by Nelson Nye
The Bar 40 ramrod looked him up one side and down the other. “It’s sure as hell time this town hired a man to do its work.” With another hard look and a snort he departed.
Chet Garrison dug an elbow into Frank’s ribs. “Looks like you been told, boy.” There was a vein of friendliness in the man’s tone Frank hadn’t looked for. A suggestion of that spirit was in some of these other faces. It warmed him, washing away some of his bitterness, allowing him to recover in some measure his sense of proportion. He grinned tiredly and left and outside climbed into his saddle.
The blow was whipping itself into a gale. He had to bend his head against it. Everything seemed to have got itself in motion; dust, trash — even the damned shadows. What few horses were still at the hitchrails had sidled around to get their rumps to the wind. Blinds flapped and banged, but nothing disturbed the wail of the fiddles coming through the doors of the Opal.
It was getting colder than frogs. Frank thrust his hands in his pockets, content to guide the dun with his knees. Then, remembering, he snatched his hands out again. He’d need every advantage a man could get if he bumped into Tularosa.
The dun was breasting the Mercantile, shuttered for the night, when a hunched-forward shape floundered out of the shadows. Frank’s instant reaction was to reach for his pistol. Fear of ridicule was greater than Frank’s fear of trouble. The man wasn’t Tularosa. Believing the fellow was drunk Frank swerved aside but the man cut after him, clutching his hat, and Frank was close enough to recognize Kelly.
“Was figurin’ ” Kelly shouted, “you might could use a little help.”
Frank put the dun into the lee of Ben’s Furniture. Kelly, lurching after him, still clutched at his hat. He caught hold of the gelding’s cheekstrap.
“Thought you were hauling for Kimberland,” Frank said.
Kelly snorted. “Old friends come first.”
“I’ve got Chavez now.”
“Wind’s swingin’ around.” Kelly brought the gray blob of his face back to Frank. “Heard about that. Won’t be no use to you. Ain’t nobody goin’ to take orders from no halfbreed.”
Frank stared down at him uncomfortably. He was tugged one way by ties of past friendship, dragged another by allegiance to the man he had hired. There was some truth in Kelly’s words; Chavez would put some people’s backs up. Town Council had ought to be thought about too. Frank could use them both till he got shut of Tularosa. But he could hardly afford to hire Kelly out of pocket.
Seeming almost to read Frank’s thoughts the man said, “Hell, I’ll work for nothin’. Glad to string along till these damn cows quit comin’ through here.” He let go of the dun, stepping back like it was settled. Frank said, thinking of Settles, “I can’t just kick Chavez out like a dog.”
A note of resentment put an edge on Kelly’s voice. “Never mind. I ain’t quitting a good thing to play second fiddle to no Mex. If I don’t rate top spot with you — ” He seemed to catch himself then. He made an irritable gesture. “What I mean — Damn it, you got Will Church down on you. Gurden’s still riled about that killer gettin’ loose. Krantz hates your guts. Now, with this pair of yaps you’ve latched onto — ”
“What you mean,” Frank said, “is that I’ve made a fine hash of this.”
“I never said that!”
“You might just as well have. It’s the truth.”
Kelly stared up at him, hugging his coat, edging back more to get out of the wind. “Hell, you know what this town is! All I was tryin’ to say is you’ve mebbe bit off more than one guy can handle — ”
“Hickok’s handling Abilene.”
“Hickok!” yowled Kelly. “What you need’s help — a friend at your back, another gun you can count on.”
“I ain’t heard of Bat Masterson hiring any bodyguard.”
“You think you can gun-whip this town into line? Talk sense, damn it to hell!”
“Does it make sense for you to quit a soft job to go with a man who’s apt to get burnt down before he’s two hours older?” Frank picked up his reins. “I’ve got to get moving.”
Kelly followed him, the gale at their backs now. “Swingin’ into the southwest — we’re like to hev weather.” He relapsed into silence, hanging onto Frank’s stirrup.
At the Bon Ton Frank wheeled the dun around. Keeping to a pattern was just asking for trouble; Snob Hollow could look after itself for a spell. Coming into the light from the New York Cafe he got hold of Kelly’s hand and grimly pushed the man’s fingers across the swell of his saddle, across the ripped place where the bullet had struck. Kelly jerked back like he’d touched a snake.
Frank looked down at him with inscrutable eyes. “That leather won’t bite. Be thankful, old friend, you ain’t called on to help.”
The teamster twisted his head against the slap of the wind. They were passing Ben’s Furniture before he got enough breath back to make himself heard. “Tularosa?”
Frank shrugged. He seemed to be catching the habit from Chavez. “Him, or another. Don’t make much difference to a stiff whose slug tags it.”
They were opposite the jail, hardly ten strides from Gurden’s batwings when Kelly pulled up. “Mebbe I better be turnin’ off here. I — ”
The hammering explosions of two shots, one climbing hard over the heels of the other, barreled through Kelly’s words. Both men flung startled looks at the Opal. Frank, sending the dun forward, was out of the saddle on skidding bootheels, catching at a porch post, smashing into the half-leaf doors. Two more shots, slamming the doors, drove him back. He had no further thought for Kelly. He dropped flat to the porch planks, palming his gun, firing beneath the doors at the gangling shape diving through a side window. One of the doors jerked over Frank’s head but he was already coming off of the boards, throwing himself headlong at the mouth of the alley.
He was too mad for caution but there was no one in sight when he looked into the alley. The man he had fired at was Tularosa and now, still staring, Frank found himself shaking as caution belatedly sank its hooks into him. He backed away from that slot and swiveled a look round for Kelly. The teamster wasn’t in sight. Gone up the other side, Frank thought, and ran along the dark front of the Mercantile, feverishly pushing fresh loads into the cylinder.
At the entrance to the passage between Krantz’s and Ben’s Furniture he fell back a moment, listening, but the racket of the wind made hearing other sounds unlikely. He ran east as far as the barber’s pole. Dropping into a walk, he moved up that dark alley. This blackness had an almost tangible quality, folding around him like the wrap of a blanket, cutting off the wind, reducing its clamor to a kind of muffled groan.
He stopped three paces from the passage’s end but still heard nothing he could imagine was Tularosa. Frank knew the chance he would take if he looked. A cold sweat filmed his flesh as he moved into the open but no bullet came at him. In this moonless murk the killer could have crouched ten feet away without discovery.
Frank wanted to turn back but the words of Kimberland’s foreman still rankled. He raked the dark with angry eyes, weighing his chances and not at all liking them. Frank, jaws clenched, moved forward, driven by the knowledge of his responsibility. If Frank had kept hold of Tularosa the man wouldn’t be here now.
Several times Frank stumbled in the trash underfoot and twice his boots sent tin cans rattling but he reached the back of the Opal without having discovered any trace of his quarry.
Swearing under his breath, he went around to the front, pausing on Gurden’s porch for another look at those swing doors. Then he stepped in and talk broke. He tramped down an opening lane and found Brackley. The man was dead. Frank’s eyes stabbed Gurden. “Let’s have it.”
“Brackley come in here maybe half an hour ago. Said he wanted to talk so we went in the back room.” Gurden’s eyes were bland. “Turned out he wanted a loan.”
Frank had been wondering what had fetched Brackley in. The man hadn’t liked towns, hadn’t been to South fork more than twice in three years.
“So you gave it to him. Backed, of course, by a plaster on his spread.”
Gurden’s mouth thinned around its tightened grip on his cigar. “Naturally.”
“Got it handy?”
“It’s in the safe.”
“So you gave him the money and put the lien in your safe. Then the pair of you came out — and Tularosa shot him.”
Gurden’s eyes were bland no longer. They gleamed like bits of metal and there was color creeping into his beefy jowls. “I didn’t see the man killed; I was still in my office when I heard the shots.”
Frank discovered Wolverton in the crowd and tipped his head at him. “You want to say anything?”
The saddle merchant said, without looking at Gurden, “Jace came out by himself.”
“And where was Tularosa?”
Wolverton shrugged. “I didn’t see him.”
Anger came into Frank’s face then. “Did anybody see him?”
A Boxed T man said, “He came in by that door over there,” and pointed across the room toward the gun shop. “He slid in just as Brackley came out of Chip’s office. He yelled ‘Brackley!’ and when Jace turned, shot him.”
A Kimberland rider said, “No argument or nothin’.” And Bernie, who was by the bar, said, “Tularosa let go soon as he spotted Brackley — just yelled and shot while Brackley was still turning.”
“Then jumped for the window, eh?”
“Close enough,” Wolverton said, “there was a racket of hoofs and someone come onto the porch. That’s when he went for the window.”
“All right.” Frank looked at Gurden. Then his glance singled out two punchers, Squatting O hands from farther unpriver. “Pack Brackley over to where they’ve got Jo Ashenfeldt and hang around till I get there.” His eyes snapped back to Gurden. “Close up.
In this town Chip Gurden was one-third of the law and he was not in the habit of taking orders from anyone. His reaction was instant. “Now look — ”
Frank cut him off. “Take it up with Krantz or Arnold. I want this crowd out of here in three minutes.”
Gurden’s look swelled with hate. “If you think — ”
“Clear this place,” Frank said, “or I’ll do it.” He felt the man’s fury swirling round him like a fog, but in the end Chip threw a hand up and his housemen got the exodus started. One of his aprons climbed up on the bar and started putting out lamps. Frank nodded at the Squatting O punchers and they picked Brackley up and joined the departing customers.
When the most of them were out Frank said to the Opal’s proprietor, “We’ll go into your office and you can show me that lien.”
“Go to hell!” Gurden snarled and went into the back room, slamming the door.
Frank was minded to follow but Chavez came in with a double-barreled shotgun. Frank sent him after the furniture man, who was all the coroner they had in these parts. Frank had cooled some by then and decided to shelve the matter of Brackley’s plaster until he could secure reliable opinions on the signature.
Leaving the place, he went back to the street and got onto the dun and sat a while, frowning. Then he picked up his reins and rode over to Ben Holliday’s furniture place. There was a light at the back, and he got down and went in. Brackley was stretched out alongside Joe’s body but the pair who had fetched him were nowhere in sight.
• • •
Back at Chip Gurden’s the new bouncer, Mousetrap, stepped into the office and carefully shut the bar door. Gurden, eyeing the man bleakly, hauled a bottle off his desk and helped himself to a snort. He was putting it down when somebody’s knuckles rattled against the back door. Mousetrap raised the hairy black of his eyebrows and, at Gurden’s nod, went across to open it.
Kelly slipped in, twistedly grinning at the sight of the derringer disappearing up Chip’s sleeve. “I warned you he was tough.”
Mousetrap said, “I kin handle that feller.”
“Why didn’t you do it when he was growlin’ over Brackley?”
Gurden said, “Shut up — both of you.” He nodded at the whisky. Mousetrap passed and Kelly, eying the man derisively, caught up the bottle and lowered its level by a third. He set it down, smacking his mouth. Gurden said, “You tried for him yet?”
“Thought you was payin’ to get that took care of.”
“Where is that damn Tularosa?”
“Ain’t nobody payin’ me to keep cases.”
“You know what I told you — ”
“Give Tularosa a chance,” Kelly grumbled. “He sure as hell took care of Brackley.
Gurden brushed that aside. “I want Frank put out of the way, and I got no time to waste foolin’ around, either. You get after him, Kelly. Right away. Tonight.”
“I already made one try,” Kelly said. “It didn’t come off. I hit his damn saddle.”
Gurden fished a fresh stogie from his flower-embroidered vest. “What’s the matter? You get buck fever? You got the best chance of anyone. You could walk right up and ram a gun in his — ”
“That’s what you think. I was around when a guy tried that on him once — ”
“But you’re his friend. Damn it, Kelly!”
“If he thinks so much of me howcome I ain’t his deppity? I done everything but git right down on my knees.”
“You think he suspects you?”
The teamster said uncomfortably, “How the hell could he?” but there was sweat on his lip.
Gurden struck a match and tipped it under his cigar. Through the smoke coming out of his mouth, he said, “You ain’t handled it right. I’ll think up a way.” He put more smoke around him, rolling the stogie back and forth across his mouth. “Anything’ll come out right if a man will put his mind to it.” A contemplative look came into his winkless stare and he said in a kind of half drawl, “Wonder what made young Church jump Brackley?”
“He’s tryin’,” Kelly said, “to steal a march on Kimberland. He’s had it in for W. T. ever since the old man told him to keep away from that girl.”
“Kimberland told Will to stay away from Honey?”
“I thought you’d heard that.” Kelly grinned. “He said things to Will, the way I got it, no man could take off anyone.” His grin broadened. “Will thinks the old man needs that grass.”
Gurden didn’t care what Will thought, or Kelly either. As a matter of fact, he had himself put Will up to bracing Brackley and Brackley, suspecting as much, had come here tonight to tax Gurden with it and to warn him off. Gurden wasn’t about to reveal the real truth of it; what had happened to Brackley was pretty near as good as stumbling onto a gold mine. Gurden knew that Kimberland wasn’t worrying about his cows. All these feints he was making was to cover up that railroad. Kimberland wanted that Bench for the right-of-way it would give him.
“Well,” Gurden growled, changing the subject, “you keep away from Frank. Get hold of Tularosa and send him over here right away. Soon’s you’ve done that, get a note to Frank. Don’t talk to him. Get a note to him and tell him you’ve got to see him in front of the bake shop tomorrow at noon.”
This last was spoken so low that Mousetrap, ten feet away, did not catch it. But Kelly heard. The bristles of hair along the edge of his collar stood straight up at the back of his neck. What Gurden, in effect, was asking him to do was to set Frank up where Tularosa could put a slug in him. The saloonman got up and took Kelly’s arm and steered him over to the back door. “Remember — ” Gurden’s breath on Kelly’s cheek was like the kiss of death — “no mistakes this time, eh?”
With the door closed behind him and silently rebolted, Chip Gurden turned, gold teeth glinting, and winked at the curious look Mousetrap gave him. He took off his boots and, carrying them, cut over to the door they’d come through from the bar. With no warning at all Gurden yanked it open.
A man spilled in stumbling out of a crouch as the light broke across him. Turning loose of the boots, Gurden caught the thin shape of his piano player by the front of his shirt and slammed the man bodily into the wall. The fellow cringed f
rom Gurden’s look, cheeks ludicrous with fright. “I — I was just comin’ in to — ”
“You’re in now!” Gurden grinned. He flung the whimpering wretch at Mousetrap. “Take care of this joker.” He stamped into his boots and stalked through the dark bar. The big clock above it said ten after two.
CHAPTER SIX
Kimberland, unknown to Frank or Arnold, was in town that night, having driven in late with Honey and gone directly to his suite at the Hays Hotel. The girl had gone to bed, worn out. In the dark of his second-floor-front room W. T., still dressed, was very much awake. He was doing what he’d come to do, keeping track of his latest investments.
He knew something of Frank — a lot more than Frank reckoned — but all he knew about Tularosa was that the man rode for Draicup and was a dyed-in-the-wool killer whose guns could be bought. It went against Kimberland’s grain to have to deal with such trash but in this case, not caring to be involved, he had no choice. It was imperative that Brackley be got rid of at once. W. T. had learned from one of the man’s riders that Brackley would be in South Fork tonight. At considerable inconvenience Kimberland had made his arrangements, knowing something had to be done before this thing got out of hand. He had had two weeks to plan and had the deal pinned down letter perfect, but he couldn’t sit back and let events take their course. His entire fortune was at stake, and the way things had recently been going he had to be where he could step in and take a hand if that damned hired killer didn’t get the job done.
He’d had a session right away with Bill Grace and bitterly discovered what had happened to Tularosa when he’d been after that girl. But Tularosa had got free, been turned loose on the town again, and Frank apparently hadn’t yet caught up with him when Kimberland had heard the guns pound over at Gurden’s and seen the two punchers lugging Brackley away. So that part of it was settled.
Stepping back from the curtained window Kimberland yawned and stretched contentedly. It was too bad about Brackley but a man had to look out for himself in this world and he had given the fool an out by offering to buy the damned spread. Brackley had no one to blame but his own bull-headedness. That road represented progress and no one had the right to stand in the way of a country’s development. He guessed the rest of those Benchers would understand that now. And before anyone got wise to what was brewing he, W. T. would have that right-of-way in his pocket.
