by John Benteen
“That’s what scares me.”
He felt the scrape of anger, made rawer by the whiskey. “I can’t help that!” He whipped a bankbook from his vest pocket and threw it on the table. “Look there. Seven hundred dollars in my account, and it’s all I got to show for years of work and risk. That look to you like a crooked sheriff gettin’ fat off of graft? After four years in office here, you think there couldn’t be ten, twenty times that much in there if I’d played it the way you seem to think I have?”
He paused. “Why do you think I never asked you to marry me? You think I don’t love you, wouldn’t be proud to have you for my wife? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because I got nothin’ to give you, no right to ask any woman to marry me like things stand!”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he rushed on. “So, yeah, I let Gruber give me cattle, Garrison give me free room and board, Clanton a drink or two and a little cash. For what I’ve done for this town and county, I’m entitled to have a chance to build up a stake, enough so I can have a decent life. Well, I’ve got a stake now—those cattle out at Chain. And before you start tellin’ me to give ’em back, I’ll say this: They’re what make the difference. With my brand on those, I can do what I’ve never had the right to do before—ask you to marry me.”
“Frank—” She said the one word and could not go on.
“That’s it, Carla. I’m proposing to you, here and now. What about it? Will you say yes? Or would you rather I tear up Gruber’s bill of sale and we keep on the way we’re goin’—sneakin’ around behind pulled curtains, with the whole town snickerin’ behind our backs?”
“Frank,” she said again and turned away. Then she said hoarsely, “You big fool, it’s not the money. I don’t care about the money. I’ve got plenty of it—”
“Linwood’s money. No, thanks, ma’am. I’ve got my own pride, strange as that may seem to you.”
She turned. “Darling, I didn’t mean …”
“Maybe not. But I can’t help it. It’s the way I feel.” He picked up his glass, drained it. “I’m not sellin’ my soul bit by bit, no matter what you think. I’m not takin’ a penny more than I’ve really earned. Listen, you think I’m a fool? I know these people will use you if you give ’em a chance. But so do the others, the ones that say they got no ax to grind. They want you to risk your life to keep ’em safe, but they don’t want to pay you enough to live on, much less marry or have anything for your kids or your old age. Well, I’m not gonna be used by either side. I’m gonna do my duty like I swore to, regardless of who it hurts, and no matter what they give me, it don’t buy a piece of me, not a hair!” He picked up the bankbook. “All I’m askin’ is that you trust me, have a little confidence in me. And … I’m waitin for your answer.”
Carla drew in a breath that made her breasts rise beneath her blouse. She did not look at him. “I can’t give you one right now.”
“Why not?”
She turned. “Because a burnt child dreads the fire. I’ve been through it once and I’ll not go through it again. I … Frank, let’s wait and see.”
Something seemed to collapse inside him. He felt old, tired, heavy. “You mean wait and see whether I sell out or not.”
Carla did not answer.
Gaylord slipped the bankbook into his pocket. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe it was all wrong anyway. It’s one thing to trust a man enough to sleep with him, I reckon, and another to trust him enough to marry him.” He wanted to say more but his pride clogged his throat, and he strode to the back door. “Okay, we’ll let things ride,” he managed.
She made a helpless, silent gesture. Gaylord opened the door, went out, and closed the door behind him.
Dust, borne by the ceaseless wind, swirled down the wide main street of Warshield. On the sidewalk, Gaylord clamped his hat down tighter. This town had not even existed fifteen years ago. Then the Sioux, Cheyennes, and Crows had held this section of Wyoming. But the coming of the railroad and the great cattle explosion out of Texas had doomed the Indians; Little Big Horn had been the high-water mark of their resistance. Now, eight years later, they starved on reservations; the buffalo were gone; and this fine range country was jammed, pressed down, and running over with cattle. It was like another gold rush—the beef bonanza, some people called it.
Gaylord nodded to the people he passed; everyone here, of course, knew him. He passed his office and kept on going, bound for Clanton’s House of Chance. What Carla did not understand, he told himself, was that there was no way a law officer could be paid enough to hold down a county like Colter. Right now Wyoming was the hot spot of the West, and Colter was the hot spot of Wyoming.
That was because word of the enormous fortunes to be made in beef had reached the East and Europe, and the big-money people there had flared their nostrils like wolves scenting meat. They had poured capital into the territory, staggering amounts; in fact, they had damned near bought the place outright. Now Wyoming was dominated by great ranches owned by absentee companies and syndicates, many British, usually with actual management vested in Americans, though there were huge spreads owned by natives, too. Anyhow, all those cattle barons had one thing in common—a determination to wrench every nickel of profit possible from this range.
As Clint had said, they owned the Territorial Legislature through their Cheyenne-based association and they made the laws to suit themselves: laws designed to squeeze out competition, wipe out what small spreads there were, and make sure no others got a start. On top of that, they had cut cowboys’ wages, and wiped out the time-honored privilege of grubline riding, which enabled jobless punchers to winter over until work became available in spring; they treated cowhands as if they were employees in some shoe factory back East or a cotton mill in England. And, of course, such men would not take that kind of oppression lying down. The small ranchers cut wire and mavericked to stay alive; the cowboys talked about forming a union and calling a strike at roundup time. Gaylord paused and rolled a cigarette. What Carla did not understand was that the time was drawing near when only a strong sheriff, exerting all his power, could prevent war between the big ranchers and the small ones and the cowboys. The wind that swept down this street was tainted now with dust; it was Gaylord’s duty to keep it from reeking of blood. Warshield, with its two streets and its scatter of frame-and-brick buildings, was not, at this moment, a town at all: it was a powder keg.
And she wanted him to turn loose, hightail out and dodge the biggest challenge of his career, and leave the county—his county—to a lesser man.
Well, he would not do it. Let her, let anyone, think what they wanted to: he knew Frank Tompkins Gaylord, and he knew that he could not be bought by anybody. All right, so Clint was gone, Hoff dead, Dann in jail, and Carla thought he was a weak sister like her first husband. They would see—and so would Gruber, if he got crosswise of the law.
What they did not understand was Gaylord’s rule, the star he always guided on: No one was above the law.
Now he had reached Clanton’s. Well, he would have one drink there and get the business he had with Clanton over with. Tom Callaway had the duty and, though not as good a deputy as Clint, he was a competent man. After he’d finished with Clanton, Gaylord told himself, he would go back to Garrison’s Hotel and sleep for six hours. Maybe things would look better then.
“One more, Sheriff,” Clanton said.
“No, thanks, Sam. I’ve had my bait.”
They were sitting in a corner of the front barroom, at Clanton’s private table. The owner of the saloon and gambling hall was short, stocky, and as pale as a mushroom, in gray suit and starched linen. Because he dealt in his own games, his nails were neatly trimmed. “Suit yourself.” He raised his own glass. “Salud y pesetas.”
“Same to you.” Frank Gaylord drank, then set down his glass. “Sam, I got to tell you something.”
Clanton’s pale eyes brightened. “Shoot.”
“I’ve been thinkin’.” Gaylord tried to phrase it diplomatically. “I’ve heard
talk, and I hate to say it, but this off-duty deal we got goin’ is finished. It don’t look good for me to be in here at nights as much as I’ve been. You better hire a private guard from now on. It’s not proper for the sheriff to lend his personal protection to a gamblin’ joint.”
Promptly Clanton smiled. “Well, I’m glad you finally realized that.”
Gaylord sat up straight. “You are?”
“Sure. Hell, I told you to start with, what I was really after was to make sure you were happy in Colter County. All I aimed for was to make sure you’d stay on and run for reelection, even if those chinch-bugs on the county board won’t raise your salary. I never meant for you to be around here all the time, the way you’ve been, so damned determined to make sure you earn every penny that you get.” He grinned. “Tell the truth, it’s bad for business havin’ the sheriff in here so much; makes me look like I’m bein’ watched especially close. So if you don’t come around as much in the future, hell, I’ll understand—though we’ll always be glad to see you.”
“Wait a minute,” Gaylord said. “I don’t think you understand. What I’m sayin’ is that I don’t want any more money from you. The whole deal’s off, that fifty a month included.”
“Aw, come on, Frank.” Clanton leaned back, still smiling. “You’re the one that’s missed the point.” Then he was grave. “Hell, man, you know me well enough to know that I don’t throw money away. And I’m saying that I want to keep on paying that fifty whether you come around or not.” His eyes were like chips of ice. “Listen, I remember what this town was like BG—before Gaylord. Clint was okay, but he was too young and lightweight for the job. Fights in here every night, the breakage as much in a week as I’m givin’ you a month … You eliminated all that, chased out the wild bunch, and now we’ve got law and order, and I make money out of law and order. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep up the monthly payment whether you come around or not. No obligation; I’ll never ask you for a favor. Call it a campaign contribution if you want to. All I know is, we can’t afford to lose you. So if we got to subsidize you, we’ll do it.”
Gaylord was flattered and pleased by the sincerity of the man; moreover, he knew that everything Clanton said was true. Nevertheless, there was Carla. “Sam, I can’t—”
“Hush,” Clanton said. “Yes, you can.” His hand moved beneath the table, then he leaned forward, gripped Gaylord’s hand, and dropped coins into the palm. “That’s for this month, and it ain’t fifty, it’s sixty, three double eagles. And don’t give me any crap about not takin’ it. Not when the board only pays you seventy-five a month and fees, and you got your jail to run and deputies to hire. This is Clanton’s contribution to the best law enforcement money can buy—no more, no less.”
The gold was heavy in Gaylord’s palm. He thought of Carla. Something had gone wrong somewhere. But it was money he needed and money he had earned, and would keep on earning if someone didn’t kill him while he did his work. Somehow he could not return it, all that sweetly heavy coin. “You understand this buys no special favors,” he said hoarsely as he put it into his pocket
“Have I ever asked for any?”
“No,” said Gaylord.
“Then there’s your answer.”
The sixty dollars would go straight into the bank account. “As long as that’s understood,” Gaylord said. “Well … ” He shoved back his chair. But as he rose the front door opened, and Ross Gruber entered, followed by his bodyguard.
Chapter Three
Chain. Ross Gruber was Chain Ranch, and Chain Ranch was Warshield, and so you could say that Ross Gruber was the town and maybe even Colter County, half of which Chain Ranch owned. Chain Ranch’s patronage supported its merchants; Chain’s taxes paid Gaylord’s base salary; and it was Chain’s cowboys who would reelect him this year.
Chain Ranch was money and it was power, and all that seemed concentrated in the broad-shouldered, stocky figure of Ross Gruber, who, seeing Gaylord at the table, came to him.
Gruber was a cowman, and there were few better in the territory. But the hat cocked on his head was that of a Union Cavalry major, which he had been in the Civil War, and he wore boiled shirt, store suit, and tie with diamond stickpin. Face a sunburned square, with broken nose, hard black eyes, small mouth, and craggy chin, he walked with a military bearing acquired at West Point. The gun on his hip was a new Colt Peacemaker, in a flapped military holster. He had stayed in the Army after the war and had been a military attaché at the Court of St. James, where he had made his connection with the English owners of Chain.
He strode briskly to the table and Clanton stood up. For a moment Gaylord thought he might even bow. He himself said only, “Hello, Major.”
“Frank.” Gruber put out a thick-fingered hand. His voice was deep and brisk, his grip strong. Then, more perfunctorily, he greeted Clanton. “Sam, I’d like to talk privately to Frank. Send over my special scotch, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” Clanton scurried off.
Gruber took his chair. Behind him, his two men, Lang and Withers, remained standing. Both wore Colts, and there was no law against that, but Lang carried a sawed-off shotgun under one arm. Gaylord said, “Lang, you’ll have to check that gun.”
Lang’s face reminded Gaylord of a skull he had once seen, with the meat still on it, that had fallen off of a Crow burial platform. “Well … ”
“Check the shotgun,” Gruber said commandingly.
“Yes, sir.” Lang turned to deposit it with the bartender.
A waiter came with whiskey. Gruber had a shot poured into Gaylord’s glass, then his own, and the bottle was left on the table. “Frank,” Gruber said, “the news just reached me. I congratulate you.”
“On what?”
“Eliminating that rustler Hoff. And bringing in his partner.”
Gaylord felt a kind of chill. “You got the wrong man. It’s Clint Wallace that killed Hoff.”
“Then, by damn, I’ll have a talk with Wallace and show him my appreciation.”
Gaylord sniffed the exotic, smoky-smelling whiskey. “I don’t think he’ll stand still for being appreciated, Major. He shot because Hoff was reaching for a gun to resist arrest.”
“So? Main thing is, Hoff’s dead, Dann’s bound for prison, two troublemakers gone. Both were active in the Knights of Labor, you know, the outfit that’s trying to organize the cowboys.”
“That don’t matter to Clint. Dann and Hoff were his friends.”
“Of course, of course, And he’s bound to be low. Nobody likes to kill a man unless there’s something wrong with him. But we need a man like him in law enforcement here.”
“He ain’t in law enforcement no more,” Gaylord said; and he told Gruber about Clint. “He threw his badge in my face. He’s going to marry up and claim some range next to Dann’s.”
“Oh,” said Gruber, and it was as if shades were pulled down over his eyes. “Oh, now, that would be a mistake.”
Frank Gaylord was exhausted, more than a little drunk, and he said harshly, “No, it ain’t no mistake. The land is open for settlement. Clint’s takin’ it up, and maybe he’ll buy Dann’s spread in due time, too. There is no law whatsoever against him startin’ a ranch there.”
“Why there is,” said Gruber. “The maverick law. All these little ranchers brand anything they see without an iron—”
“So do the big ones,” Gaylord said.
“No, we don’t. Under the new law, all mavericks are put into a pool and stockmen bid them in for the benefit of the association.”
“Which freezes out the little men,” Gaylord said. “What it really is is a law to let the big ranchers acquire all the mavericks on the range.”
“Frank,” Gruber said, “I don’t like to hear you talking like that.”
Gaylord was very tired and had drunk too much.
Carla’s pale face and enormous eyes swam momentarily in his vision. “Major, I don’t care how you like to hear me talk,” he said tiredly. “Clint killed a man last ni
ght and resigned, and that hurt me worse than anything has since God knows when. I ain’t concerned about you right now, I’m concerned about Clint.”
“Now, wait a minute,” said Gruber, and he drank some scotch. Lang came back from the bar and took up station behind him. Then Gruber said, “Of course, I’m concerned about Wallace, too. He was a good lawman in his time, and I expect he’ll make a good cattleman. And he did kill Hoff, which, God knows, was a public service. Sure, he’s upset about it. But … maybe fifty head of two-year-olds will ease his hurt and express our gratitude.”
“What?” Gaylord said.
“Chain would like to give Clint Wallace fifty head of young beef to express our gratitude for killing Hoff.”
Gaylord said harshly, “He wouldn’t take ’em. Hoff was his friend—and he hates Chain.”
“All the more reason why we should try to change his attitude.” Gruber poured another drink. “But I guess you’re right, Frank. He’d get the wrong idea if we made the offer. Still, I think he ought to have the cattle. Why don’t you give ’em to him?”
“Me?”
Gruber said, “Lang, bring me pen, ink, and some paper.”
“Yes, sir.” The tall, skull-faced gunman strode off.
“I think I don’t understand,” said Gaylord.
“Just wait, Frank,” Gruber said, and poured Gaylord’s glass full.
Lang came back with the paper, ink, and pen, and Gruber immediately began to write. He passed a sheet to Gaylord. “There. A bill of sale from Chain for sixty two-year-olds to your brand.”
Gaylord stared at it. “Sixty two-year-olds … ”
“Fifty to replace the fifty you will personally give young Wallace,” Gruber said. “We do want to see him get ahead. And ten more for yourself, as a token of our appreciation for your part in the Dann-Hoff matter. When Wallace is settled in, our riders will deliver the fifty head as a gift from you. Meanwhile, you’ve got two hundred ten head, plus the increase, still grazing on Chain range.”
