by Nelson Nye
Frank, rolling clear of him, heard the wild grumble of Tularosa’s cursing. Frank pushed onto his feet but that damned old ranny wouldn’t own to being whipped. With the breath rattling around in him like a windbroken bronc he was after the gun again, talon-spread hand almost onto it when Frank, snarling with outrage, stamped a boot on it, twisting cruelly. Dogie screamed. Frank, with a fistful of shirt, hauled him upright, slamming him back against the iron bars.
The old man looked bushed. The eyes rolled around in his head like loose marbles. Frank could almost feel sorry for him. He propped him up against the cell, holding him there by that fistful of shirtfront and, wondering reluctantly if he ought to call Doc, reached down the limp arm for that boot-bloodied hand.
Frank never did find out what hit him. Through the blinding explosion of pain in his head he had one final instant of full comprehension. The old jasper had possomed, played him for a sucker. Then something exploded in the region of Frank’s guts and he swung down a red spiral into the black of oblivion.
CHAPTER FOUR
He came back to the rasp of men’s voices. There was a light above him someplace. He had a feeling of motion which abruptly ceased and a bunk’s ropes aroused to exquisite torture every misused bone and muscle in his body. Through the swimming red slits of his squeezed-shut gaze he saw Chavez bending over him, muttering and scowling. He saw Chavez twist his head. “Get that sawbones,” the Mexican growled.
Frank, shoving up, pushed him out of the way. Pain splintered through him. The breath got stuck in his throat. The room rocked and wavered. He saw Settles’ white face and got onto his feet, reeling, swearing. By the feel of his ribs someone had put the boots to him. Anger came into his throat like bile. “Say something, damn you!” he snarled at Chavez.
The Mexican, considering him, said at last, “They got away.”
Frank shut his eyes. Already, in his mind, he could hear the avid whispers: Whipped to a standstill. Licked by a stove-up trail hand.
Settles shuffled his feet, flapped his hands. “It’s my fault, Frank. I’d got through at the store — ”
“I know whose fault it is.” Frank said bitterly, “How long they been gone?”
Chavez shrugged. “Long enough. Took a while to get you out of there. They shut you into one of them cells, took the keys. We had to saw out the lock.”
Well, swearing about it wasn’t going to help now. Frank ran a hand gingerly over his ribs and wondered if he should try to locate John Arnold. Settles, watching Frank’s hand, asked if Frank was sure he hadn’t better have the doctor. Frank squeezed his fists shut. Chavez remarked without giving it any importance. “That woman’s waitin’ to see you. The one with the wagon.”
Frank scowled but fetched his head around. “Where is she? What’s she want?”
“Never said. I guess she’s outside settin’ in it.”
Frank got Church’s pistol off the desk. He guessed the least he could do was be civil. It certainly wasn’t her fault he had let them get the best of him. He told Settles:
“Look around. See if you can turn up those keys.” He sloshed on his hat, telling Chavez to hold the place down.
He saw his horse where Chavez had tied it. He saw the girl. In the light from the windows, as he stepped up to the wagon, he could see she wasn’t at all hard on the eyes. Couldn’t hold a candle to Honey but she was worth a second look. He asked, “What happened?” and did not think to take off his hat.
“I expect they didn’t much like it.”
“Didn’t bother you, did they?”
Her shoulders moved. She put her hands in her lap. “I hear that fellow got away from you….”
Frank’s cheeks got hot. “That’s right,” he said bitterly. “It’ll probably blow over.” He didn’t really believe that; it just seemed the thing to say. Gurden, for one, would make all he could of an old man getting the best of their marshal. If Gurden could talk Krantz around he’d have the star off Frank’s shirt. Frank might try to horse others but he was honest with himself. “They give you any trouble?”
She shook her head. “Of course not.” She seemed amused. “I told you I could take care of myself.”
Frank expected she really believed that. He took in the blue corduroy skirt, the dark corduroy jacket and small round hat pinned atop her red hair — a kind of chestnut sorrel, he thought — and resentfully found her too cool.
Women had their place in this country and Frank would have been the last to deny it, but this girl was too self-possessed for him. “Well, thanks,” he said testily, and was turning away when Church came around the end of her wagon. Frank’s mouth turned thin. “I told you, Will, to get out of town.”
“I got something to say to you — ”
“Say it and get going.”
Church showed the umbrage that was smoldering inside him, but he had hold of himself. He looked sober now. “When this town’s had enough I’ll take care of you, Frank.”
“Don’t let the badge stop you.”
“Never mind. Just remember I gave you warning.” Church, wheeling, twisted his head to stare up at the girl. He managed a parched smile, touched his hat and went on.
“Who was that?” the girl asked.
“Will Church.” Frank spoke shortly. He was in a poor frame of mind and made no attempt to conceal his irritation. “Will’s old man owns six thousand head of cattle.”
She smiled. “How many do you own?”
Frank growled, “None!” and was turning back toward the office when she said:
“Frank, I wonder if you could….” Her voice trailed off and then came back more determinedly: “I’m trying to find — ”
But Frank had closed his mind to everything but Tularosa and the stove-up codger who had whipped him. He went inside.
Chavez with a hip on the edge of the desk looked up, started to speak, looked again and kept silent. Frank dropped into the chair. “You got any ideas?”
“About what?”
“That rustling.”
Some of the outfits going up the trail last year had been bothered by stock thieves and the word coming back was that these fellows were getting bolder. Chavez’s look showed he understood what was in Frank’s mind. His mouth tightened a little but he shook his head. “All that talk was hot air. I had nothing to do with it.”
Frank considered him, then said gruffly, “The hell with it. One thing I don’t have to worry about in this job is cattle.” He slipped Church’s gun back into his holster. He looked around for his own but guessed Tularosa had got away with it. “What you reckon old Kimberland’s up to?”
Chavez shrugged elaborately. “I expect,” he said finally, “he probably wants to feel he’s got the law in his corner.”
Frank got up and tramped around. He felt jumpy as a frog. “I think the old pirate’s getting ready to grab more range. Plenty of grass up there on the Bench. Enough to see him through for sure. Like to know what he thinks he’s bought with this tin.”
Chavez nodded. “He aims to get value. But Sam Church is the tight one — he wouldn’t give a prairie dog room for a burrow. Hear you slapped Will’s horns down.”
Frank waved that away. “Danny found those keys yet?”
Chavez shook his head. “Will’s eying the Bench, too. If he could grab off that grass they’d be as big or bigger’n Kimberland.”
“You think Settles understands we’re counting on him for jailer?”
“I told him.” Chavez searched Frank’s face. “Krantz won’t like it.”
“Hell with Krantz,” Frank growled and, with a wrench of bruised muscles, got a drawer out of the desk and started pawing through it. He shoved it back with a grimace. “Wonder where Joe kept his liniment?”
“What am I supposed to be doing for that fortune the town’s paying me?”
Frank squeezed a hand against his forehead, twisting his face up. He felt six years older than Moses. “Damn but I got a head! Hell, you can take over at two. Right now, if you don’t aim to pou
nd your ear, you can go and help Danny chase down those keys.”
Frank stepped into the street.
The girl was gone with her wagon. He was sorry now for the rudeness he had shown her; he was sorry about a lot of things. He slapped the dun with tired affection and wondered how much longer Chip Gurden would be content to let him wear this badge.
It was turning colder. The wind was getting up. There was the feel of winter in it. Frank got his brush jacket off the saddle, shook it out and shrugged into it, swearing a little at the hitch of mauled sinews. He really ought to rub something into them.
He got onto the horse and sat listening a while. There was plenty to hear but the street didn’t seem near as noisy as it had. He caught the bawl of a steer and peered off toward the bedgrounds, seeing only solid black beyond the shine of Fentriss’ lantern.
That girl, it crossed his mind, may have come from the herd; he didn’t, however, put much stock in the notion. Women, as a rule, didn’t travel with trail outfits. He didn’t want to think of her, didn’t want to think about that jail break, either. He hoped Dogie’s crushed hand was giving him hell.
The moon was gone, lost in a welter of piled-up clouds. No light at the smithy. The Chuckwagon’s owner had given up, too. Must be getting on for twelve. Up the line, in front of the Flag, he saw four-five hombres with their heads together. He didn’t hear any singing. Fiddle squeal poured out of the Opal where business was really whooping it up. He heard a woman’s high laugh. East, near the bridge, a jerkline freight crawled wearily toward him. These were the bad hours.
Time to move and get into his job. He threw one final look behind and saw two men come out of the pool hall, gab for a moment and head for Gurden’s. As they pushed inside Frank saw Kelly behind the batwings. Frank and Kelly had done a lot of helling around together while working for the Churches. Even after Kelly had quit and gone to hauling for Bar 40 they’d continued to see quite a bit of each other whenever, like now, Kelly got to town. These last few months they’d seemed to be drifting away from each other; Kelly’d been spending a lot of his time with one of the floozies who worked for Minnie. Still it was odd, now he stopped to think back on it, he hadn’t asked Kelly to be his deputy. Perhaps, without knowing it, the man’s connection with Kimberland had decided Frank to pass him up for Chavez. He thought Kelly showed poor judgment loafing around at Gurden’s.
Frank pushed it out of his mind and rode east, passing the hotel and gloomily wondering if Honey was spending the night there. She sometimes did on a Saturday night. When her father had business in town she came with him. But he hadn’t seen Kimberland, only Bill Grace and some punchers and that Bar 40 wagon that had been pulled up in front of Krantz’s store. It wasn’t there now. The Mercantile was closed.
Frank saw the barbershop lamp wink out. It was quiet here around the stage depot. Halbertson’s hay shed was lost in the shadows. Beyond this, south, there were no lights showing. Continuing east Frank crossed the street’s blowing dust in front of the freighter and, rounding Wolverton’s Saddlery, cruised into Snob Hollow.
It was the first time Frank had ever ventured this far beyond the limits proscribed by the town for his kind. It gave him a queer turn to be riding here now with the town’s approbation. Krantz’s house was dark. Frank knew which was which from many travels across the range beyond the river with its fringe of willows. Wolverton’s residence, too, was dark, and most of the others. But there were lights behind the lumber king’s blinds. Probably throwing a party of some kind.
Prowling the shadows Frank turned back. Putting the dun into the street at a watchful walk he continued to frown as he considered his troubles, reminded of hunger by the yeasty smells coming out of the bake shop where the Swede, with his shirt off, was punching up dough. Nobody showed on the walks east of Gurden’s. Frank, smelling coffee, eyed the New York Cafe but he kept the horse moving. He pulled up his collar. That wind was getting some real teeth in it.
Frank reached the Flag. Its crowd had thinned, no longer hiding the bar. He saw Gurden off in a corner talking from the side of his mouth at Old Judge (a drunken sot) who was the only appeal a man had around here without he was willing to drive a hand beltward. At any other time Gurden’s presence in the Flag would have caught up Frank’s interest, but right then he hardly noticed. Tularosa was on his mind.
He passed Minnie’s and, going on to the Trench Brothers’ yard, wheeled the dun well away from those black piles of stacked lumber. With the wind blowing through him he passed Minnie’s heading back, and was deep in the shadows growing out of that vacant lot when the saddle jarred under him, telegraphing shock the whole length of his body.
The horse flung its head down and had already humped by the time Frank caught the sound of the shot. He had his hands full keeping the animal under him. He spurred the dun around in a crow-hopping circle but there was nothing to see. The bushwhacker was too smart to try his luck again with Frank watching.
Prodded by anger Frank went over to the Flag, remembering Gurden. Frank was about to vault down, go charging in, when a shout came racketing out of the adjoining pool hall. Frank’s head whipped around. He forgot about Gurden; what he saw pulled him over to the pool hall.
CHAPTER FIVE
Frank came through the door of the pool hall like the wrath of God. Every face jerked his way except the face of Jace Brackley. Most were startled, some appalled, by the violent passions unleashed in this room; some relief, some resentment at Frank’s arrival showed too. Will Church’s florid cheeks were still twisted with fury. One white-knuckled fist gripped a cue, butt end out, raised like a club. Blood made a bright splash of color on the knob of it. A second cue lay broken near Brackley on the floor.
“Church,” Frank said, “start talking.”
“The bastard tried to knock me down!”
No one disputed this. Frank, staring around, jerked his chin at the nearest strange rider. “You boys with that trail herd?” When this was admitted he said to the other one, “You got anything to add?”
The man shook his head and looked like he wished he was someplace else. Frank, sheathing his pistol, stabbed his look back at Church. “Why’d Brackley jump you?”
Young Church said, affronted, “How the hell should I know? Them damn Benchers is apt to do anything.” He tossed the bloodied cue away from him and gave Garrison, the hall’s proporietor, who was stirring uneasily, a hard look. Garrison quieted. Church wiped his hands against the seams of his trousers and, with a black look at Frank, started to step around him.
“Stand hitched,” Frank said. “You’re staying right here until Jace comes around.”
They were all watching Will, and Church with the weight of that pressure upon him swelled up like a carbuncle. “Who do think you’re talkin’ to, Carrico?” He drew a half step nearer, dark with outrage. Before he could loose any more of his lip, Brackley rolled over with a groan and sat up. He looked around blearily and put a hand to his head. He eyed the blood on his fingers and, again reaching up, gingerly felt of the ear that had been half torn away. He pushed himself off the floor.
Frank said, “What happened, Brackley?”
The rancher, keeping his eyes on Church, took the hat one of the drovers held out to him. “Nothing I can’t take care of,” he said, and staggered out of the place without further talk.
Church, cracking a grin, made as though to start after him. Frank put a hand out. “Just a minute.”
Will jarred to a stop, the dart of his eyes turning narrowly watchful. “Takin’ that tin pretty serious, ain’t you?”
Frank kept digging into Will with his stare. Church didn’t like it and something shifty in the man began to squirm under so long an inspection. Again he started around Frank and this time Frank let him go. But at the door Will’s bile caught up with him and he said, bitterly wheeling, “Give a thirty-a-month cow-walloper a badge to pin on and — ”
Frank asked quietly, “You want I should shut that big mouth of yours?”
�
��Mebbe,” Church sneered, “you better look at your hole card. For a jasper that’s let a pair of saddle tramps sucker him — ”
Something he saw in Frank’s stare muzzled the rest of it. With a strangled oath he reached for the door, recoiling when it came suddenly at him. Kimberland’s foreman, Bill Grace, came in from the night with a gust of cold air, turning all the way around to stare after the man as Church plunged blindly out through the opening.
“Well!” Grace said, taking a sharp look at Frank, “somebody sure must’ve shoved a burr under his tail. Ain’t seen Will move so fast since the time that centipede crawled up his pants leg.”
A couple of cowpunchers laughed. Danny Settles came in with his long coat flapping around him. His unlined face lighted up when he saw Frank. “We found those keys!”
“All right,” Frank said, catching the grins. “You get on back,” he said curtly. “I’ll be over there directly.”
He saw Settles’ face fall, but the man turned and went out. The two trail hands, racking their cues, also left. One of the others said, dourly critical, “You ain’t hired that halfwit fer anythin’, hev you?”
“He’s acting as jailer,” Frank admitted.
Bill Grace said, “The town fool for jailer and a cow-thievin’ Mex for deputy. I expect the taxpayers — ”
“Any pay Danny rates will come out of my pocket.”
“All we need now is some of them Benchers on the Council! I don’t wonder that killer got away from you.”
“You feel so strong about it,” Frank said, “why’n’t you go run him down? Maybe they’d make you marshal, then your boss could have things just like he wants them.” Frank hadn’t meant to let go of that last, but the words were out now and he had to stand back of them.
