Warlock

by Oakley Hall

  Blaisedell blinked. After a long time he said, “I see you have taken up with Kate Dollar.”

  Gannon felt himself blushing, and Blaisedell continued, still gazing at the names on the wall. “She is a fine woman. I knew her back awhile.”

  “She said.”

  “Down on me,” Blaisedell said. “I killed a friend of hers in Fort James.”

  She said; this time he did not say it aloud.

  “It was shoot or get shot,” Blaisedell said. “Or I thought it was. I had been edgy about things.” He was silent for a time, and Gannon remembered what Kate had told him about it. He had thought she must be telling the truth because she had sounded so certain; but now he wondered about it just because Blaisedell sounded so uncertain.

  Then Blaisedell said, “I remember when I killed a man the way you did the other day. And it was clear and had to be done, though I went home afterwards and puked my insides out. The way you did.” His voice sounded removed and musing, and, after another pause he went on again. “But there was a lesson I learned. It is that a man can’t ever be careful enough. Even careful as a person can be is not enough. For there will be a man you don’t want to come against you, and that shouldn’t, but all the same he will—”

  He stopped and shook his head a little, and Gannon thought he had been speaking of Curley Burne.

  Blaisedell said, “I knew a man once who said it was all foolishness—that if you want to kill a man, why, kill him. Shoot him down from behind in the dark if you want to kill him. But don’t make a game with rules out of it.”

  This time it was Morgan; it hit Gannon like a picture slapped across his sight and then drawn back into focus so he could study it: Morgan standing masked in the doorway in the dark, and Abe McQuown with his back turned.

  “But he doesn’t understand,” Blaisedell said. “It is not that at all, for you don’t want to kill a man. It is only the rules that matter. It is holding strict to the rules that counts.”

  Blaisedell let his chair down suddenly, and the legs cracked upon the floor; he leaned forward with his face intent and strained, and Gannon felt the full force of his eyes. “Hold to them like you are walking on eggs,” he said. “So you know yourself you have played it fair and as best you could. As right as you could. Like you did with Haggin. I admired that, Deputy, for you did just what it was put on you to do, and did it well.”

  Then the muscles along the edges of his jaw tightened. “So it was all clear for you,” he said, with the bitter edge to his voice again. “But there are things to watch for. Watch yourself, I mean. Don’t be too fast. I have been too fast two times in different ways, and it is why I asked you about Cade. For after the first time, there are people out after you, and you know it and worry it, unless you are not the worrying kind. So then, you think, if you don’t get drawn first and them killed first—do you see what I mean?”

  Gannon nodded. He was being instructed, he knew, and this was a very precious thing to Blaisedell. He felt embarrassed as he had been once when his father had tried to instruct him about women. And he saw that Blaisedell was embarrassed, as his father had been.

  “Well, I came in to try to tell you a couple of things, Deputy,” he said, in a different tone. “And a long time getting to it. A little thing I noticed watching you draw, for one.”

  “What was that, Marshal?”

  “Well, you lose a little time and your aim, too, flapping your hand out when you pull your piece free. I would put in a little practice bringing it up straight. Down straight with your hand, up straight with your piece. I saw you flapped your hand out a little, and though you center-shot him clean, you lost time. He lost aim. He flapped out so far he didn’t get the barrel back in line, was the reason he missed you.”

  “I’ll remember. I hadn’t thought of that, Marshal.” He waited, tensely.

  Blaisedell frowned. “The other thing,” he said. “It is something you ought to know, but I don’t know quite—Well, it is just something you have got to tell yourself every time. It is a kind of pride a man has to have, and it has got to be genuine. Has to. You will see when another man hasn’t got it. I mean, when a man thinks maybe you are faster and better than him, he is already through. You can see that, and those times you don’t have to hurry a shot, for he will more than likely miss. Like Curley missed,” he said, in a flat voice. “I knew he would miss.

  “But it is more than that,” he said, frowning more deeply. “I don’t—I—”

  “More than just that you are faster,” Gannon said.

  Blaisedell looked relieved. “That’s it. It is just that you are better. A man has to be proud, but he has to have the reason to be proud to hold him. Genuine, like I said.” Blaisedell grinned fleetingly. “I guess you will understand me. It is a close thing out there, you and the other. But I mean it is like two parts of something are fighting it out inside—before there is ever a Colt’s pulled. Inside you. And you have to know that you are the part that has to win. I mean know it.”

  “Yes,” Gannon said, for he saw that.

  “There is no play-acting with yourself,” Blaisedell said. He got quickly to his feet, and stretched, and put on his hat and patted it. “Why, just some things I thought I could pass along, Deputy,” he said.

  “Thank you, Marshal.” He rose too.

  “Have you figured who killed McQuown yet?”

  “There are a lot of people who could have done it.”

  Blaisedell nodded gravely. Then he said, “Maybe you would have a whisky with me?”

  “Why, yes, Marshal—I would like to.” He took up his own hat, and stood turning it in his hands. He had a feeling that Blaisedell knew exactly what he was going to say. “I’ve been wondering what Morgan is going to do, with the Glass Slipper burnt down.”

  “I guess he is thinking of moving along,” Blaisedell said. “There is nothing to hold him here, with his place burned. He is one that likes a change.”

  “Well, maybe it is better.”

  Blaisedell’s eyes were cold as deep ice, and his voice was cold. “Maybe it is,” he said, and moved on outside.

  Gannon took a deep breath and followed Blaisedell, who waited on the boardwalk. They started down toward the Lucky Dollar together, in silence. They had almost reached the corner when he realized that he was walking on Blaisedell’s right, when the gunman always walked to the right in order to keep his gun hand free; and then he knew that Blaisedell had chosen to have it that way.

  50. JOURNALS OF HENRY HOLMES GOODPASTURE

  May 14, 1881

  MCQUOWN’s death, which would have been wildly celebrated here a few months ago, has set upon us a pall that is mitigated only in part by the pride we have felt in the emergence of a home-grown hero. The means of his death, for one thing—cowardly murder—and, for another, the meaninglessness of it. There should have been some meaning, some lesson, some sense of triumph. There was none.

  Moreover, in the past weeks, it has been brought home to us that perhaps his champions were in part right, and that it was McQuown, who, although himself a rustler, kept order among the outlaws down valley, and confined their depredations to certain channels. He was not called the Red Fox for nothing. Control was necessary, organization brings control; therefore McQuown.

  There has been a rash of petty rustling, and both the Redgold and Welltown stages were stopped by road agents within the last week alone. Blaikie has lost over a hundred head of stock, and one of his hands was wounded, not dangerously, by a crew of thieves he encountered. Burbage is incensed; McQuown was at least a man of honor, says he, indignantly. I, however, refuse to join in the general sainting of the outlaw. The border seems to be very tightly watched now, both by elements of the Mexican Army and Don Ignacio’s own vaqueros—it is said that he has declared war upon the rustlers who have harried him for so long, and will deal ruthlessly with any he can catch. Perhaps, in view of the border situation, McQuown died at the right time, or else, like those who have survived him, he might have had to turn to
robbing his neighbors.

  Gannon, resting on his laurels, has done nothing whatever since he dispatched Wash Haggin. Kennon does not like him, says he is a born coward and main-chancer, and only had the courage to fight Haggin because he knew Blaisedell would protect him. Buck Slavin defends him, but is losing patience. The judge, however, points out that Gannon is helpless to deal with a series of small and scattered raids in a hostile countryside, for he would have to be in constant motion with a posse increasingly difficult to assemble. The judge says that the situation will be alleviated only when backing is received from Sheriff Keller, and this will take place when outrage or notoriety have forced that worthy, or the General, to action. Perhaps Whiteside is seeing that wheels are being turned even now in our behalf; I doubt it to the bottom of my soul.

  Pike Skinner, for his part, seems to have swung over to the deputy’s side, and defends him wholeheartedly. He points out that Gannon, in enemy territory, puts himself in grave danger of assassination, since to all appearances the Cowboys remain convinced that it was Gannon who murdered their chief; also that the stalwarts who would have enthusiastically formed the Vigilantes to protect Warlock from the Regulators, are not enthusiastic at all about riding down valley to face the Cowboys whose deadly mien and ready weapons were so much in evidence on their last appearance here.

  Gannon is looked upon with distrust by a good many members of the Citizens’ Committee—or perhaps it is with jealousy. He remains, however, a hero to the unwashed elements. There is great interest on every hand in his future actions, and he is at the moment more a center of interest than is Blaisedell.

  The present eye praises the present object.

  Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,

  That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax,

  Since things in motion sooner catch the eye

  Than what not stirs.

  But Hector is dead, and what is there left for Achilles to do?

  May 16, 1881

  It is thought here now that McQuown must have been murdered by Mexicans in the employ of Don Ignacio, in revenge, and as assurance against further rustling of Hacienda Puerto stock.

  I am sure there would be some to accuse Blaisedell of the crime, had not Blaisedell been in evidence here that night. I have heard it said, though, that Morgan was clearly seen (by whom?) riding back into Warlock the following dawn upon a winded horse, as he was also seen (by whom?) riding back from the scene of the Bright’s City stage robbery, etc. No doubt Morgan is capable of such a murder, as no doubt he is capable of road-agentry, but I am unable to believe him capable of such strenuous diabolism merely for its own sake.

  Yet more and more I see the conspiracy to bring Blaisedell low by gossip and canard, since it cannot be done by gunfire. They will strike at him through Morgan, against whose name is piled a higher and higher stack of guilt and sin, in the hope that this will topple over onto the Marshal. Very probably Morgan has no more moral code than a rhinoceros, and certainly he does nothing to make himself popular. He spends his time viewing and sneering at our activities from the veranda of the Western Star, and, afternoons and evenings, gambles at the Lucky Dollar, where he is having a phenomenal run of luck at the faro table, to Lew Taliaferro’s great discomfiture. Morgan was attacked there the other night by two miners, but, although he is not large in stature, he is a powerful and active man, and acquitted himself well. When he had had enough of the brawl he drew his six-shooter and put his attackers to flight, and then returned to his game, Will Hart said, as calmly as though nothing had happened.

  The town itself is quiet and well behaved. Our population is growing. Among others, a man named Train and his wife, a faded but indomitable-looking woman, have arrived, with the prospect of building an eating establishment, which they claim will be of high quality. They are having great difficulty obtaining lumber, but Mrs. Train says firmly that she will not have adobe, which is dirty and repellent to white people. There has also been another marriage. Slator has taken to wife a Cyprian from the French Palace. The judge performed the ceremony, the validity of which might consequently be suspect, and Taliaferro, fittingly enough, gave the bride away. The happy couple has rented a cabin from one of the Medusa strikers, who was no doubt badly in need of money. Slator, formerly an irresponsible and drunken odd-jobman, has been given steady employment by Kennon at the livery stable, and shows every sign of having become a reformed character, this being attributed to his new responsibilities. I should think it might be difficult to possess a wife whom almost every other man in town has known so intimately, but no doubt True Love Conquers All.

  So peace and civilization are encroaching upon Warlock. Yet it is not a pleasant peace. There is concern as to whether the strikers will accept their defeat, or will break out in some new violence. Miss Jessie has set up a breadline at the General Peach. They stand in the street at meal times, waiting their turn to be fed by her generosity, and are silent and sullen. MacDonald must fume at her feeding them, and yet I am sure that in the end he will win, and they will silently and sullenly go back to work at the Medusa.

  It is a Saturday night, and very quiet outside my window. I remember when a Saturday night was a matter of dread in Warlock—I remember the wildness, the shouts and laughter, the brawling, the shooting that would all too often punctuate and bring a bloody climax to the night. Is not this what we wanted? McQuown is dead; I have to remind myself of that. Is not that too what we wanted? Yet I am aware of the dissatisfaction on every hand. It is finished, but not finished. It is not right, but I cannot express what I feel. It is an uneasy peace in Warlock.

  May 22, 1881

  I have noticed that we are seeing more of Blaisedell these days. He spends much of his time on Main Street, standing at his ease beneath one or the other of the arcades. His leonine head is in continual but almost imperceptible movement—as he glances up the street, then down the street. He gives the impression of intently watching and waiting. He is a part of the furniture of Main Street, a kind of black-suited eminence—a colossus there, or is it astride the town itself?

  For what does he watch and wait? The question depresses me greatly, for is not his use gone? He is like a machine primed and ready for instant service with its function no longer of value. Was not his ultimate purpose to fight, and kill, Abe McQuown? So is his use buried with McQuown? I know there is an increasing sentiment in the Citizens’ Committee that he should be released. As yet this has hardly been voiced, but I know it is so. I wonder who will tell Blaisedell when, and if, it is agreed upon.

  He must then go on to some other Warlock and some other McQuown. There are no more McQuowns or Curley Burnes here, and he is like a heavyweight champion awaiting a challenger where there are only lightweights. I pity him that everything has gone so wrong for him. Is not all, from now on, anticlimax?

  I have seen him once or twice in converse with Gannon, more often sitting upon the veranda of the Western Star with Morgan. They sit side by side, uncomfortably similar in black broadcloth suits, black hats. It strikes me that I have no impression of them speaking together. Then Blaisedell makes a round of the town, and Morgan goes to resume his bout with Taliaferro.

  The quiet nights pass, and, a little after noon each day, Blaisedell reappears at one of his three or four central posts. You do not see him come and go, he is only there, or not. Once in a while you are more conscious of him. A couple of miners tumble out of the Billiard Parlor, fighting and cursing. Calmly he separates them. Upon seeing him they are at once sober and out of their fighting mood, and slink away. Or Ash Bredon rides in from up valley and thinks to do a little shooting into the air to enliven the atmosphere of Warlock. Blaisedell speaks to him from across the street, and Bredon changes his mind.

  He stands and waits, and the days pass, and I wonder what will become of him. What he waits and watches for does not exist; I cannot help but feel he knows this himself. In a very brief time he has turned, almost, into a monument.

  51. THE DOCTOR HEARS TH
REATS AND GUNFIRE

  THE doctor stood in the entryway watching the miners file in through the door of the General Peach for their noon meal. As usual, they were quiet and orderly. There were more than a hundred of them now, and each one nodded to him as he came in the door, and then, carefully, did not look at him again.

  The queue bent in through the dining-room doorway and past the tables where Jessie, Myra Egan, Mrs. Sturges, Mrs. Train, and Mrs. Maples served them soup, salt pork, bread, and black coffee in a rattle of plates and cutlery. Jessie looked faded and tired beside Myra Egan’s pink-cheeked freshness. Those who had been served stood in the middle of the room and wolfed down their food, more, he knew, from an urge to get out than from hunger. Finished, they joined another line, where Lupe, the fat Mexican cook, watched them drop their plates into a cauldron of hot water, after which they filed outside past those who still entered.

  The hot, wet smell of soup that permeated the General Peach seemed to him the stench of defeat. They were almost defeated, and he raged at it, and at his presumption in thinking he could help them, and, most of all, at MacDonald, who had beaten them so easily. They did not even send MacDonald the revised demands any more, for MacDonald only threw them away as soon as they were presented to him. More than a dozen of the strikers had left Warlock, and he knew most of the rest were only waiting for some excuse to go back to the Medusa. Leaning against the newel post, he watched their leaders, old man Heck and Frenchy Martin, filing out with the rest. Their faces were resolute still, but he knew it was only for show. Each day he stood here to watch the strikers and feel their temper, and each day he could see them weakening.

  He stayed to watch the last of the miners leave before he went into Jessie’s room and sat down in the chair beside the door. He rose when Jessie came in. Myra Egan stood outside in the entryway, and smiled at him as she tucked her hair up under her bonnet. Myra’s face was plumper, and her breasts looked swollen in her crisp gingham dress; before many months had passed she would bear Warlock’s first legitimate child.