Gaylord's Badge

by John Benteen

  And now, although Gruber was talking, Gaylord was not listening. He was thinking of Florence. And feeling something stir within him that he hesitated to put a name to.

  When he had arrived at Chain a lot of guests were already present, but she had singled him out among them. And she was something to take away any man’s breath, in her white dress trimmed with gold, leaving her shoulders bare, and baring, too, the rounding intimations of her breasts. Her voice was soft, slightly husky; and one gloved hand had rested on his wrist. “Sheriff Gaylord. How nice to see you.” Then she was all concern. “That cut on your cheek. I hope it’s healing well.”

  “Don’t even know it’s there.”

  “Well, I should think you would.” The blue eyes met his directly, and she laughed a little. “What an introduction to your territory! Ross had written me about the remarkable qualities of Wyoming men, but still, such gallantry … one hardly finds it in the East anymore. I’m afraid chivalry’s quite dead in Philadelphia. Of course, I detest violence … and yet, I must confess, it’s pretty exciting to have someone you don’t even know defend your honor the way you did mine.” Her fingers tightened on his wrist. “Ross and I both are in your debt.”

  “Not at all, Miss Gruber. The man was creating a public disturbance. And ... maybe I didn’t handle it as I should have. Maybe I should have just run him in. But I was ... kind of on edge.”

  “I should think so, after a brush with death with a couple of outlaws the night before.”

  “They weren’t—”

  But he had no chance to finish, as she went on: “Anyhow, Sheriff, I think you’ll always be rather special to me among the men I may get to know out here. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Ross to seat us together at dinner.”

  “No, I don’t mind. It pleases me.”

  “Good. After what you did for us, I think pleasing you is my obligation. Now, if you’ll excuse me … ” Then she was gone, to greet someone else. But, circulating in the crowd, Gaylord was acutely aware of the place on his wrist where her hand had rested, and even in the smoke and smell of whiskey her perfume seemed to linger in his nostrils.

  He had been pleased to see that everyone here seemed to know him, either by sight or reputation. In fact, MacAlpine had put it into words: “Yes, of course, Frank Gaylord. Ross Gruber tells me you’re a coming man in this part of Wyoming.”

  Heady stuff, as heady as the champagne and wine at dinner, and the undivided attention of Florence Gruber beside him, between Gaylord and her brother. And it was curious: only once tonight had he thought of Carla Doane, and then only to realize that she was easily ten years older than Florence Gruber …

  Carefully he picked up the single strand of hair, drew its silken length across a calloused finger. Then, slowly, he came back to the present, as Gruber’s words impinged on his consciousness.

  “Well, part of the reason I asked everyone here tonight is to get these matters hammered out. We’ve got a lot of problems we’ve got to deal with, and when I report to my principles in England I’d like to be able to say we’ve made progress, taken definite action.”

  Taking his cigar from his mouth, Gruber went on: “We’ve got our usual problem of losses. With prices down and costs up, every calf we lose means that much less profit. That’s why I say we’ve got to crack down harder on these people coming in here, preempting our range and water, and using long ropes and running irons to put themselves in business. As far as I’m concerned, every little non-association rancher’s nothing but a rustler, when you come down to it, and the time is past for dilly-dallying. We’re going to have to start cleaning them out before they nibble us to death!”

  “Absolutely!” MacAlpine struck the table with his hand.

  “And another thing’s the cowboys,” Gruber said. “They’re just as bad. They work for us from spring until fall roundup, and then, apparently, think they’re entitled to live off us through the winter. All right, we’ve closed down the grubline, so they can’t hang around the way they used to. With any luck, when winter comes, that’ll keep ’em moving on to Montana or Dakota or somewhere else where the ranchers haven’t got sense enough not to make suckers out of themselves. Anyhow, there’s no doubt about it, this winter we’ve got to be even harder about havin’ idle, unemployed riders hanging around. Because when they’ve got no work, they’ll support themselves by stealing. A cowboy not on a payroll is a thief, as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no place for him in Colter County until he’s needed in the spring again.”

  Martin Shell, from the Sweetwater, spoke up. “That’s pretty rough talk, Ross.”

  “Rough?” Gruber looked at him. “It’s common sense.”

  “Maybe the way you look at it back East—or across the ocean, Lord MacAlpine. But we’ve never treated honest waddies like that out here before. Closin’ down the grubline’s bad enough. That’s like slappin’ a man in the face. Roustin’ him because he’s got no work when there’s none to be had is worse.” He looked up and down the table. “You want to be careful you don’t push ’em too hard. These ain’t factory hands or peasants or whatever you call ’em. These are men who’ll fight back if you put ’em between a rock and a hard place.”

  Sir Randolph Hart, one of the English ranchers at the table, stood up, tall and dapper. Then let them fight. The sooner they are put in their place and learn to stay there, the better! I, for one, am tired of the arrogance and disrespect of your lower classes out here! They need a lesson, and a damned good one!”

  Shell snorted. “It might be somebody else who’ll get a lesson, you talk like that. If they pull off this strike they’re talking about come next spring, you’ll see what I mean.”

  Gruber said, “There’ll be no strike. I promise you that.”

  “A big promise,” Shell said, unawed.

  “I can’t speak for the Sweetwater,” Gruber went on, “but there’ll be none in Colter County. And I think the man on my right is ample guarantee of that.”

  He smiled, then went on crisply: “Sheriff Frank Gaylord’s the kind of lawman each of you should have in your own county. Let me tell you what he’s done in just the past week. Two of the most troublesome agitators among the cowboys in this county were a pair of little ranchers—rustlers, really—named Dann and Hoff. I swore out warrants against them for cattle theft. Gaylord served them the way they should be served. Hoff tried to resist and got short shrift; he’s dead. Dann’s in jail, awaiting trial. And, if that weren’t enough, Gaylord also dealt a first-class beating to a drifter who, in all probability, is an organizer for the Knights of Labor. He worked him over good and threw him in a cell, where I trust he’ll be in cold storage for a long time. Right, Frank?”

  Gaylord said, “I’m afraid not. I had to release him next day.”

  “You what?” Gruber frowned.

  “The most I could charge him with was disorderly conduct. He paid the fine, so I had to let him go. But I warned him to get out of the county and not come back. If he did, I told him, I’d haul him in again as a vagrant.”

  “That’s too bad,” Gruber said. “Still ... if you’ve made him leave the county, I suppose that will have to serve. All the same, you’ve set an example this week for everyone to follow.”

  He faced the men at the table. “Anyway, that’s how we handle the threat of a strike—or anything else against the association’s interest—here in Colter County. And, I’m proud to say, the sheriff plans to stand for reelection, and Chain will see that he remains in office.” He paused. “There you have it, gentlemen. My suggestion is that each and every one of us bear down and bear down hard. Keep the grubline closed. Harass the rustling little ranchers without mercy. Don’t yield one inch to the preposterous demands of the cowboys. If you have trouble with a rider, circulate his name, and we’ll make sure he’ll never work for an association ranch again. We’ve got to be hard if we’re to survive this slump! Damned hard!”

  “There’s a difference between bein’ hard and bein’ a damned fool,
” Martin Shell rasped.

  Gruber turned on him. “Martin, sometimes I wonder if you’re with us or against us.”

  “I’m with you,” Shell said. “I’m a member of the association and I’ve got no choice. But I’ll speak my mind. And—” His eyes shuttled to Gaylord. “And I’d like to hear the sheriff speak his. Gaylord, I’ve heard of you and have always admired the rep you have. What’s your opinion, since you’re the one responsible for keepin’ order here? You agree with Ross? The thing to do is throw a man in jail or shoot him or blacklist him or starve him the minute he gets crosswise of the association? Or do you agree with me—that, by damn, these tactics will backfire sooner or later? What’s your thoughts?”

  Gaylord hesitated, aware of all eyes on him. In his own mind he was clear: Shell was right, absolutely right. But if he wanted to be reelected, to admit that now would be to lose Gruber’s confidence, maybe turn Chain Ranch against him. And without Chain’s backing he would be through here.

  His mouth thinned: this was not a choice he’d ever had to make before; at no time had he, in his whole life, ever hesitated to say exactly what he thought. And, by damn, he told himself, he was too old to start pussyfooting now. Slowly he got to his feet.

  But before he could speak a door across the room opened and Florence Gruber stood there, come, probably, to tell the men they’d lingered too long, to come join the ladies. Gaylord was looking straight at her, and she met his eyes and smiled.

  And suddenly Gaylord could not do it. Because Gruber controlled everything Frank Gaylord valued—his badge, his future prosperity ... and this woman.

  Because he wanted her; he knew that, in this moment. He desired her in a way and with an urgency that he had never wanted any other woman. And suddenly he knew, with a flash of insight, that she was not beyond his reach. Not if he played his cards right, not if he stuck with Chain.

  “I think there’s some points to think about in what Mr. Shell has said,” he heard himself begin. “But maybe ... maybe you have to use different ways in different sections. All I know is that I don’t make the laws. That’s done by the legislature in Cheyenne, the county board here in Colter. And whatever the legislature and the board say is the law is what I enforce. I try to do it without fear or favor. That’s what I get paid for and all I get paid for.” He hesitated, the things he should have been saying backing up in his throat, refusing to come out. “The law protects every man’s rights,” he ended. “If it don’t, it should be changed.” And he sat down.

  He saw Shell looking at him with a mixture of amusement and contempt that made him feel smaller, dirty. But Florence’s eyes still held him, and her smile now was for himself alone.

  There was, then, for half a minute, silence. Finally Gruber smiled. “I think Sheriff Gaylord’s put it in a nutshell. The laws protect our rights. All we need is men of Frank Gaylord’s caliber to enforce ’em. Now, gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?”

  After that, for Gaylord, the evening was a blur, dominated by her presence. Attaching herself to him, she was by him constantly, laughing at his jokes, asking questions about the West and his life and work, listening to the answers intently. Blue eyes, blond hair, the scent of perfume, light gleaming on those ivory shoulders ... It had been a long time since Gaylord had felt so young, witty, carefree, a long time since he had laughed so readily. Only once he thought of Carla—but then only to compare her with Florence Gruber. There was no comparison, and, feeling a little shamed, he quickly put Carla from his mind.

  Meanwhile, he was alert to all around him. Here was Wyoming behind the scenes, the men who made the wheels turn. American and foreign, they had one thing in common—a hard, practical respect only for the dollar ... unless you excepted Martin Shell. The man from the Sweetwater sidled up to Gaylord in the parlor. “Sheriff, I had hoped you’d back me up. There are a lot of things need saying to this crowd.”

  “Sorry if I disappointed you, Mr. Shell. But I run my office and I let you folks run your ranches.”

  “Sho. I reckon that’s how a man gets along.” Shell turned and ambled off, reminding Gaylord of a solitary old bull buffalo on the outskirts of a herd.

  Then Gruber nudged his elbow. “Frank. See you alone a minute? Florence, you’ll excuse us?”

  “Of course. But don’t keep Mr. Gaylord from me long.”

  They went into Gruber’s office and the major shut the door. “Drink?” He poured shots from a bourbon bottle, handed Gaylord a glass, and stood there facing him, a stocky, impressive man. “Cheers.” They drank.

  Then Gruber said, “Frank, you had me worried for just a minute there at dinner, but you pulled out of it very nicely. All in all, you’ve made a good impression tonight—a damned good one.” Then he smiled. “Especially on my sister.”

  Gaylord acknowledged that with a nod.

  “Anyhow,” Gruber continued, “you heard what I said when I introduced you. I intend to see you reelected. And, in due time, I’d like to see you in a higher office than just a county sheriff’s. We need men like you in Cheyenne ... but that’s something for the future. Anyhow, I guarantee you this, stick with Chain—and with the association—and you’ll do well. We’ve got plans for you.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my sister has, too, but that’s her affair—and yours.”

  Gaylord stiffened and his pulse beat quicker. It was a moment before his attention came back to Gruber.

  “But I was serious tonight about this rustling problem,” Gruber was saying. “You’ve struck some good licks lately, yeah; but you got to strike some more, and fast. There’s still a lot of troublemakers running loose. You know and I know that they’re wide looping. And I’ll be blunt—it’s up to you to start taking them out of circulation ... and fast. Men like Chris Dennison and that fellow over in Horn’s Coulee, Parker’s his name. And ... hell, you know the ones I mean as well as I do. Hoff and Dann were just a start. I hope you’ll be moving soon against these other rustlers.”

  Gaylord stared at him. “Now, wait, Major—”

  “I can’t wait!” Gruber snapped. “The members of the English syndicate that own Chain—my bosses—are unhappy as hell with my profit figures. There’s talk of some of them coming here on an inspection tour. Maybe even a surprise arrival, with no warning. Well, if that happens I want to be ready for it. I want to show them that positive action’s being taken. And that means putting a lot of people in the penitentiary!”

  Gaylord drew in breath. “If you want to swear out warrants, I’ll serve ’em. But you’ll have to have a case, some evidence.” His voice was cold; he was out of the clouds now and not liking the drift of this conversation.

  Gruber sensed that, and his eyes shifted. “I’m not ready to swear out warrants. And as for building the cases, getting the evidence, that’s the sheriff’s job—isn’t it?” Before Gaylord could answer, he went on: “I think that’s the most important thing you’ve got to do. That, and make sure every agitator for a cowboy strike gets what’s coming to him. It’s too damned bad you had to let Morrell go. That doesn’t please me.”

  “I had no choice,” Gaylord said.

  “Well, next time arrange things so you have, if you see what I mean.”

  Gaylord opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Anyhow,” Gruber said, “the main thing is, you’ve chased him out of Colter County.” Then he smiled and touched Gaylord on the arm. “I’m not criticizing the way you run your office. Just offering suggestions. Now, run on. Florence will be hacked at me anyhow for keeping you tied up this long.”

  Chapter Five

  Sunrise spilled brightness across the enormous land as Gaylord rode at a high lope toward Warshield. The hooves of his big sorrel drummed with a steady rhythm; the wind was fresh and clean and cool in his face, sweet with sage. Larks whirled and called, once a band of antelope rocked away toward the horizon, white flags bouncing. It was the kind of morning to match Frank Gaylord’s mood.

  Last night it seemed like a whole new world had opened up for him.
Not just the promise of money and power, implicit in his acceptance by Gruber and the others as one of them, a man of consequence: it was Florence who made all the difference, Florence who’d changed everything.

  Some of the guests had gone, others were inside with Gruber, when he and she, at her suggestion, strolled out on the porch. Overhead, the sky was powdered white with stars; in the distance, a wolf howled like a lost soul just comprehending the eternity of its doom. Florence leaned against him. “What a country,” she whispered. “What a marvelous, magnificent country.”

  Her head was close to his; he smelled the perfume in her hair. “Wyoming’s a fine place,” he said.

  “I’m coming to love it,” she answered. “I may stay a long, long time.” She flung out an arm. “Who knows, I may stay forever!”

  “Ross would like that,” Gaylord said.

  She turned her head and looked up at him, eyes vivid in the starlight. “Only Ross?”

  What happened next was smooth, natural, and instinctive. She had wanted him to kiss her, and Gaylord did. Her lips were soft, her body warm and curved as she pressed against him for a moment. And then, easily, she pulled away, looking up at him, and now her eyes were grave and serious.

  “Only Ross?” she whispered again.

  “No,” Gaylord said. “Not just Ross.”

  He reached for her once more, but this time she eluded him. “No, Frank. Perhaps we’d better not.”

  Gaylord did not answer.

  She looked away. “As it is, you’ll think I’m forward, maybe worse than that.”

  Gaylord said, “No. No, I don’t think you’re forward. I think—” He broke off, afraid to say it, having no right to.

  She said, in a voice of curious quietness, “Maybe neither one of us should say what he thinks. Not just now. After all, we’ve hardly met. And yet ... No. No, let’s not talk any more. Let’s go inside. People will be wondering where we are.”