelled and Frank hit him again. Still yelling, Church fell.

  Coughing, wheezing from dust and exertion, Frank saw the lantern throw its shine on Church’s face. The crowd stood silent. One cheek showed a welt like a brand burn where Frank had struck him and there was a red streak of blood against the side of his neck. Church wasn’t out but he was considerably more cautious. He finally squirmed over and was helped to his feet by some of the crowd.

  Nothing Will Church did would have surprised Frank much. Old Sam, Will’s sire, was a tight-fisted miser, and Will’s mother was a cowed little wisp of a woman who never opened her mouth unless spoken to. In the five years Frank had ridden for Circle C (doing the work of a foreman on the pay of a horse wrangler) he’d never seen Mrs. Church let go of two words without first peering at Sam or Will for permission.

  Young Will shook his shoulders together, glance bright with venom as he twisted his head from one side to the other. “You ain’t done with this,” he said thickly. “Gimme that gun.”

  “You ain’t got sense enough to pack a gun, damn you. If you ever fetch another one into this town I’ll lock you up like any other nuisance. Now get going,” Frank growled, swinging away from him.

  Men stepped back. Frank found his new hat and picked it up, cuffing the dust off. The outer fringes of the crowd began to dissolve in search of other amusement. The girl’s voice called, “Marshal — ”

  Frank walked over. “You all right, Miss?”

  She eyed him curiously. “Of course. You won’t need that gun to speak with me.”

  Frank looked down at Church’s pistol and put it away. The remains of his anger was still reflected in his cheeks and the weight of regret over losing Tularosa sawed across his morose thoughts till he glanced up and found her smiling. He looked more closely then, for the first time really seeing her.

  She was not the kind a man would easily forget. She had shape and there was an attraction of some kind emanating from her that compelled his sharpest interest. It was like a current running between them. Her voice took hold of him too. She said, “I haven’t thanked you — ”

  “No thanks called for, Miss.”

  He saw the flash of her teeth and, annoyed with himself, decided her attraction was simply the lure of the unplumbed. Because she was new and unknown to him —

  The man with the lantern, coming up, touched Frank’s arm. “Sorry to cut in but some of the boys over there is beginnin’ to talk rope, Frank.”

  “Rope?” Frank looked at him blankly.

  “If you don’t want him hoisted you better git over there.”

  Frank grabbed the lantern and strode into the crowd. Kelly stepped in front of him, barring the way. “We’re takin’ care of this.”

  Frank brushed him aside and came through the mob, not daring to believe, and saw the shape on the ground. He brought up the lantern, feeling the breath swell inside him. Luck! He remembered the scream then and looked for blood. He rolled Tularosa over with his foot without finding any. Caught by a hoof maybe, simply knocked out.

  “Couple of you gents pick him up and come with me.”

  Frank heard growls. No one moved. Frank’s narrowing eyes saw what he was up against. He set down the lantern. “Pick him up, Kelly.”

  “Stay outa this, Frank. That bastard’s killed five men in this town!”

  “That gives you the right to string him up?” Frank looked at them bleakly. “Not while I’m packing tin.”

  “Kinda feelin’ your oats, ain’tcha?” One of Kimberland’s outfit pushed up with a hand sliding over the brass of his shell belt. “Go sit in your office if you don’t like the play.”

  “Take him!” somebody yelled from the back, and when Frank twisted his head the whole crowd surged against him. A Church cowhand swung at him, numbing the nerves at the side of Frank’s shoulder. Frank rammed the flat of an arm into the fellow, driving him backward. A growl welled out of the mob. Someone fetched Frank a staggering blow on the head. Another tried to climb on his back. Frank shook him off and brought up Church’s gun.

  “If you want to play rough you’ll find out what rough is.”

  Those nearest Frank backed off a little. He dropped into a crouch, got Tularosa half upright. Frank let the man sag across his left shoulder. He lurched erect, darkly considering the crowd, knowing that when he moved they’d make their try.

  “Don’t be so damned proud,” Kelly growled from the left of him.

  Last year Kimberland had lost two riders to Tularosa. Kelly, teamstering for Kimberland, certainly understood the temper of this bunch. There were other Kimberland riders in sight and these were getting set, grimly shifting to box Frank.

  It occurred to Frank that Tularosa fully deserved anything these people were able to do to him. But he was a prisoner of the law now, Frank’s responsibility, and to turn loose of the man would be to admit he couldn’t cope with this. Frank said with the wind away down in his belly, “I’m drilling the first guy that gets in my way,” and was about to start into them when hoof sound climbed above the growls coming at him. Wood screamed harshly against the gouge of a wheel rim as the wagon came around in a shrieking half circle driven by the girl straight into the crush of angry men.

  There were startled shouts and oaths as the men jumped back to avoid being trampled. One, moving too late, was struck by the wood and knocked over. The vibrations of his frightened cry were lost in the wagon’s racket as the girl braced herself against the pull of the wild-eyed horses.

  �
��Hurry!” she called impatiently, shaking the hair back out of her face.

  Frank heaved his prisoner into the wagonbed, catching hold of the tailgate as she let the team go. Several guns barked behind them as Frank vaulted up. The girl swung the excited horses past the Chuckwagon’s shine and cramped them into a careening run across the trash-littered open between the cook’s dutch ovens and Fentriss’ livery. Climbing over Tularosa’s jouncing shape — the man was trying to get up now — Frank cuffed him down and, ducking the battered brass-cornered trunk, jarred onto the seat beside her. Breathing hard he reached for the lines. The girl wouldn’t yield them.

  “County seat’s Vega, isn’t it?” she yelled in his ear.

  “We’re not heading for Vega!” Frank scowled over a shoulder. “Cut around back of the jail.”

  “Are you crazy?” She kept the team pointed south and reached for the whip. “That crowd — ”

  Frank closed his hands on the lines ahead of her hands, sawing the horses around into the east and bringing them back through the grass toward the street again. Fentriss’ railed pens came out of the dust and he drove to the right of them, fetching the team up behind the dark jail.

  He got the animals stopped and jumped down. “Obliged,” he mumbled, hurrying toward the back door. He got the keys from his pocket and pushed the door open. With bent head he stood listening, then came back for Tularosa.

  “I suppose,” the girl said, “you’ve got your mind set on a halo. Just watch out you don’t wind up with a harp. Some of those fellows — ”

  “They’ll get over it.” Frank grabbed Tularosa’s feet and pulled. The man was conscious but he certainly wasn’t himself by considerable. He was able to stand with Frank hanging onto him. Frank steered him toward the door.

  Angry shouts interlarded with hoof sound came from the street where mounted men were milling in cursing confusion. “Wait — ” the girl cried — “I’ll help you.”

  “You can do that best by — ”

  “Maybe I can pull that bunch off your neck.”

  Frank twisted to look up at her. “Now who’s reaching for a harp! You want to get yourself killed?”

  She untangled the lines. There was the flash of her teeth. “I’m used to risk.” She shook out the lines and clucked her tongue at the team. “Ever turned a herd with a lighted match?” With a laugh drifting back to put a catch in Frank’s throat, she fingered the horses into a run. Before Frank could say “Damn!” she was whipping them around the back end of the hotel. Past the dark barn of the stage company she put the team at the street, bouncing east on two wheels as she went out of Frank’s sight.

  The crowd yelled. Riders tore after her, streaking across the mouth of the alley. Frank, swearing, shoved Tularosa ahead of him. He slammed the door and bolted it.

  There was a light in the office and a man in the corridor with a gun in his hand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Frank, frozenly staring, stood unable to move for the better part of a second, hearing Tularosa stumbling somewhere off to the left of him. Sucking in a long breath he came out of it, following the prisoner, pushing him into one of the cells, yanking the grill shut. He wiped the sweat off his neck and tramped on up the corridor. “A fine thing, peon, rambling around this place with a gun in your hand. You trying to get yourself shot?”

  The other fellow laughed. “The gun is yours. I got your horse too. How does it feel, packing the tin in this town?”

  Frank took the gun and put it away between belly and trousers. “For eighty a month you got the chance to find out.”

  “Not me. I’m comfortable — ”

  “You only think you are.” Frank, turning, rummaged in the desk, got his hand on what he wanted and tossed a nickel-plated star at the other. “Pin it on, bucko. You’ll find it beats misbranding cattle.”

  The man rubbed his nose, staring at Frank like he was trying to figure out just how much of that was meant. He was short for this country, heavy-built and dark with a bristling mustache that hid his mouth. He thought and spoke in the manner of a gringo but his name was Chavez and, mostly, folks eyed him with their heads to one side. He said, “You fool! How long would this town stand for me on the payroll?”

  “My worry,” Frank grinned. “Pin it on. I got a chore for you. Danny Settles came in about a half hour ago. I want him found and fetched over here.”

  Chavez’s black stare dug into Frank bitterly.

  “Go on, you damn loafer. Pronto.”

  “That soft streak, gringo, will one day be the end of you.”

  Frank waved him away and dropped into the chair. He took Will Church’s pistol out of his holster. He said, “You find Tularosa’s?”

  Chavez shook his head. “Old man Wolverton got it.” He scowled and licked his lips and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Frank, damn it, you don’t want — ”

  “Get going, you sorry peon. We’ve got to have a jailer and who can we get but Danny without putting up more than the cost of his keep?”

  He shook the shells from Church’s pistol and only one of them thumped when it hit the desk. He’d been lucky there, too, he thought. He squinted through the dirty barrel, got a rag from the desk and was cleaning it when he heard Chavez leave. He shook his head, unconsciously frowning.

  He reckoned there would be a deal of talk about him taking for a deputy a Mexican who two-thirds of them figured to be a rustler. Luck had caught Tularosa for him. He’d put a star on Chavez because he had to have a man no one else could hire away from him, a gun that would stay loyal. It was simple as that. The soft streak the man had charged him with didn’t enter into his selection at all. At least Frank hoped he wasn’t quite that much of a fool.

  They’d all be watching him, weighing his actions, quick to turn to their own advantage any weakness he was careless enough to show. By Frank’s observation a marshal’s life was a touch-and-go thing, safe only so long as he could keep the whip hand. Gurden’s hard malice would be all the time looking for a new crack to stab at; the storekeeper put no trust in him and Arnold would stand behind Frank only so long as it might suit W. T. Kimberland.

  Pushing Church’s gun aside Frank put his elbows on the desk. Still thinking, he slid them back and rubbed his hands along its edge, feeling less and less satisfied with this shaky damn perch he had got himself onto. If Kimberland was dreaming up a further expansion of Bar 40 range — and there was talk enough to indicate there might be truth in the rumor — Frank could see how the man would want a galoot packing the star who’d be inclined to see his side of things. This had been a bad year with not half enough rain and the syndicate was caught in a falling market with a heap more cattle than they had any grass for. Roundup was less than a week away and if Kimberland couldn’t manage to get himself out of the bind he’d have to drive to Dodge and take for good beef considerable less than it had cost to raise. A lot of herds had been ahead of him while he’d sat here fidgeting in the hope of additional rain. There was still grass on these flats but —

  A faint scratch of sound pulled Frank’s head up. This quick he was cocked to send a hand streaking beltward but he kept the hand still and held the rest of him likewise. Too close to the desk and too late for it anyway. Tularosa’s saddlemate — that old jasper he’d disarmed at the blacksmith’s — stood just inside the open door.

  The old coot had the look of a hungry wolf. He held a gun at his hip and the slanch of his eyes said he’d just as lief use it. “Git him out.”

  “Keys are in my back pocket,” Frank said, looking disgusted.

  “Son, I ain’t aimin’ to tell you twice.”

  Frank, shrugging, got up. He found it harder than he’d reckoned to turn his back on this ranny but Frank wanted it understood he wasn’t about to go off the foolish end of this. With two fingers he fished the ring of keys from his pocket. “Now shuck the gun,” Draicup’s rider said.

  Frank got up and let it fall out of his pants. The sound of its drop held a world of finality.

>   The old man said, “Git him outa there now.”

  A pile of thoughts churned through Frank’s head and were discarded. He tramped down the echoing corridor with the old trail hand keeping plenty of space between them. No chance to whirl and grab. Too much promise of stopping a bullet.

  “That you, Dogie?” Tularosa growled.

  The old vinegarroon grunted. “Git that cage open, boy.”

  It was in Frank’s mind that he might still manage to block this. All he needed to do was pitch these keys into one of the cells, into one of those shut and empty ones. Before this sidewinder got things in hand again Chavez ought to be coming into the place with Settles.

  But Frank hadn’t enough faith in the plan to go through with it. Chavez would walk into this blind and probably get himself shot. And they might drill Frank for spite. Tularosa took hold of the bars. He was grinning.

  Three feet short of Tularosa Frank turned. “You — ”

  “Git that door open quick!”

  The old geezer was in one hell of a sweat. It was even money he had watched Chavez leave. “Don’t shoot,” Frank yelled — “bend that gun over his head!”

  It was the oldest trick in the deck, but it impelled the man to make a choice at a time he couldn’t afford to get tangled up in thinking. Frank flung the keys, saw them whack Dogie full in the kisser. The old fool fired but he was still off balance and before he could trigger again Frank tied into him, smashing him wickedly against iron bars.

  Frank grabbed the man’s gun wrist, savagely twisting, forcing the muzzle of the weapon away from him. Dogie fought like a wildcat with a panting ferocity that carried Frank back and came within a twist of breaking Frank’s hold. The fist that was free slammed into Frank like a jackhammer. A bony knee slashed at Frank’s groin. The old man’s head nearly tore off Frank’s jaw.

  He tried again for Frank’s groin and this time found it. Frank’s whole body felt that knee going through him. He was lost in red fog. But Dogie, swinging the gun at Frank’s head, didn’t have as much room as he thought he had. The pistol’s long barrel clanged against a cell bar, the blow grazed Frank’s neck and Frank, staggering into him, bore the old man off his feet. So much violence seemed to have used the man up. Frank, half smothering him, found Dogie’s wrist again, cracking it against the floor until the gun fell out of his fingers.