“What is this, Mr. Spur?”
“I’m making charges,” Spur said. The sheriff had said no trouble, no shooting; he liked everything legal, no doubt; then he would have it legal. He’d stuff legality down their Goddam throats.
“Charges?”
“These men jumped me.”
The sheriff peered around, saw the big man trying to get to his feet and not having much success. The fellow out on the street yelled: “He jumped Brocius. Came at him from behind. How else do you think a man could get him down?”
Gomez turned to the crowd - “Any witnesses? Anybody see this happen?” The crowd was silent for a moment, then a man pushed into the light of the lamp and said: “Mr. Spur was talking with Hardiman and me. He stepped out and a moment later this happened. He was sober. He didn’t look like a man going out to a fight, going to whip three grown men.” It was the judge.
Spur walked to where his gun had been kicked, picked the belt up and buckled it on. Gomez had put his gun away. He said: “If you’re making charges, there’s only one thing I can do.”
The young man on the street, walked up. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll have to arrest the three of you.”
The big man shook his head to shake some sense into it. “You know who I am, Gomez. You know who I work for.”
“That has nothing to do with anything,” the judge snapped. “You will go with the sheriff now, Brocius, and you will appear before me in the morning.” The lamplight showed the humiliation and the anger on the big man’s face, his pride was baleful in his eyes.
“You can’t do this an’ you know it.”
Gomez said: “You will walk down to the jail. Now.”
The big man raised his voice in a shout. “Will I hell.” The young man placed his hand on the butt of his gun.
“Walk along with the sheriff, boys.” They didn’t look at him, but went very still for a second before they began, all three of them, to walk down the street toward the plaza.
“Do me the favor, Mr. Spur,” the sheriff said, “of walking with me. You can then make me a statement.” He walked after the men and Spur followed. They crossed the faintly lit plaza, kicking up the dust, passed the water trough, went through the shadow of the tree and were at the sheriff’s office.
This was a large untidy room: a desk, table, several hard chairs, rifle rack, two cupboards, a half-finished meal of tortillas and chili con carne on the desk, a bottle of wine half drunk. The place smelled close. Part of the far wall was broken by an iron grill which apparently guarded two cells for prisoners. They were empty. Behind the desk sat an Anglo-American, a tall dark man with a deputy’s badge on his black vest, a shoe-lace neck-tie around the collar of his gray shirt, a new fawn-colored Stetson on the back of his head, revealing tight dark curls. He was about Spur’s age, his nose was broken and his pale eyes were hooded by heavy lids and long dark eyelashes. He looked up at their entrance and started picking his teeth with the sharp point of a long-bladed knife.
“Lock these three men up, Ricky,” Gomez said.
Ricky looked at Spur. “Hello, Spur,” smiling faintly, recalling memories.
“Rick.”
The deputy rose languidly, reached keys from a hook, opened a grill door and jerked his head toward the cell. The men started to file inside. The big man, last, stopped and turned, saying: “There’s goin’ to be hell to pay for this.”
The deputy laughed - “You’re scarin’ the pants off’n me, Brocius.”
The door clanged shut. The sheriff waved a hand and said: “Sit down, Mr. Spur.” He sat himself behind the desk, pushed the plate aside, found paper and pen and leaned back in his chair. The deputy hung up the keys, took the plate and bottle of wine and sat down at the table, giving Spur a sardonic smile. Spur sat and threw one leg over the other.
Reprovingly, the sheriff said: “I asked you for no trouble. You put me in a difficult position.”
“What sort of a position do think this puts me in?” Spur asked. “I sought no fight. These bastards jumped me. What was I supposed to do? Turn the other cheek. Hell, they’re alive, ain’t they?”
Rick chuckled. “Juan, you should ought to thank your lucky stars. This ain’t the Spur I knowed in the old days. Christ, there would of been three dead men on the street.”
The sheriff put his elbows on the desk, his fingertips together: “That’s what it will come to, no doubt. Maybe it would be better for us all if you moved on, Mr. Spur.” He waved a hand as Spur went to protest. “I’m not threatening you, I can’t force you. I’m merely stating a fact.”
“I’m stayin’,” Spur said. “I’m a citizen of the United States just like any other man. I can claim protection of the law like any other man.”
Suavely, “I should say you carry your own protection.” There was silence. Spur stood, up, unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it on the sheriff’s desk. The two lawmen stared at him. “That’s how much, I’m stayin’,” he said.
“You’re crazy,” the deputy said. “Every wet-eared kid on the prod in the country will want to be the one that killed Sam Spur.” Spur wiped his face with a dry hand. “Maybe.” The sheriff started to bustle with his hands, pushed paper into place, dipped his pen in the ink-well, saying: “I’ll take your statement.” Spur related the incident from the moment he had walked out of the saloon, blow by blow until the sheriff arrived, pausing every now and then so that Gomez could get it down. When they were finished, Gomez turned the paper around, handed the pen to Spur who signed. “That is that, Mr. Spur, till 10 o’clock tomorrow morning in the courthouse. Please be there promptly. The judge doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Spur turned to go.
“It’ll be a change,” Rick said, “to be protecting you, Sam.” Spur grinned. “I hope it ain’t too tough for you, boy.” There was a cool breeze moving gently across the plaza. He walked slowly back to the hotel and found Maria Regan in the lobby. He uncovered his head at the sight of her - “Don’t you ever go off duty, Miss Regan?”
She flushed. She was dressed in a plain green dress that brought out the touch of red in her hair. Its plainness couldn’t hide the fact of her superb figure. Spur felt his need of a woman at the sight of her, but her look of dislike chilled him. A pity.
“Mr. Spur,” she said and hesitated, “I would be gratified if you would move to another hotel.”
He eyed her for a moment, finding it unpleasant to be disliked so much by so handsome a woman. “I’ll think about it, Miss Regan.”
In his room, he pulled off his boots, lay on the bed and listened to the town in the dark with the window open. He had a thick skin, or liked to think so, but Maria Regan had got to him. His mind drifted past her to the scene in the sheriff’s office and he again felt the surprise that his handing his gun to Gomez had given him. Why had he done that? He wasn’t an impulsive man. He felt naked and helpless without the gun at his side. It had been a part of him for too long. It was like losing an arm; lack of it brought an uneasiness that would stay with him for a long time. Only Rick maybe could know what it was like, know that a man like he was never ceased to be a target of gun-fools’ ambition.
It had been a full day. He was tired; he ached a little from the brief fight. He drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Three
In the morning, he broke his custom and lay in bed an hour past dawn, rose sour and shaved. In the dining room was Inez, glancing at the door to see if Maria Regan was about, then showing smiles for Spur. Was the señor not well that he could take nothing but coffee? She pouted, swirled her skirts at him and brought him a pot of coffee which, black, helped to bring back to his customary good humor. He found idle chat and a smile for Inez. He found her wholesome, good enough to eat; to love she would be as warm as chilies. He could do worse. After Maria Regan, this restored his confidence in himself. Then Maria appeared in the doorway, sent Inez to the kitchen, gave Spur a cold stare and walked out. Spur drained the coffee pot and rose.
Two people entered, a man
and a woman, the first in his fifties, the woman not much past twenty. A glance was enough to show that they were father and daughter; the same amount of inspection showed that they had money. The cut of their clothes told it, the way they carried themselves, the way in which they looked at the world.
Maria Regan came in behind them and they barely turned their heads to greet her.
“Good morning, Mr. Randerson. Lucinia.”
Randerson smiled like a father. “Hello, Maria. Pretty as ever even this early.” He laughed studiedly, a man who liked himself. The Randerson girl scarcely saw Maria, but swept down the room to a table, waited for her father to pull back a chair and sat. Her eyes rested for a moment on Spur.
Randerson followed her gaze, glaring. He seemed to swell a little till he looked something like a larger than life senator.
“You’ll be Spur,” he drove the words across the room.
Maria Regan fluttered a white hand to her throat, looking worried.
“Yeah, I’m Spur.”
Randerson flushed, as though the mere words were an insult.
“I wonder you have the audacity to stay in a hotel of this standing.”
Maria Regan said quickly: “He won’t be staying, Mr. Randerson. He’ll be checking out today.”
“Good.” Randerson sat, picked up a napkin and tucked it in his collar. Spur thought he spoke like an upper-class Englishman with a large stone in his mouth. It must hurt.
Lucinia Randerson looked impish. “What no gun, Mr. Spur? I heard you were never without it.”
“I handed it to the sheriff, ma’am. After the standard of fightin’ I experienced last night, I reckoned I wouldn’t have no call for it in this town.”
He tramped down the room, then, making music with his spurs, brushing past Maria Regan who seemed to have excelled herself with her blushing. Out on the plaza the air was cool, a dog scratched itself in the dust and a large man stood outside the feed store in a White apron and took in the morning. Spur strolled that way, found him to be a Dutchman with cropped hair, a large mustache, smoking a curly pipe full of pungent tobacco. The man knew who he was and eyed him doubtfully, but they got talking, mouthing pleasant nothings and Spur strolled on. The Dutchman’s wife rushed from the shop.
“My God, Heinrich, are you crazy talking to that man? You stay away from him, hear?”
“No, no, Hannah, you are wrong. He is a nice faller. Talks mighty civil. Nice faller. No gun, you see. You see that, Hannah.”
A mangy dog scratched itself in the dust; the town was scarcely awake. Folks didn’t hurry themselves here. In the corner of the plaza was a church. It was little more than a frame building, no bigger than a house, but Spur knew it was a church because the notice outside said it was. In front of it were some flower-beds, well-tended, and over them stooped a man in his shirt sleeves. At the sound of Spur’s footsteps, he straightened, showing himself to be a tall handsome man with a great sweep of white hair, a noble brow, bold eyes, a dog-collar cutting into a thick brown throat. Spur grinned.
“Shifty,” he said.
“My God,” said the parson, “Spur. I heard, but I didn’t believe it.” He hurried toward Spur, worried, looking around to see if there was anybody near. “Not Shifty. Not anymore. I’m the Reverend Josiah Benn here. That’s my true name - why shouldn’t I use it?”
“No reason,” said Spur. “You mean you’re the parson here?”
The rich voice was subdued - “I’ve found my niche, boy, my true vocation. You see before you a completely happy man, serving others and the good Lord.”
Spur said: “You’ve come a long way since Deadwood.”
“As you say, Sam, a long way. I have passed through the eternity of hell and entered a new land.”
Spur looked at him in some amazement, unable to believe his eyes and ears, unable to credit that this was the drunken, whoring, roistering, hard-riding Shifty Benn who had robbed stages as any other man drank a beer, shot a man as others potted rabbits, bedded women like a man who could never get enough of them. The last time Spur had seen him he had been black around the eyes, the flesh of his face hanging, his eyes bloodshot, a worn husk of a man, far gone in dissipation. Now here was this clear-eyed old man, upright, obviously content.
“I can’t believe it,” Spur said.
“There are days when I can’t, Sam, and that’s the gospel truth. It’s a miracle come straight from God. Look at that hand—” he held it out in front of him — “steady as a rock. I’m sixty and I feel like a boy.” He gripped Spur by the shoulder with a powerful hand. “Can I trust you, son? Will you keep your mouth shut?” The eyes searched Spur’s face anxiously.
Spur said: “Sure. Relax.”
The parson gave a sigh. Then he brightened, noticing that Spur wore no gun. “Why no gun?”
“I took it off last night.”
“For ever?”
“Could be.”
“The Lord be praised. But I heard about that brawl with Randerson’s riders. That won’t do here, Sam. It isn’t that kind of a town. We’ll have no more of that, boy.”
Spur said: “Save it, reverend.”
“Say,” the parson roared, “you must meet my wife.”
Spur was shaken - “Your wife?”
“Married the finest little woman in the world. She was the instrument of God that brought this great change in me. Martha. You must have supper with us tonight. Will you do that, Sam? I’ll tell her I knew you in the old days and no more. Mind your language in front of her, mind. But then you always did know how to speak soft to the women, boy.” He laughed with delight, clapped Spur on the back. “Are you stayin’?”
“Yes,” Spur said. “I’m stayin’.”
“Good. That’s wonderful news.” He leaned close and whispered gigantically: “But mum’s the word about the past, huh, boy?”
“Sure,” Spur said. “I’ll see you ... reverend.”
As he walked off, the Reverend Josiah Benn stood smiling and nodding, hands on hips. Spur laughed inside; great gales of laughter swept through him - Shifty Benn a parson. If the rest of the boys from the old days could hear that they’d die laughing. Then most of them were dead already and they hadn’t died laughing. He went around the plaza, returned to the hotel and sat outside on one of the chairs there, smoking his pipe, watching the town come to life, waiting away the time till the court convened. Two strangers came and sat with him, talking a little, smoking, one of them whittling, both curious about him, but neither mentioning the subject on their minds: that Sam Spur was a dangerous man, that he most likely had come here to kill a man.
Sam looked at his watch - the old silver hunter his father had given him long ago - and saw that it was time for him to move. He asked where the courtroom was and was told that it was a block down Main, on the right, he couldn’t miss it. Rick came out of the sheriff’s office, carrying shotgun, herding the three prisoners and started across the plaza. So Gomez was staying out of this one.
Randerson and his daughter came out of the hotel and at the same moment a buggy appeared from nowhere driven by a fresh-faced young cowhand and stopped at the door. Randerson waved the boy away, took the lines and helped Lucinia up beside him. They didn’t glance at Spur, but straightway drove in the direction of Main. So the boss was going to see his three hands tried. Spur got to his feet and followed behind Rick and the prisoners.
The courthouse was an old Spanish building of crumbling adobe, once plastered but now with most of the plaster missing. There was a little old bell tower above it without a bell. In the courtroom a Mexican clerk sat at a table and brushed away the flies. Randerson and his daughter were seated with their backs to the door and they didn’t turn their heads as Spur entered. But the three prisoners on their bench with Rick behind them ogling Lucinia all craned around to look at him bitterly. Judge Morth came in, sweating and wiping his brow with a red-spotted handkerchief. He sat down behind his desk, banged with a gavel and said in the dead silence: “Silence in court.”
Randerson said: “It’s so fantastic I can’t believe it. You take the word of this notorious gunman against three of my best men.”
The judge leaned forward and said sharply: “Dirk, you do what you damn-well like on your range and I’ll do the same while I’m presiding in my own courtroom. Do you pay the fine or do I put these men in jail?”
Randerson stood up and raised his voice - “You’re a pompous over-bearing old fool, Morth.” Lucinia was laughing silently.
The judge stood and said sharply: “Which I would prefer to be rather than an over-bearing, blustering rich man.”
Randerson cried: “Ptsha!” which Spur had never heard a man say before, took some notes from his pocket and flung them on the desk in front of the clerk.
“Next time,” he said, “we’ll have lawyers, Morth. We’ll do this thing properly. You won’t get away with this another time.”
Morth laughed. “Maybe not, but I did it this time, didn’t I, Dirk?”
Randerson took his daughter by the arm and started for the door. He turned on his men: “Get back to the ranch and wait for me. I’ll speak to you when I return.” He swung on Spur -”Take some advice from me, Spur. Leave the country. There’s no room for you here. We don’t want your kind.”
Spur grinned; “Maybe the folks don’t want your kind, Randerson.”
“I can run you out, don’t think for one moment I can’t.”
Spur turned to Morth - “You heard the nasty man threaten me, judge.”
“I heard it, Mr. Spur.”
Randerson and daughter headed for the sunshine. The three released men followed, not speaking. Rick came up, grinning: “Ain’t she a darlin’? Man, that filly drives me plumb outa my haid.”
Spur said: ‘What filly didn’t?”
Spur Page 3
