by Nelson Nye
He stepped onto the planks of the Opal’s porch, graveled to think he hadn’t seen this before.
A hail caught him back as he would have pushed into Gurden’s. His glance, coming around, found Krantz and Joe Wolverton hurrying into the street from the far side of the Mercantile. Krantz, waggling an arm, broke into a run. Frank paused, undecided, then stepped through the batwings with a gun in his fist.
The place turned as quiet as the day after the Fourth. A chair scraped someplace and the stillness built around this, chunk on chunk till it was like a solid wall. Frank’s stare picked up four men at the bar, a townsman at the end of it and three strangers part way down. He discovered Bill Grace at a card table with two Bar 40 punchers and the bronc stomper from X3. It was the horse-breaker’s chair which had been shoved back.
Frank said, “Where’s Church?”
Nobody answered but the townsman standing solo at the end of the mahogany shot a nervous glance toward the door of Chip’s office. Frank’s eyes raked the rest of them. “Clear out,” he said, “this place has been closed.”
He gave them ten seconds and when nobody moved drove a slug at the horse-breaker’s chair. This collapsed with a shattered leg, spilling the X3 man to the floor. The Bar 40 punchers lurched to their feet. Bill Grace, Kimberland’s foreman, got up too but he took more time to it, eyeing Frank narrowly. The horse-breaker got up looking mean-mouthed and violent. More ringy than Grace, or perhaps less observing, he permitted his resentment to prod him into speech:
“Who the hell do you think you’re hoorawin’!” He started for Frank like the wrath of God. A horse-length away the fellow’s feet slowed and stopped. He seemed a bit less ruddy about the gills and began to sweat.
One of the strangers at the bar curled his lip and said, “Chicken.”
Frank placed these three then, guessing them to have some connection with Will Church. They were hard-bitten customers, belted and spurred, obviously looking for trouble. All three were armed.
Frank’s mouth turned thin. He took a long step forward, swapping his six-shooter from right hand to left. His right closed in the front of the nearest man’s shirt and fetched him around in a staggering circle, suddenly letting go of him. Momentum did the rest. The fellow crashed into his cronies, knocking one of them sideways. The other, ducking, slapped leather, but before he could bring the gun into line Frank cracked him hard across the face with his pistol.
The man fell back, yelling. He managed to jerk off one shot that brought dust off the ceiling then Frank banged his weapon across the man’s wrist. The gun dropped. Frank booted it. The man reeled against the bar, sickly moaning.
The horse-breaker backed away with both hands up. The man Frank had used to break up the play lay where he had dropped, eyes bulging. There was blood across his chin. Frank said to Bill Grace, “Take all three of them over to the jail and lock ’em up. Rest of you get out of here.”
He saw Gurden staring from the doorway of his office. When the last customer got off the porch, Frank stepped up to Gurden. “Got this place sold yet?”
The saloonman stood with his mouth so tight the stogie began to sag as though his teeth had gone clean through it.
“Don’t wait too long. That stage leaves at seven.” Frank’s shoulder cut against Gurden and the flat of Frank’s hand — the one that was empty — pushed Gurden’s chest, and this way the saloonman was backed into his office. Frank’s grin licked at Church. “You’re in bad company, old man. Get Will’s IOUs back yet?”
Sam Church looked about to throw a fit. Fury crept into Gurden’s stare, tightening even further the thin trap of his mouth. But there was in the man some caution which tempered this fury. He scratched a match along the wall and held it up to his mangled smoke but the thing wouldn’t draw and he pitched it away.
Someone outside put his horse into a run and quit town, heading east, in the direction of Arnold’s. Dust swept into the alley, buffly coating the dust already fogging the window. The mutter of voices came into this quiet and Sam Church growled, “Your time’s runnin’ out.” Then, because he was a man with an unbridled temper, Church permitted himself one additional remark. “You’re dead on your feet and ain’t got sense enough to know it.”
Frank stepped out the door, putting a wall to his back. “Sam, unbuckle that gun belt. Jail’s your next stop. For packin’ a weapon in a place that sells rotgut. Drop the belt and start hiking.”
Old Sam’s eyes whipped to Gurden. But the saloonman said:
“Count me out of this, Frank.”
Church’s face was livid. The upper half of him tipped. The stiffened fingers of his right hand suddenly tensed.
“When you draw that iron you’re dead,” Frank said.
A trapped desperation brought the bones of Church’s face into more vivid prominence. Passion clawed at his guards, the violent urge to defy Frank — but doubt crept in and shame twisted his cheeks and not all his fury could push the hand to his gun.
“Shuck the belt,” Frank said, “and let’s get started.”
Visibly trembling, the old man obeyed. The still-sheathed pistol thumped the floor. Church stared bitterly. Gurden nursed his hate in silence. Church cried in a high half-strangled voice, “When my son learns of this — ”
“I’m counting on it.” Frank smiled, and scooped up the dropped belt. “Take the side door. I’ll be right behind you.”
The whole street appeared to be watching as Frank, following Church, stepped out of the alley, got hold of the mare’s reins and prodded the second largest owner in the country over to the jail. The stillness was funereal. Out of the corner of an eye Frank saw Krantz’s dropped jaw, the sour smile of Wolverton; and was almost across the width of the road before the storekeeper recovered enough to call out. Frank, paying no attention, tossed the mare’s reins across the pole of the jail tie-rack, and with gun still in hand followed old Sam into the building.
Kimberland’s foreman, Bill Grace, looked up from his perch on Frank’s desk, stare inscrutable. Gradually it widened as he took in the meaning of Frank’s leveled pistol. Frank tossed Church’s belt into an out-of-reach corner. “Good place for yours, Bill,” he said, waggling the six-shooter. “I’m sorry about this, Bill, but right now I can’t afford to have you underfoot.”
The man got red in the face and began to swell up like a poisoned pup.
“Save it for the Judge,” Frank said. “You’ll look an awful fool if I have to ventilate both ears.”
Bill Grace shut his choppers and un-cinched his belt. He slammed it down on the desk and considered the marshal with a look of pure venom. Frank only grinned and tiredly waved him and Church down the corridor.
After fastening them in across the aisle from the others, Frank went back and picked up the two belts, dumping all the cartridges out of their loops and emptying both pistols, same caliber as Will’s. He stowed these loads in his pockets and took a look at his watch. Twenty minutes of six. So far he’d been lucky. He didn’t look for it to hold.
Will’s pistol was a Peacemaker, same as the pair he’d just dropped into the drawer. The model was in much favor. Like the .44/40 Winchester, it shot a .44 caliber bullet weighing 200 grains, propelled by 40 grains of black powder, allowing one belt to carry the loads for both weapons, the only hitch being you had to stick to black powder.
Frank punched the empties out of Will’s gun. Someone would sure as hell bring Old Judge into this with a writ to get some of these prisoners sprung. The keys were with Danny Settles and this whole deal might be wound up before anyone happened to think about that. True, the jail might be wrecked. So might South Fork, but it was a heap less likely with these boys in cold storage.
Fed up with their racket Frank got up and slammed the corridor door. This cut it down somewhat and he was pushing fresh loads into Will Church’s pistol when Krantz’s shape cut off the outside light.
“What you got in your ears? I like to yelled mineself hoarse,” he wheezed, mopping his baldness with a limp b
andanna. “Vot a blace! Too hot mit der sun und too verdammt cold vit’out it!” He blew irascibly through pursed lips and passed the damp cloth over the rasp of his cheeks. Scowling, he said, “You von’t like this.”
Frank thrust Will’s sixshooter into his pants. “You’ve come for the badge, I guess.”
“Badge! Is about this Kelly. Your friend he vas, hein? Mr. Holliday vants to know vill you stand goot for his burying?”
Frank looked at him blankly. “You trying to tell me Kelly’s dead?”
“Ass a herringk — Blease! My arm iss not rubber boots.” He massaged the limb gingerly. “He vas found on the road to Wega. One off dem trailherders found him. He vas shot in der back.”
Kelly dead! It didn’t make sense until Frank remembered the message Danny’d given him from Sleight-of-Hand Willie, the Opal’s piano man. Tell him Kelly is into some kind of deal with Gurden. And Kelly, by that kid, had sent a note asking Frank to meet him — and later had beckoned Frank urgently from the stage barn.
It all added up. Kelly had tried to warn him and, when he couldn’t, had got scared and run for it. But what had there been to warn? And then Frank had it. Tularosa!
Something came over Frank then and he got up with an oath. Lifting the storekeeper out of his path, he rushed into the street. W. T.’s saddled black was in front of the hotel and Frank cut that way, breaking into a run. He took the steps three at a crack and crossed the porch at one stride. The clerk, frightened and paling, shrank back into his clothes. “What room’s she got?” Frank growled, looking wicked.
“T-T-Twelve.”
Frank dived for the stairs, making noise enough for a band of wild horses. At the top, breathing hard, he caught hold of the bannister, spotted the number and was lifting his fist to bring it down on the panel when the door was pulled open. Frank, swearing, commenced to back off.
Honey looked at him coldly. “What is it now? I thought another stampede must be loose on the town.”
Frank dragged off his hat. “I guess I got the wrong room.”
Honey’s eyes looked him over like a horse up at auction. “If you came to patch it up you’re wasting your time,” she said, closing the door.
Frank clapped on his hat and dubiously eyed the line of shut doors. He was thinking of going down for another try at the clerk when a door was pulled open a couple of yards to the left.
“Were you hunting me?” Sandrey asked.
Frank looked powerfully relieved. He hadn’t realized what a strain he’d been under until he saw her standing there, unharmed.
He said, “Whew!” and then grinned. But she didn’t grin back and Frank, turning sober, decided she hadn’t much call to like him and no call at all to let him inside. “If we could talk for a couple of minutes,” he said, and she surprised him by moving aside.
He went in and she closed the door, putting the backs of her shoulders against it, gravely regarding him.
Many washings had tightened the thin stuff of her dress. She seemed thinner than he’d remembered, like maybe she hadn’t been eating too good. The waning light from the window put hollows in her cheeks. One hand went up to the red mop of her hair and she appeared of a sudden to be breathing more deeply. All he could think about now was her nearness, the feel of her pulled hard against him at Brackley’s.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” She moved away from the door. “Take that chair. I can perch on the bed.”
She didn’t seem bothered or much put out by him being here. He remembered Sam Church’s words but her eyes watched him straightly; she was more composed than he was. He suddenly reached out, catching hold of her shoulder.
He couldn’t make anything out of her look.
The warm aliveness of her flesh soaked up into his fingers and he jerked the hand away. A saloon slut, Church had called her. Frank didn’t know whether he hated her most or the man who had named her. She said:
“I thought you said you wanted to talk to me?”
He told her in a stone-cold voice what had been going on, about the railroad and Kimberland, Gurden, all the rest of it.
“And you’ve got Kimberland’s foreman and Sam Church in jail. Of course you know you can’t hold them.
“I’ll hold them,” Frank said, “or long enough anyway to get this deal straightened out.”
“What will you do?”
“I jailed Sam Church to put young Will where I can grab him.”
“Somebody’ll carry him word but he won’t come alone.”
“That’s all right.” Frank took a turn. “Having his right bower in clink ought to slow Kimberland down some.”
“I can’t see Gurden riding tamely out of the picture. Especially if, as you seem to believe, he was hatching some kind of crooked deal with that road scout. And then he’s got that forged quitclaim. Or, rather, if he’s got — ”
“He doesn’t know about you, does he?” This was what had brought Frank over here, the fear that Gurden knew and might have turned Tularosa loose on her.
“I haven’t seen Gurden,” she said, “but if he’s the same Chip Gurden who owned the Red Quail over at Brady it’s not likely he’ll have forgotten me. I used to sing there,” she added, returning his stare with a look half defiant.
“Brackley know that?”
There was no humor in Sandrey’s smile, but it was Frank who seemed uncomfortable.
“Anyway,” he said, too hurriedly and with too much emphasis, “what I meant was does Gurden know about you and Brackley?”
Sandrey, watching him, shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Frank felt the need to square himself but couldn’t find the words, tangled up like he was; and the girl presently said, “Gurden’s not going to beat me out of that place — or Church, either. I’ll find somebody — ” She broke off and said, “What makes you think jailing Sam will fetch Will in?”
“He might leave his old man stew for a while, but those three hardcases I’ve latched onto is something else again. He’s got to bust those fellers out or he’ll find himself without any hands.”
“He must have other — ”
“He’s got others, all right. It’s a matter of salt,” Frank said, “of principle. When a man hires out his guns he expects the backing of whoever he’s working for. It’s part of the code. Will has got to come through for these boys or lose the rest of them.”
Frank looked around. He saw the road scout’s pistol, at least he imagined it was his, beside the washbowl on the chest of drawers. “Keep that thing handy and stay in this room. Don’t open for anyone. Understand?” He waited till she nodded, and then went into the hall, pulling the door shut after him. “Shove that chair under the knob.”
“Frank — ”
He started down the stairs, glad to be quit of any hold she had on him, relieved to get away from those too-steady eyes. Still scowling at tangled emotions, he found Wolverton and Krantz staring out of the lobby.
Frank said, “Anyone seen Arnold?” and came off the stairs while they were shaking hands. McFell, of the Flag, came in, looking curious, and a jabbering came with him out of the street. Frank said to McFell, “That trail boss around?”
“Can’t prove it. Last I heard they’d moved onto Bar 40….” He threw a look over his shoulder and stepped away from the door.
W. T. Kimberland stepped in, saw Frank and strode toward him. “Frank! You’ve got to do something. This situation’s intolerable!”
“You referring to Bill Grace?”
The rancher’s mouth shaped the name as though it were some kind of edible; then his eyes began to stretch. He chewed at his lip. Frank watched coldly and Kimberland said, “You might remember how you come to be packing that — ” and let it die. A silence enveloped them and grew and reached out to embrace the whole dimensions of the room. Something broke in Kimberland — you could see it run through him like undermined timbers falling after a trembler. The harsh lines of his face were like folds seen through water; and Frank wondered on what sort of facts
the cowman’s rep had been founded. It was like watching a landmark crack up, he thought bitterly.
W. T. Kimberland’s eyes lowered. His clothes seemed too big for him. “I’ve been framed,” he said thickly.
Frank said, “At least you know where I stand.”
“You’ve got to believe me!” Sweat was on Kimberland’s face like a dew. “I’ve done a few things — ”
“Like getting rid of Brackley?”
Kimberland hung there. He couldn’t get the words out.
There was contempt in Frank’s stare. “You put that killer up to it.”
“Frank, as God is my witness — I haven’t spoken ten words to Tularosa in my life.”
“What was Bill Grace supposed to do?”
The rancher’s glance squirmed away. “I — he wasn’t supposed to do anything.”
“I’ve made sure he won’t. If you’re in a bind why don’t you go to your friends — all those fine ranchers you’ve led around by the nose?”
The man stared at him numbly.
Frank said at last, “What do you want me to do?”
“Stay out of this. Don’t push — ”
“First you tell me I’ve got to do something. Now you want me to stay out of it. Don’t you know your own mind?”
The man’s look was gray with pleading. “You’ve let Tularosa go. Can’t you do as much for Grace?” He hauled breath into him. “Give me a chance, man! I’ll take my losses. I’ll stay off the Bench. I’ll — ”
Frank’s grim look stayed the flood of easy assurances. “Will you send your crew to protect those people?”
Kimberland groaned. “Do I have your strict promise — ”
“You don’t have any kind of promise. You’re on probation. What happens to you will depend on the rest of it. On what I think ought to happen.”
