by John Benteen
“Yes,” Gaylord said. She took his arm and they went back into the house. But already the world had changed. He knew it and he knew she knew it, too.
He had seen that knowledge in her eyes when, well after midnight, he had said his goodbyes to Gruber and those guests staying overnight. “Frank,” she’d whispered, when the two of them were for a moment by themselves. “You’ll come back often?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Good. And as often as I can, I’ll come to town.” She smiled, holding his hands. “Good night, Frank.”
She vanished into the corridor. Gruber strolled with Gaylord to the porch, where one of the Chain men had the sorrel waiting. “Wish you’d stay the night, Frank.”
“Like to, but I’ve got to relieve Tom Callaway. And it’s a middling ride to Warshield.”
“All right.” Then Gruber was serious. “But remember our little talk in my office. Bear down on these rustlers, will you? And I mean hard.”
“Yes,” Gaylord said. “I’ll do that. Enjoyed it, Major. Good night.” He stepped into the stirrup, swung up, and touched the sorrel with spurs. It trotted out of the Chain Ranch yard, its rider impatient to be alone with the new thoughts and dreams crowding in his head.
And now, he thought, riding through the dawn, he had it all straight, all worked out. He would settle for no less than Florence Gruber and money enough to support her in her kind of style. And that meant holding the confidence of her brother, of the other big ranchers, of the association. It meant taking what they offered and giving fair value in return. Carla, of course, would say that he had been corrupted—but what did Carla know? He was entitled to what he could get. Besides, if he, Frank Gaylord, wasn’t reelected, Chain would certainly put somebody in his place whom Gruber could control completely. The cowboys and little ranchers would be even worse off then. No, he owed it to them as much as to the association to make sure he stayed on as sheriff here. After all, when he had a new four-year term he’d be secure, have a base to work from to straighten out all this trouble, get all parties in Colter County satisfied, and put an end to all this strife. And still stride out toward the new goals he’d glimpsed tonight.
Grinning, he reached inside his coat for a cigar; and a paper rustled in his pocket. Then he remembered: the bill of sale he’d written out for fifty head of cattle—Clint Wallace’s wedding present. There’d been no opportunity to give it to the couple at the brief wedding ceremony before the judge; and later, when he’d gone down to the little house in the creek bottom where Joey, Clint’s new wife, had been living, they were gone.
Now Gaylord’s grin broadened. Well, from where he was right now, a half hour would see him at the spring on the homestead where Clint would build his house. And suddenly he wanted very much to see Wallace again, have breakfast with the newlyweds, and watch Clint’s response to his gift. The cattle, of course, were really from Gruber, but except for Frank Gaylord, Gruber would not have given them, so they were really from him, too. He turned the sorrel and loped it off the road.
The range Wallace had taken up was a fine scope of land, with ample water and good grass. A ridge above a year-round spring provided shelter for the house and layout he would build. But for the time being there was only a sheepherder’s wagon parked there, which would serve the couple as a home until Clint could erect a more permanent dwelling. Nearing it, Gaylord reined in. They were there, all right; a curl of smoke rose from a campfire. He put the sorrel into a walk. “Hello, the wagon!” he called as he approached.
From behind it a small, trim figure clad in shirt and Levis appeared, a rifle in its hands. Gaylord grinned. “Ease off, Joey! It’s me, Frank Gaylord! Come to say hello!”
Joey Wallace halted, staring at him. Gaylord advanced. He had often enough seen her strut her stuff in scanty clothes in the dance hall where she’d worked; now, not even the faded man’s garb she wore could disguise her perky beauty, her dancer’s grace. Her hair was sand-colored, her eyes big and gray, her nose short and tilted. Her face, just now, was smudged with campfire ash.
Recognizing Gaylord, she lowered the Winchester carbine, and he saw her shoulders slump with relief. “Good morning, Sheriff.” Her voice was cool, neither welcoming nor hostile.
Gaylord swung down and ground hitched the sorrel. “Well,” he said jovially, “where’s your old man, Miz Wallace? Was hoping maybe you could rustle up a cup of coffee for me, maybe even some breakfast. Got some news for you and Clint I think you’ll like.”
“The coffee’s hot,” she said, “and I’ll be glad to fix you breakfast. But I’m afraid Clint’s not here. He pulled out before light, headed for town.”
“Oh. Well, I reckon I’ll see him there. Still, I’d appreciate the coffee if you could spare it.” Gaylord shrugged off his disappointment.
“Plenty made, and it’s hot.” For the first time she smiled. It was remarkable, Gaylord thought. She was what—about twenty-one, twenty-two; and, maybe since the age of sixteen, she had made her living in a hard, maybe even ugly, way. Yet that part of her life seemed to have left no mark, and, if anything, she was prettier and more appealing in her denim with her smudged face than she had been in her floozy dress with paint on her lips and cheeks.
As she poured coffee from a big enamel pot on the coals, Gaylord looked around. There had been some digging in the ridge’s base, the earth laid bare. Otherwise, save for the wagon, so far there was nothing. They had a long, hard row to hoe ahead of them, the Wallaces—and yet Gaylord could not suppress a kind of surge of envy of Clint. He had really found himself a woman.
But then it passed. So have I, Gaylord thought. And I won’t have to ask her to live in no sheepherder’s wagon, either. He took the coffee. “Obliged, Miz Wallace.”
She smiled. “Joey.”
“Joey.” He sipped the scalding brew, relieved. So they could still be friends. It was hell when their women turned their men against their old companeros. “So Clint’s gone to Warshield, eh? What for?”
“Just business.” The gray eyes flickered away.
He nodded. “Looks like you’re making progress here.”
“Some. We’ll build a soddy to start with. Then some corrals. Can’t afford much store-bought stuff. Don’t have much money, and what we’ve got has to go into stock.” She poured coffee for herself. “Clint and I agreed—we can live hard for a while. Main thing’s to build for the future.”
“Right. Everybody’s got to think about the future.” Gaylord leaned back against the wagon wheel, fished in his pocket. “Take a look at this, Joey. I hope it will help the future a little bit.” He handed her the bill of sale.
Joey took it almost suspiciously, opened it, and read it. Her eyes widened and she let out a breath of awe. “Fifty head … ” Then, unexpectedly, her mouth thinned. She passed it back. “I guess you’d better give it to Clint and let him decide whether we’ll take it or not.”
Gaylord rose. “What?”
Her face was flushed; she bit her lip. “He said we had to look out for presents from you. They might be bribes from Gruber.”
“Now, wait,” Gaylord said.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m just telling you how Clint feels. He ... he thinks a lot of you, but he says we’ve got to face it: to make it here we’ll have to buck Chain. And you’re on Chain’s side, and … ”
“I’m not on anybody’s side,” Gaylord said harshly. “And damn it, girl, Clint ought to know that.”
Joey looked away. “Just talk it out with him in Warshield. It’s not my business, it’s his. I—” She broke off, and Gaylord turned, because hoofbeats, a horse coming fast, then slowing, drummed beneath her words. A voice, vaguely familiar to Gaylord, called out, “Hello, the wagon! Joey—?’
“Easy,” Frank Gaylord said. Hand on his Colt, he stepped over the wagon tongue.
The rider on the dun horse sat up straight, face twisted in surprise at the sight of Gaylord. Then the man recovered, and a slow grin lifted his lips, showing stained teeth. “H
ello, Gaylord,” he said.
“Morrell,” Gaylord said.
“That’s right.” Lew Morrell, face still showing the marks of his fight with Gaylord, raised both hands high. “I’m still not heeled, Sheriff.” Then he swung down, dropping his mount’s reins.
Gaylord said, “You’re supposed to stay out of Colter County. You were rousted.”
“Because I had no job. A vagrant. Well, I got a job, now. I’m an employee of a Colter County rancher, and that means I got a right to be here.”
“A Colter County rancher—”
Morrell’s mocking smile widened. “Billy Dann,” he said. “He took me on to look after his place if he went to prison. Or to help him if he makes bail.” He took a step forward. “So, can you still roust me, Sheriff?”
Gaylord sucked in breath. “I can do any goddamned thing I take a notion to in Colter County,” he said harshly.
“I mean legally,” Morrell said.
Before Gaylord could answer, Joey Wallace was at his side. “Hello, Lew.”
“Joey.”
Gaylord looked at her in surprise. “You two know each other?”
“He’s a friend of Clint’s. He’s helping us get settled in. He’s here today to work on the soddy while Clint’s in town.”
Gaylord said, “Maybe he’s a friend of Clint’s and maybe not. Me, I’d say he’s not a man you’d do well to get mixed up with. You heard what happened in Warshield—”
“We heard,” said Joey.
After a moment Gaylord said, “All right. Clint’s a grown man.” He kept his voice even, not betraying the irritation and even the sadness he felt at this sign of the widening gulf between himself and Wallace. He turned to Morrell. “All right, I am not going to roust you. But I am sure as hell going to keep an eye on you. If you even spit on the street while you’re in Warshield, you’re in bad trouble. Bear that in mind.”
Morrell only grinned faintly, his eyes still chill.
“Anyhow, thanks for the coffee, Joey.” Gaylord mounted, turned the horse. Once he looked over his shoulder as he rode away. Morrell was watching him, and Joey was pouring another cup of coffee for the man.
“Bail?” Gaylord said incredulously, three hours later.
“Bail,” Tom Callaway answered. The chief deputy was tall, lanky, with a cowhorn mustache draping a pinched mouth. “They come down here jest after breakfast, Clint Wallace and that lawyer, Terry Fielding. They had a note from Judge Merkel sayin’ to send Billy Dann up to the courthouse for a hearin’ on makin’ bond. I sent him up there in cuffs, with Jonas to guard him. They come back a little while ago with an order for his release. Seems that, under the law, there was nothing the judge could do but grant it, Jonas said. But Merkel set it so high, he figured Billy didn’t have a chance of payin’ it, three thousand dollars. But he didn’t count on Carla Doane. She was with ’em and she laid it out then and there—in cash.”
“Carla?” Gaylord stared at him.
“Right. So, there was nothin’ I could do but turn Dann loose. He’s free as an antelope right now. He and Clint and Fielding all went off together. And ... oh, yeah. Carla sent this to you by Jonas.” He handed Frank Gaylord a sealed envelope.
Gaylord, trying to make sense of all this, ripped it open. The note inside said:
Frank, I know this morning’s events will disturb you. Please, as soon as you’re back in town, come to see me and I’ll try to explain. Love, C.
Gaylord rammed the note in his pocket. I’ll see you, all right, he thought grimly. “Anybody wants me,” he told Callaway, “I’ll be at Mrs. Doane’s.” And he whirled, went out of the office.
Taking a side street, he tried to make sense out of all this. Clint and Dann and Morrell and Fielding ... The latter was a lean, gray-faced young man who’d come to Warshield six months ago, hung out his attorney’s shingle, and been a thorn in Gaylord’s side ever since. Fielding knew every rule, regulation, and law, federal or territorial, that applied in Wyoming, and he could argue rings around old Judge Merkel or Fred Dall, the county prosecutor, who was also Chain’s attorney. It was not often that Fielding, who drank a lot and eked out his income playing poker, got a case; but when he did he usually won. It had been he who’d multiplied Gaylord’s paperwork threefold, forcing him to have properly drawn warrants before every arrest, accountings in writing for prisoners’ property, a host of other documents with every i dotted and every t crossed. Still, Gaylord had to admire Fielding: he was honest and he had brass-bound guts. And maybe in the long run Fielding’s influence had been beneficial: the pressure he had put on Gaylord had helped build the sheriff’s reputation as a stickler for the law. With Fielding around, he dared not be anything else.
Still, this was going to be one hell of a thing to explain to Ross Gruber. And coming on top of Morrell’s return. And Clint, he thought with foreboding, mixed in with all of them; and now Carla. Something was brewing here, something he did not like.
At Carla’s house he paused for a moment. Then he opened the gate in the picket fence and, instead of circling to the back door, as usual, went up on the front porch and twisted the bell knob. This was official business, and she might as well understand that.
Then he heard footsteps inside; she opened the door, and for an instant it was like old times. The sight of her made his mouth go dry, and for just a moment there was the impulse to reach out and touch her. Then he said tersely: “You sent me a note.”
“Yes. Come in, Frank.”
He entered the pleasant hall, then halted. There were three hats hanging on the tree there. Carla followed his gaze. “They’re back in the kitchen. Come on.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.” She led him through the house. At the kitchen door she stood aside. “Go ahead.”
Gaylord entered, and then stopped short.
“Hello, Frank,” Clint Wallace said. With Billy Dann and the lawyer, Terence Fielding, he sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
Gaylord’s eyes ranged over them, then went to Carla. “What the hell is this?” he asked softly.
Clint rose, smiling. “Ease off, Frank. We’re all your friends. Even Billy. He don’t hold it against you for doing your duty.” He came forward and put out his hand.
Gaylord took it, and Clint’s grasp was firm, wholehearted. Gaylord could see the affection in his eyes, and something unknotted within the sheriff. Then Fielding stepped forward.
“Clint’s right,” he said, smiling. “We all are your well-wishers, Sheriff Gaylord, even if we’ve had to oppose you, so to speak, this morning. And all we want is a few minutes of your time while we talk a little politics.”
“Politics?” Gaylord blinked.
“That’s right.” Clint grinned. “We want you to run for sheriff again.”
Gaylord shook his head uncomprehendingly. “I aim to.” “Yes,” Fielding said crisply. “But under Gruber’s sponsorship, on the association ticket. But we’ve got something else in mind. What we’re going to ask you to do is break with Chain, and not run for it, but against it.”
Chapter Six
Gaylord, not quite believing what he had heard, looked at them, and Clint laughed softly.
“You think we’re crazy, huh, Frank? Well, maybe we are and maybe we ain’t. Anyhow—Carla, why don’t you pour him a cup of coffee while Terry explains.”
Gaylord nodded grimly. If Clint was driving at what he seemed to be ... He pulled out a chair. ‘‘Yeah, Fielding. Say your piece.”
The lawyer was really not much older than Clint Wallace, an intense greyhound of a man in clean, but shabby town clothes. His dark eyes flashed with intensity and conviction as he began.
“Well, it’s something I’ve had in my mind since not long after I came to Colter County. The fact of the matter is, when I saw how things stacked up here I was shocked.” His mouth twisted wryly. “You see, I’ve got an unfortunate failing, Sheriff. I believe in the law, and in every man’s equality before it. But here in Wyoming there is no equality b
efore the law—because the laws have been made to be unequal, to give the association men every break and to make it impossible for little ranchers to compete with ’em or cowboys to earn an honest wage. And I can’t help it—that kind of thing sticks in my craw. Me, I believe it’s time somebody moved to put an end to it, and I don’t know of any better place to start than Colter County.”
He paused. “So I’ve been talking to some people. Like Mrs. Doane, here; Clint, Billy Dann, and Phil Hoff before he got shot. And others. Including merchants here in town. And you’d be surprised, Sheriff, at how many folks there are that have a bellyful of being pushed around by Gruber and his kind. They haven’t resisted so far, because one man alone or even two can’t buck Chain and the association. But in union there is strength. And that’s where I come in. Me, and Clint, and Mrs. Doane—and Billy Dann, if he doesn’t go to prison first.”
Carla set a cup of coffee at Gaylord’s elbow, but the sheriff ignored it. “Fielding—”
“Let me finish, please.” Spraddle-legged, thumbs hooked in his vest, Fielding faced him. “There are only two ways to fight an outfit like the association. One is with guns. The other is with politics. Well, I’m a man of the law—so guns are out. But politics is a horse of another color.” He broke off, gestured. “You’re looking at the officers of the Colter County Ranchers and Cowboys Political Committee.”
“The what?”
“You heard me.” Now Fielding’s voice was hard, businesslike. “We’re organizing. The little ranchers, any cowboys from the big spreads who have the guts to join us, certain townspeople, everybody who’s fed up with Chain. And you might as well get it through your head—politically, we’re gonna take over Colter County. And Chain, or anyone else, isn’t gonna stop us.”
Gaylord digested this for a moment. But he knew politics as well as Fielding did, and— He shook his head. “You’re talking through your hat.”
“No, I’m not,” Fielding rapped. “I know exactly what I’m saying and exactly what I’m doing. I’m not a fool, Sheriff, and I’m not a suckling babe. I’m a politician, and I figure the odds and go with ’em. Well, I’ve got ’em figured now, and I’m going, and we want you to go, too.”
