Texas Men

by Paul Evan Lehman

  The Cleanup Party’s candidate turned at their approach.

  “Howdy, Bob; howdy, boys. Glad to see you-all. Belly up here. I ain’t much on electioneerin’ but I am buyin’ the drinks.”

  “We’re for you drinks or no drinks,” Bob told him. “How’s the outlook?”

  Frank Enright answered. “Mighty fine, Bob. If everybody votes like they promised, John is as good as elected.”

  “Theese Duke Haslam,” observed Joe, “ees one foxy hombre. May be she have w’at you call the treek up my sleeve, no?”

  “It no difference makes vat trick he hass his sleeve up,” said Dutch Trumbauer. “Dis time it iss der people vat speak, ain’t it, Frank?”

  “You told the truth that time, Dutch. The voice of the people is callin’ for a change, and it’s callin’ mighty loud.”

  Bob raised his glass. “Well, here’s to success.”

  Rutherford followed suit. “Thanks, Bob. I shore appreciat—”

  Behind them came the roar of a sixgun and the tinkle of glass. Rutherford’s big frame jerked spasmodically, his jaw went slack; then the sturdy knees gave beneath him and he slid slowly downward along the face of the bar.

  CHAPTER III

  OUT OF THE NIGHT

  BOB whipped his gun from its holster and wheeled. On the far side of the room smoke eddied about a broken window. He fired a shot through the opening, then desisted as Deuce sprang across the intervening space and hurtled through the lower sash, taking the rest of the glass with him.

  Ace followed. Joe was running toward the door which opened on an alley. Bob pushed through the petrified crowd to the front door and thence to the street. Glancing quickly about, he strode to the dark passageway beside the saloon. From somewhere in the rear of the place came the sound of two heavy shots, and he broke into a run. A vague figure appeared at the far corner of the building.

  “That you, Bob? Bring the horses—quick!” It was Deuce.

  Racing to the rack, Bob flipped the reins free and led the horses into the alley. Deuce met him.

  “Joe and Ace are after him. Gimme my cayuse.”

  They leaped into their saddles and, each leading a horse, spurred around the rear corner. The forms of Ace and Joe loomed up in the darkness. Grasping the reins which were flung to them, they leaped astride their mounts.

  “He’s still in the alley,” Ace shouted. “Keep crowdin’ him!”

  They sped along the dark passageway and past the straggling buildings at the edge of town. At Bob’s command they halted. From some point ahead came the steady drum of hoofs. They spurred in pursuit. Presently they again pulled up. The roll of hoofbeats flung back at them in swifter cadence. The murderer knew that his pursuers were crowding him and was becoming panicky.

  Slowly Bob and the Mexican forged ahead. Straight on they rode at the very top of their mounts’ speed; and then Bob caught sight of a dim figure some two hundred yards ahead. It was vague and shapeless, but it moved, and he knew it to be a man and a horse, the former leaning far over the animal’s neck. Joe caught sight of him at the same time.

  The killer swerved his mount in an effort to throw them off. Immediately Joe kneed his horse at an angle that would intercept him. The fellow turned in the opposite direction only to have Bob cut down the distance between them. Desperately he started throwing lead, turning in his saddle and shooting at random in the hope of scaring them off.

  Foot by foot they cut down the space between them and their quarry, maintaining such positions that should the fellow bolt off at an angle one or the other would be able to head him. They were a hundred feet behind him now and drawing closer at every bound. Seventy-five feet—fifty. Joe was whirling his riata, and there wasn’t a better roper north of the Rio Grande.

  Forty feet, and then thirty. The rope flicked out, its noose settling around the extended neck of the horse and the leaning form of the man. They swung off to the left, stopped. Joe held his rope taut while Bob rode up on the far side. Their man was helpless, bound securely to his horse.

  Bob reached over, jerked the gun from the fellow’s unresisting fingers, felt him over swiftly for other weapons. Working silently but efficiently he bound the fellow’s hands to the saddle horn and was tying his feet beneath the belly of the horse when Ace and Deuce rode up.

  “Why didn’t you plug the skunk?” demanded Deuce hotly.

  “We’re not sure that John is dead. Reckon we’ll take him back to Lariat.”

  They found the town in a turmoil which turned almost to frenzy as they rode down the street with their prisoner. Men surged about their horses, snatching at the fellow, cursing him. Nobody seemed to know him.

  John Rutherford was dead; shot through the heart.

  Bob’s face tightened at the news, but he spoke sharply to his companions and the four completely surrounded the cowering prisoner. As they passed the hotel, Bob saw Duke Haslam standing on the veranda. The gasoline flare at the entrance lighted his smug countenance as he puffed languidly at his cigar, a hint of sardonic amusement in his eyes. A sudden hot rage sprang up within Bob.

  Before the Red Front the party halted, and Lee held up his arm for silence. Glancing over the crowd, he singled out Sheriff Pete Grubb, who was edging unob trusively toward the saloon entrance.

  “Sheriff, I’ve brought you the man who murdered John Rutherford. I’m handin’ him over to the law.”

  Grubb halted, turned, came hesitatingly through the crowd. “You ain’t been deputized,” he protested weakly.

  Bob did not trouble to answer. Reaching down, he cut the thong which bound the fellow’s ankles, then severed the one which fastened his hands to the saddle. Gripping the killer under the arms, he lifted him from the saddle and dropped him at Grubb’s feet. The fellow stumbled and fell to his knees.

  Grubb never put a hand on him. Frank Enright grasped the sheriff by coat collar and breeches slack and tossed him to one side. Bending over, he yanked the murderer to his feet.

  “A heap of folks were John’S friends,” he said simply. “I’m one of them. I reckon this polecat belongs to us.”

  The Mexican’s teeth showed in a sudden smile. Swiftly untying his lariat he passed it to the cowman. “Thees ees ver’ fine riata; good and strong. I’m frien’ of John Ruddafo’d too.”

  Enright nodded and took the proffered rope. Dutch Trumbauer gripped the killer by an arm. Whimpering and pleading, the man was hustled along the street, Ace, Deuce, and the Mexican riding with the crowd. Bob watched them surge into the livery barn with its overhead rafters, then rode to the hitching rack, dismounted, and entered the Red Front. Besides the proprietor there was but one other man in the room. It was Dick Markley.

  Dick spoke gravely. “Well, pore old John won’t run for sheriff after all.”

  “No. John didn’t have a chance against a bullet from behind.”

  “Shore is tough. But it just goes to show that you cain’t buck the powers that be.”

  Bob ordered a bottle of beer and drank it thoughtfully. Through open doors and windows he could hear the shouts of the frenzied mob in the livery barn. The excited cries were followed by a volley of revolver shots. Mentally Bob pictured the dangling, swaying body of the killer, leaden slugs ripping into a torso already past feeling.

  Dick suddenly turned and gripped Bob by an arm. “Partner, Duke has it in for you. Listen to me. Do what he advised: get out of Lariat and stay out!”

  “Turn tail to Duke Haslam? Not so’s you’d notice it! I’m beginnin’ to have ideas about that jasper. I—”

  He was interrupted by a loud shout from the lynchers. Bob strode to the doorway, Dick at his heels. A noisy procession came down the street, some of its members carrying lanterns, other waving torches. They halted before the Red Front and surged in a shouting, cheering mob about the two men who stood just inside the entrance. Frank Enright pushed through the crowd and stood before Bob. Instantly the noise subsided.

  “Bob Lee,” he said, his voice ringing with earnestness, “when that mea
sly little killer was paid to rub out pore old John, the ones who hired him figgered that they were killin’ the Cleanup Party at the same time. But back there under the gallows the citizens of this county decided that the party ain’t ready to die, but is goin’ to live until the real murderer is brought to justice. Bob Lee, we’re nominatin’ you our candidate for sheriff, and by the mem’ry of John Rutherford, you’re goin’ to win!”

  With the last ringing words, pandemonium broke loose. Men shouted and clapped each other on the back; those near enough seized Bob’s hand and wrung it. Sixguns roared skyward.

  “Speech!” yelled somebody, a demand that was swiftly taken up by others. Before Bob realized what they were about, he found himself raised in the air and planted upon a shaky box which had materialized from somewhere. The whole thing was so entirely unexpected that for the moment he was disconcerted.

  What they suggested was impossible, he told himself. He had neither the desire for such a thankless job nor the incentive of greed which might prompt him to accept the position for what he could get out of it. It was with the intention of refusing the nomination that he raised his hand for silence.

  And then, from somewhere up the street a rifle flamed, its spiteful crack sounding plainly above the noise made by the crowd. Bob’s hat slipped sidewise on his head, the flimsy box collapsed beneath him, and he was thrown into the dust near the hitching rack.

  A yell of mingled consternation and rage went up from the crowd. Ace, Deuce, and Joe forced their mounts through the milling mob toward their friend, only to see him leap to his feet unhurt. Instantly they wheeled their horses toward the point from which the shot had come, sweeping each dark passage, scouring street and alley. Others who were mounted followed.

  Dick had seized Bob by an arm and was shaking him. “Bob, for God’s sake do what I told you! Make tracks now! Man, cain’t you see what’s goin’ to happen if you stay? Get on that horse and ride!”

  Bob’s Stetson had fallen in the dirt; now he picked it up and pointed to the holes which punctured the crown. “If I hadn’t made up my mind to stay, this would decide me. Steady me when I climb up on the hitching rack.”

  Dick swore wildly. “No! Good Lord, Bob, are you crazy?”

  “The danger is over. Help me up.”

  Dick stared at him a moment longer, then, with a bitter curse, turned and walked swiftly away. Frank Enright and Dutch Trumbauer had pushed to Lee’s side, and nodded soberly at his request. Bob sprang to the long rail, and, as they steadied him, again raised his hand for silence. The crowd stilled.

  The words he had chosen to refuse the nomination stuck in his throat. In his mind’s eye he saw again that startled, shocked expression on Rutherford’s face as the fatal bullet struck him; he recalled the suave, placid countenance of Duke Haslam, smoking on the hotel porch.

  When finally he did speak, it was in a low, tense voice which carried to everyone in the assemblage. “I accept the nomination! Put me in office and I’ll try to do what I know John Rutherford would have done had he lived to be elected.”

  More yells and hand-shaking and pistol shots; then the mob was swarming into the Red Front, the search for the would-be assassin abandoned. Bob did not remain long. In accordance with time-honored custom, he treated the crowd and accepted a cigar or two in return; then he slipped unobtrusively through the doorway. Dick was standing on the walk outside, and Bob threw an arm about his shoulders and drew him into the shadow of the saloon.

  “Old son, I’ve accepted the nomination, and with the people in their present mood I’ve a good chance of bein’ elected. If I am, I want you for a deputy. How about it?”

  Dick’s handsome features were drawn; for a long minute he stared out across the deserted street. “I don’t know, Bob.” He turned to his friend and spoke vehemently. “I wish you’d taken Duke’s advice and got out of town. Now you’re committed; you cain’t back out. Bob, you’re a marked man. And Duke said you’d never vote tomorrow.”

  Bob chuckled. “Well, he was a good prophet. I’m not crooked enough to vote for myself, and it’s a cinch I won’t vote for Mouldy Grubb.”

  “You don’t seem to get it,” said Dick impatiently. “Don’t you realize how much depends on this election? They’ll kill you!”

  Bob dismissed the subject with a shrug. “How about that deputy job?”

  “I don’t know; I’ll have to think it over.”

  “Keno. Well, reckon I’ll turn in. So long, son.”

  Dick muttered a “so long” and turned away. He had not appeared enthused over the prospect of becoming a deputy, but Bob supposed that Markley was still upset over his close call. The knowledge that Dick was really concerned warmed Bob. Good boy, Dick Markley! Wild and impulsive, but true blue.

  The distance to the Paris Hotel was short, but Bob was very much on the alert, ready to dodge and go into action should a bullet come crashing out of the darkness. Nothing happened. He put his horse in the hotel stable, entered the rear door, and made his way through the dark dining-room to the lobby. The clerk behind the counter gave him the half pitying look one might bestow on a man whose death warrant had already been signed; Duke Haslam, the only other person in sight, eyed him imperturbably, still sucking on his cigar.

  “I’m stayin’ in town tonight,” Bob told the clerk. “Got a room for me?”

  “Yes, sir. There is a nice one in front—”

  Haslam interrupted him. “That front room is engaged. I forgot to tell you. Give Mr. Lee number six.”

  The clerk stared for a moment, then hurriedly turned and took a key from the board. Bob accepted it and tossed a dollar on the counter. “Never mind showin’ me up; I can find the way.”

  “To the right of the stairs,” Haslam told him. “You can’t miss it.... Too bad about Rutherford, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Duke, somebody’s goin’ to pay for that murder.”

  Haslam’s eyebrows went up. “I understood that somebody has already paid.”

  “They hanged the fellow who pulled the trigger; the real murderer is still at large. I am to find him whether or not I’m elected.”

  “You don’t say! Tread warily, my lad, or you might be stopping lead yourself. Better take my advice about those wide open spaces to the north, east, south, and west.” Haslam’s smile was sardonic.

  Bob went upstairs, unlocked the door of number six, and entered the room. Lighting the kerosene lamp, he looked about him. The furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, and a wash-stand which held, besides the lamp, a huge bowl and pitcher. The room was on the south side of the building, and was shaded by a live-oak tree, the limbs of which extended almost to the window ledge.

  He stood gazing absently through the window, thinking. Haslam had lied about the other room being engaged; the surprise of the clerk was evidence of that. Removing his hat Bob examined it thoughtfully. The hole in one side of the crown was slightly higher than that on the other, showing that the bullet had ranged downward.

  Going out into the hall, Bob made his way to the front of the building. The door to the comer room was locked, but the one adjoining it opened to his touch. He struck a match and by its light located the door connecting the two rooms. It was bolted on his side. Bob opened it and stepped into the comer room. At once he noticed that both windows were tightly closed. Crossing to the one in the side wall, he peered through it. Across the false front of the one-story building beside the hotel he could see the illuminated entrance to the Red Front. A man mounted on a box immediately outside the place would make an excellent target!

  Bob struck a match, shielding it in his cupped palms. A quick glance about the sparsely furnished room disclosed no weapon. He snuffed out the flame, moved over to the bed, and, kneeling, thrust his hand between mattress and spring. His groping fingers came into contact with the steel barrel of a rifle.

  Nodding in grim satisfaction, Bob got to his feet and moved silently from the room. The shot which had so narrowly missed him was fired from that side window, and in
his mind there was no doubt as to the identity of the would-be assassin. Duke Haslam had seen his opportunity and had taken it.

  Bob returned to his room, bolted the door, and swiftly undressed. His eyes occasionally strayed to the open window, but the tree outside blocked his view. Presently he extinguished the light and moved over to the bed....

  In the shadows at the rear of the adjoining building a man stood watching the glow which filtered through the foliage of the live-oak. When the lamplight from Bob’s window at last blinked into nothingness, the fellow wiped his palms nervously on a dirty calfskin vest, hitched his belt, and stole swiftly to the tree. An empty keg was upended at the base of the trunk, and by standing upon it he could just reach the lowermost limb. Very cautiously he worked his way up among the branches, pausing to listen after each stealthy movement. No sound came from the opaque oblong which marked the window of Bob’s room.

  He reached the proper level at last, wedged his foot in a crotch, and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Silence; deep, oppressive. The man peered toward that black rectangle, trying to pierce the inner darkness of the room. He could barely discern the vague outline of the side of the bed. He drew his sixgun, leveled it, held it steady. Then he lowered it with an impatient shake of the head. Couldn’t be sure; better wait for the moon.

  For what seemed an interminable time he clung there in the darkness, occasionally shifting his position to ease his cramped feet. At last the sky brightened, the blackness immediately beyond the window seemed slightly to dissolve; then the last fleeting cloud was swept from the face of the moon and the man in the tree was afforded a full view of the bed within the room.

  Again he raised the sixgun. He was exactly on a level with the edge of the sheet-covered mattress. Six inches higher for the first shot, he swiftly calculated, and about two feet from the head of the bed. At that range he could not miss.

  He tensed, thumbed the hammer, and six rapid shots shattered the midnight stillness.

  CHAPTER IV