The Storm Family 6

by Matt Chisholm

  “Too risky,” Stoddard contradicted.

  “Stoddard, you’re forgetting yourself. I run this place and I shall continue to run it the way I see fit. I suggest you and Koler return to your colleagues and play cards or whatever you do to pass the time.”

  They stood looking at her—the tall lean one and the short fat one, both of them deadly. Stoddard nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell that to the boys.”

  They turned and walked away.

  She reached out a hand for the wall and leaned against it. Was there any connection between this boy Lee and Martin Storm? Had Martin ridden out of the country? What in God’s name had happened to her? What did it matter to her what happened to this Storm man?

  She turned and remounted the stairs.

  At the door of Mannin Lee’s room, she hesitated, not knowing what she was going to say to him. Suddenly, her self-possession deserted her. Maybe she should have Gregorio at her elbow during the coming interview.

  She tapped on the door.

  “Come.”

  She opened the door and when she saw the young face in the lamplight, she knew. This man was kin to Martin. There was the same untamed look about the eyes, the same wild humor to the mouth. She should have known at first sight of him.

  She closed the door and leaned back against it.

  He was watching her curiously, as if he instinctively knew that something was wrong.

  “Your name,” she said, “is not Mannin Lee.”

  Chapter Six

  Vince Stoddard entered the big room. Koler followed like a fat shadow. Heads turned from the table.

  Marve Styree stood up. He was a man strung taut. Half the trouble he had gotten himself into during his life had been because of those hair-trigger nerves of his. He was proud of his ferocity and his maleness. He confused the two. He was a thin pale man who reddened and peeled in the sun. He strove to play the part of the gentleman gunfighter, but he would never be able to conceal the fact that he was a lethal gutter-rat who had made himself a poor copy of his betters. None of which detracted from his deadliness and his cultivation of treachery as a fine art.

  In this, he was different from most of the men gathered there, the majority of them cowhands who had gone wrong, farm-boys who thought a gun earned more than a plough and quicker, store-clerks who fancied themselves as badmen. There was among them some sort of code. It varied from man to man, but mostly it covered the fact that a man needed a partner and he gave his loyalty and trust to that partner.

  Styree was feared by those who sided him, there were men there who had ridden with him on bank raids and stage hoists, but most of them were repelled by the man. He was a killer and the taint was on him. Yet the man also possessed some magnetism that drew them to him.

  He stood now at the head of the table, leaning on it, his pale gray eyes shadowed by his gingery brows.

  Koler tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and said: “Aragon says she can handle this.”

  Dale Brophy spoke. He had broken Yuma jail the year before and had killed two men in that time. He was young. He had a weak chin and buckteeth, but the others offered him a lot of respect. He was considered to be a good friend and a bad enemy. He liked life at Aragon’s. He’d slept sound for the first time in two years. But he was broke and he had a hankering to see a piece of life. And the way Aragon ran this place, he didn’t see much of that. Life to him meant strong drink and strong women. He didn’t like walking around without a gun on his hip. It made him feel indecently naked.

  “For what my opinion’s worth,” he said, “Aragon can’t handle this one. I know that Mart Storm. I know the hull Storm crew. Tangled with ’em when I toted a gun for old man Brack. We all know Mart rode the owl-hoot. Now this other Storm’s here.”

  Styree said in his cold voice: “You sound like this is makin’ a kinda pattern for you, Dale.”

  “Sure, it’s a pattern, but I can’t tell what. Either Mart’s here lookin’ for somebody or he’s the law.”

  There were shocked looks on the faces around the table.

  One boy, still in his “teens said: “You mean Mart Storm sold out?”

  “Didn’t you never hear of a badman turnin’ lawman? You see any difference atween the two? Christ, I never met a lawman didn’t double his wages one way or another.”

  Styree sat down. He was thinking and it showed.

  Finally, he looked up.

  “Boys,” he said, “we thought we was real safe here. There ain’t never been a man on the run took on Aragon since Linda started here. But maybe we’re sittin’ plumb in the middle of a trap. Look at it this way—the Storms belong in Colorado. This is New Mexico. No Colorado lawman is comin’ in here for us.”

  “Extradition,” somebody suggested.

  “Extradition, Hell. Which of us is wanted in Colorado?”

  “Me,” said an oldster who had winged a constable in Denver.

  “Just one of us,” said Styree. “But nigh on every man jack here is wanted by the federal law. That sonovabitch has a federal warrant on him.”

  That started the talk. Every man there wanted to say his piece.

  Styree held up a hand for silence and after a while he got it.

  “Boys,” he said, “Mart has this young feller planted here. That makes two of ’em. How do we know there ain’t a whole damned bunch of ’em hid out there in the hills? Aragon can’t save us from them.”

  Koler said: “Styree’s right. It’s time we rid.”

  “Ride?” said the oldster. “Jesus, I don’t have the price of a meal.”

  “Nor me.”

  Stoddard said, lighting a stogie so the flame of the match lit up his saturnine face: “Styree, I’m sure reading you, man.”

  Styree turned and looked at him.

  Stoddard nodded.

  “There’s enough gold here for all of us.”

  A young ex-cowhand said: “What you fellers gettin’ to?”

  Koler chuckled. His fat shook.

  “You ain’t never heard tell of old man Aragon’s fortune? How do you think the gal started this place. Why, I bet you don’t even savvy who old man Aragon was.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Claud Maxwell.”

  That brought a hush. They stared at the fat man incredulously. There wasn’t a man there who hadn’t heard of the great Claud Maxwell. He’d robbed the dons, he’d robbed Wells Fargo, he’d robbed every bank worth robbing west of the Kansas-Missouri line. Or so the tales went. It was even said that on one occasion he’d held a Pinkerton office up and walked out with a pay roll. He worked mostly on his lonesome. The few men who ever worked with him had died after raids in unexplained circumstances.

  After one raid, Maxwell himself had been shot. The story was muddled, but it seemed that a lawman who had been in cahoots with him had shot him in the back. Maxwell had survived for a month after the shooting, crawling from hiding place to hiding place like a wounded wolf. He had lived long enough to hand over his hidden cache of gold to his daughter.

  Men said that the girl had sworn to honor her father’s memory by offering sanctuary to hunted men. It was as simple as that.

  Styree coldly inspected the faces of the other men as if measuring their iron.

  “Well,” he said, “who’s with me on this?”

  The boy demanded in a scared voice: “What you aim to do, Styree?”

  “Christ,” said the ginger man, “do I have to spell it out to you?”

  The boy was on his feet, dismay showing on his face.

  “Now, wait a minute, Styree. You don’t mean ...”

  The oldster, who was inclined to defend the boy, said quickly: “Sit down an’ be still, kid. This ain’t the time.”

  The boy looked wildly about him.

  “I reckon I don’t aim to allow this to happen,” he said.

  Koler told him: “Boy, you mind your manners or you’re sure liable to git yourself hurt. You know that?”

  St
yree smiled.

  “By hurt the man means killed.”

  The boy went still. He changed his tone. The knowledge of possible death cooled his hot mind.

  “Lookee here, Styree, I didn’t mean ... Hell, I know we have to look out for ourselves, but there’s ways of doin’ this. I wouldn’t want the lady to come to no harm.”

  Stoddard said: “Nothing has to happen to her, boy. She’s a mighty intelligent woman. She’ll know when the cards’re stacked against her.”

  “First things first,” said Styree. “We settle this Mannin Lee’s hash and go ahead from there. Sit down, boys, an’ I’ll tell you the way we play this.”

  They sat down. Styree talked and they listened.

  Chapter Seven

  Jody Storm was in a slight state of confusion. This was nothing new to him and he should have been accustomed to the experience by now. The manners of the West in which he had grown up maybe have been rough and simple, but they were inviolate. The cure for bad manners was isolation at least and a bullet in the brisket at most. Bad manners on the part of a real live lady like Linda Aragon were just about the most embarrassing thing that could happen to a young man in Jody’s position. When a man gave his name—that was that, as you might say. If a man wanted to be called Mannin Lee that was what he was called. Mostly you didn’t even ask a man’s name if he didn’t offer it. If he didn’t offer it, he didn’t want you to know it. Good manners entailed minding your own damned business. So Jody was embarrassed.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “I never claimed it was my real name.”

  “What is your real name?” she demanded.

  “I reckon I don’t aim to tell you that.”

  “I suggest your name is Storm.”

  Jody was silent. It didn’t seem possible that his cover had been ripped off him so shortly after entering this place.

  “Is it or isn’t it?” she persisted.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “It ain’t my place to argue with a lady. You believe just what you have a fancy to.”

  “I have a fancy to know your real name. You are my guest here and I have a right to know it.”

  He picked up his hat from the bed.

  “I can see I ain’t welcome here,” he said. “I’ll thank you an’ I’ll ride out.”

  She stood between him and the door. There was no going past her without using physical force.

  “You’re not going anywhere before I know the truth.” She waited and they stared at each other, she seemingly in desperation, he under control now and calm. Suddenly, she shot at him: “I gather you’re kin to Martin Storm who was here earlier.”

  He blinked.

  Mart had walked out of the bear-trap and put Jody into it. If he ever got out of this, he’d have a few unnephewly words with that goddam uncle of his.

  “Mart Storm,” he said. “Why, I heard of him. Lowest kind of gunslinger I ever did hear tell of.”

  “You’re too old to be his son,” she said, “so you must be his nephew or a cousin.”

  “You know, ma’am,” he said, “your imagination is sure riotin’. I ain’t no kin to Mart Storm. I wouldn’t know him if”n I saw him.”

  “I suggest that is a lie, Mr. Lee.”

  Jody spread his hands.”

  “How can I convince you?”

  She left the door and approached him.

  “You fool,” she said. “You don’t have to convince me so much as the men downstairs.” What, she asked herself, was she committing herself to? This young idiot and Martin Storm were on the other side of the fence from her. She wanted them both out of the way, out of her life. She couldn’t afford them. They threatened her very existence here,

  “You mean one of ’em recognized me?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  He gave a weary sigh and sat on the bed.

  “Ain’t no good tryin’ to fool you no longer then, I reckon,” he said. “Sure, I’m a Storm. Jody. Mart’s my daddy’s brother.”

  “And you’re not on the run.”

  “Ma’am, I ain’t runnin’ from nothin’. I’m running after somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Some fellers you have right here in this house.”

  “Who?”

  “I ain’t tellin’ that much. But see here, Mart an’ me don’t mean you no harm, ma’am. You ain’t even in on this.”

  She realized then, as never before in her life that there comes a time when a person is crucified on the cross of her decisions. She had dedicated herself to protecting men who found themselves in the same predicament as her father. Now she held the fate of this young man in her hands. She had to decide here and now whether she served the cause of the men who had taken refuge in her house or this boy and his uncle.

  “You’re mistaken,” she said. “I’m very much in on this. These men are my guests. I am responsible for their safety.”

  “For those hardcases?”

  “What they are doesn’t matter. They’re here in my house. That’s what matters.”

  Jody said: “That’s jest talk, ma’am. These men’re killers and thieves. All the rest is no-never-mind. Was I you, I’d keep right outa this.”

  “You don’t seem to understand,” she told him. In that moment, she knew that she could not sacrifice him to her strange allegiance. She knew the characters of the men downstairs as nobody did. If they were so minded, this boy’s life would not be worth a cent.

  He was watching her.

  “You tryin’ to tell me somethin’, ma’am?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to tell you that you’re not safe here.”

  “You mean you’d tell them fellers, I ain’t what I said I was?”

  “I mean they know. I’ll have your horse brought around to the rear of the house. Then you ride and find that uncle of yours and you go clean out of this country. It’s a miracle he isn’t dead already.”

  He raised his eyebrows in a way that reminded her of Mart.

  “They cut down on Mart, did they? It couldn’t of been nobody else.”

  “I’ll have Gregorio saddle your horse.”

  “You don’t get rid of me so easy, ma’am.”

  Her patience gave out.

  “You fool,” she said. “If you stay here, they’ll kill you.”

  “I don’t kill so easy.”

  They were brave words, but something was sinking deep and hard in the depths of Jody’s guts. He knew these men and what they could do. Why the Hell did he want to be like Mart? Why the Hell had he allowed Mart to talk him into coming here in the first place?

  How would Mart play this? That was easy. He’d play along with this woman. He’d ride off and prepare for another try. If Styree and the rest knew who he was or even why he was here, he was a dead duck sure as God made little apples.

  He smiled.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I reckon I bit off more’n I could chew.”

  She was staring hard at him.

  “Does your Uncle Martin know he’s done the same thing?”

  “Ole Mart?” said Jody. “Why, he ain’t no hero, ma’am. When I tell him what he’s up against here, he’ll hightail outa here like a bunch of Comanches was after him.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, ma’am.”

  She knew she was being crazy. If these two Storms did not carry out their intentions here, they would ride for the law. Her guests were no longer safe. For the first time since she had come here, she had betrayed her trust. She felt sick inside.

  “All right,” she said. “Gregorio will bring your horse. You needn’t think you’re out-smarting me. My guests will be gone by dawn.”

  She turned and hurried from the room.

  Jody stood thinking a moment or two, then he checked his gun, It came to him that even with Linda Aragon helping him, it might prove difficult to get out of there. He was sweating. He went to the door and opened it an inch, listening. From below came the murmur of male voices. At the fo
ot of the stairs, the two men awaited her. Stoddard and Koler. She could see that they were both nervous.

  “Well?” Stoddard said.

  “You’re mistaken,” she told him. “He isn’t what you think he is. His name is not Storm.” She had made up her mind. She would get Jody Storm safely on the trail and then she would tell these men that he and Mart Storm were here looking for some of them. They would have to ride, head for the Mexican Border and safety.

  Stoddard was smiling mirthlessly, showing his large yellow teeth. He caught her by the arm and when she struggled, his grip held like a vise.

  “Don’t you make a sound, honey,” he said. “You tipped him off and we know it. You think we’re greenhorns or somethin’?”

  “Leave me go,” she said, her rage showing in her eyes.

  Without a word, he pulled her down the passageway. Koler opened the door and Stoddard pushed her into the room. Every man there was on his feet, staring at her. Styree was leaning on the table, grinning. Near him stood another man, Gregorio. His hat was off and there was blood on the side of his face. She saw that his gun was missing from its holster. He looked like a man deep in shock. He seemed scarcely to see her.

  Styree jerked his head toward the door.

  “Go get the kid, boys,” he said. “I want him alive. He’s hostage for his uncle. Mart comes at us and that brat’s dead as mutton.”

  She tore her arm free of Stoddard’s grip.

  “Have you gone crazy?” she cried. “You’re forgetting where you are, Styree. You’re on Aragon now and I’m the only boss here.”

  Styree said: “Your mistake, sweetheart. Aragon is took.”

  She said: “You don’t know what you’re doing. You won’t be safe from any man on the owl-hoot after this.”

  He shook his head.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “The law’s onto you, Aragon. This place ain’t safe no more. You’re finished.”

  She said: “Saddle your horses and go down into Mexico. This will blow over. Go while you’re safe.”

  “We ain’t safe while that kid Storm’s around.”

  “You mean to kill him?”

  “Maybe. Dale, you hogtie the Mex. If”n he tries anythin’, you cut his throat. No foolin’. Vince, Max, Charlie—go bring me the kid. When he’s here, we’ll pay Aragon’s office a little visit.”