Gaylord's Badge

by John Benteen

  He took a step forward. “I’m not going to tell you in detail what we plan. But I’ll say this: Come election time, we’ll have a candidate for sheriff on the ballot. We want that candidate to be you. Which means we’re asking you to repudiate Chain and the association and put your campaign for reelection in our hands. Then, if you win—and I guarantee that you will—you’ll be free of all obligations to Chain Ranch. You can administer the law without fear or favor. That’s all we’ll ask of you—not one speck more.”

  Now Gaylord, giving himself time to digest this, sipped the coffee. When he put down the cup he said, “Whose idea was this?”

  “The committee was Fielding’s idea,” Clint Wallace said. “Getting you to run on our ticket was mine. At first Fielding objected. But Carla and I made him see it. That this county couldn’t have a better sheriff than you. That right now your hands are tied, but if we could get you loose from Chain you’d be just the man we need.” He struck one thigh with his balled fist. “Frank, you got to go with us! We got to have you! Believe me, we’re not tryin’ to run a sandy. All we’re after is to make Colter County a place where people like me and Joey and Billy and all the others can make a decent livin’ without worryin’ about men bargin’ in with guns at night”—his face shadowed—“on trumped-up warrants. Without bein’ made outlaws for brandin’ their own cattle. Without bein’ called rustlers just because we dare to try to raise stock of our own. What about it, Frank? If it meant you could run the law in a county like that, would you tell Chain to go to hell and throw in with us?”

  Carla put her hand on his shoulder. “We want you, Frank. We believe in you and we want you to join us.”

  Gaylord let out a long breath.

  “We’d be workin’ together again, Frank,” Clint said in a low voice. “I’d even come back as chief deputy if you wanted me.”

  “Even me,” Dann said. “Despite what happened the other night, I’m willin’ to take my chances in a county where Gaylord runs the law—so long as Gaylord’s clear of Chain.”

  Slowly Frank Gaylord rose, went to the window, and looked out. Somehow, he was not surprised. Sooner or later, it had been bound to come—organized opposition to the association’s stranglehold on county politics. For a moment the desire to say yes, to work with Clint, to be free of all obligation to Ross Gruber, was intense. But that was a fuzzy-headed dream. He had to face reality. Besides ... there was Florence. He seemed to feel again the pressure of her lips, her body pressed close to his.

  He played for time. “The kind of thing you’re planning costs money,” he said. “Where the hell would your kind of people get that kind of money?”

  After a moment Carla said, “From me.”

  Gaylord turned. She was staring at him, face pale, body tense. “Why, it’ll clean you out,” he said.

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take. Maybe it will be worth it to me.”

  He understood, and something stirred within him. To quench it he broke his gaze at her and faced the lawyer.

  “You got any idea what you’re up against?”

  “Plenty,” Fielding grinned wryly. “I know all about Wyoming politics. They—and the elections—are just like everything else out here, wild and woolly and devil-take-the-hindmost.”

  Then he was serious. “All right. First there are Democratic and Republican precinct conventions. Then the delegates from those nominated county officers at their county conventions. That part of it’s normal. The rest is pure Wyoming.

  “First of all, there’s no registration of voters, no secret ballot, no anything. Anybody who shows up at a polling place can vote, whether he’s a drifter passing through, soldiers stationed at a post, underage or overage, or, for that matter, dead or alive. And I know, too, that each big ranch is a polling place—Chain, for instance—and there’s nothing in the world to keep Ross Gruber from stuffing a ballot box until it splits its seams.”

  He paused. “Which leads to another of your weird customs. Once the Democratic and Republican tickets are set, anybody can make up a ballot of his own. He can mix Democrats and Republicans on it, shuffle it around however he pleases. This jolly little arrangement allows anybody who figures he can deliver votes to sell ’em and to collect so much for each ballot for every one of his own slips that ends up in a ballot box. It also tells the candidate hard and clear where his support came from. That’s why the association always has a ballot of its own, and why more of those are cast than those cast by Democrats and Republicans put together. To make sure everybody knows who runs the county.”

  Going to the stove, he refilled his coffee cup. “Now, the shrewd way to handle things would be this: You’re a cinch to get on both Democratic and Republican ballots unopposed, with Chain’s backing. Once you’re on either or both, you’d repudiate Chain publicly. Our committee would handle your campaign and elect you with ballots of its own.” He turned. “Like I said, that would be the shrewd way. But we don’t want you to be underhanded or beholden to Chain in any way. So what we propose is that you repudiate Chain’s support right now. And leave it to us to see that you’re nominated by at least one party. That way you’d be clear of Chain right down the line. Sure, Gruber would immediately back an opposition candidate; you wouldn’t be a shoo-in. But I still maintain that if you go along with us we’d get you elected.”

  Gaylord stared at him. “You’ve lost your mind. That means your committee would have to take over one of the county conventions. You’d have to rip it away from Chain, and Gruber’d never stand for that. You wouldn’t have a prayer.”

  “In our judgment, we’d have more than a prayer.” His face was serious. “And get one thing straight, Gaylord. If we elected you, you’d be your own man—all the way down the line.”

  “I’m my own man now,” Gaylord answered sharply. “I always will be.”

  No one in the room spoke.

  Gaylord felt blood mounting to his face. “No. No, I won’t go along with this. I’m sorry. But it makes no sense. It would do no good. Nothing would happen except that I’d get whipped and then you’d have a sheriff who really would be Gruber’s dog—somebody like that gunman Lang. You get a man like that behind the badge here, you’ll really bring down hell on everybody. It’s out of the question, Fielding. Things ride as they’re set up. If your committee wants to back me, I’ll welcome their support, just like I welcome everybody’s. And I’ll run the law the way I’ve always done. But as for this scheme of yours ... count me out.”

  Again, silence in the room. Then Clint Wallace sighed and stood up. “That’s final, Frank?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Clint’s lean young face was grim. “All right. We’ve got another candidate, one well known in the county and a trained law officer. He’ll be running against you, then—and I mean hard. And he’ll whip you, too, right down into the ground.”

  “Is that a fact? And who the hell is this?” Gaylord bridled at his tone.

  “Me,” said Clint.

  First there was surprise, then sadness, then fear—and not for himself. “Clint,” he said. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because ... because, damn it, it would only mess you up, at a time when you’ve just got things going for you. I was out there by your place this morning, and you and Joey are making progress. You’ll have a ranch going soon and—” He remembered something then. “The reason I stopped by was to deliver this. A wedding present I never had a chance to give you.” He took the bill of sale from his pocket and passed it to Wallace.

  Clint unfolded it and read it. For a moment he was silent, but Gaylord saw the paper shake as his hands trembled. Then he sighed and passed it back. “Frank, I thank you kindly. But ... under the circumstances, I can’t take this.”

  “Why not? It would give you the start of a herd and—”

  Clint laid it on the table. “Not unless you throw in with us. Until you do, this bill of sale and even the title to my land aren’t worth the paper they�
��re written on. Because no man can call a ranch or herd his own in Colter County as long as Chain ramrods the law.”

  “I’ll guarantee your protection!” Gaylord flared. “Do you think I’d let Gruber—?”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But”—Clint’s brows arched— “do you think I could accept protection that don’t extend to others? When Billy Dann has the same protection and every other little rancher—” He raised his hands, then dropped them. “That’s why you’ve either got to run with us or I run against you.”

  Frank Gaylord looked around the room at all their faces. Again the anger—and the sadness. They were fools and they would break their hearts and maybe worse would happen ... and there was no way he could stop them; none. “So be it,” he said quietly, not even angry, only sad again.

  “Frank.” Carla took a step toward him.

  “No, Mrs. Doane, let it ride,” Fielding said, and she halted. “Well, thanks for listening to us, Gaylord.”

  “Welcome,” Gaylord said. He went to the door and paused there, hand on the knob. “I know you don’t want advice from me, none of you. But, Clint, I got some for you and Billy Dann. I met Morrell again this morning, learned he didn’t leave the county. You won’t believe me, I reckon, but he’s trouble, bad trouble. And it seems to me you got enough already. If I was you I’d cut loose from him. I mean that.”

  Dann rose. “Is that a threat from Chain?”

  “No,” Gaylord said wearily. “Just some advice from a man that don’t want to see either one of you tangled up or hurt. Take it or leave it as you please.” Then he went out.

  Well, he thought, the choice was made, the lines drawn. He thought of Florence, and the heaviness within him lifted. There is no other way, I reckon, he told himself as he walked back to his office.

  Chapter Seven

  With Charlie Crippled Deer, the Crow half-breed tracker, in the lead, Frank Gaylord and a deputy named Leroy Jonas rode through a bitter twilight in the bleak and jumbled hills at the county’s southern corner. October: the wind had a knife-edge chill; the sky was the color of a bullet; a few random flakes of snow swirled and danced. Gaylord and his men had been in the saddle almost since daybreak, and men and horses alike were dead beat. There was, on top of that, the possibility of an ambush, and, leaving sign reading to Crippled Deer, Gaylord forced himself to stay alert, eyes probing each draw, cut, and gulch ahead, each grove of scrubby, thirsty juniper, and, in between, raking the skyline. Nevertheless, despite his weariness and the cold, he felt good. It was a relief to be out of Warshield, away from the turmoil of politics and people, the conflicting loyalties that pulled him this way and that. The last four weeks had been the most bitter and confusing of his life; he was almost grateful to the horse thieves whose trail Crippled Deer was following, for an excuse to leave all that behind. Out here, things were simple, clear-cut. This was what he was trained and paid for, why he wore a badge. The law had been broken; it was his job to bring in the horse thieves and the stolen stock, and that was something he knew how to do.

  There were three of them, and they had counted on no one missing the fifteen or twenty head for days; it had been their bad luck that the driver of a Chain supply wagon bound for a line camp had spotted them driving the rustled animals hell-for-leather south. By the time Gaylord had been notified, Chain men were already on their trail. Now, as Charlie read the sign, they were strung out all across this end of the county—the rustlers still pushing the Chain horses hard, making for the county line, the Chain pursuers following, and Gaylord and his men bringing up the rear.

  One thing was certain, Gaylord had already realized. The thieves were Colter County men. They knew these badlands, knew the shortest route to the county line that offered the best concealment and sufficient grass and water for the stock. When he caught up with them he would undoubtedly recognize every one of them. Likely—

  Then he realized that Charlie Crippled Deer had pulled up his mount and was sitting rigidly in the saddle, head lifted, testing the wind. Gaylord spurred up beside him and looked at him inquiringly. Then he caught it, too: the faint tang of wood smoke on the icy wind.

  “Not far,” Charlie said. “Them four Chain men, I reckon. Not long since they passed this way.” “Maybe,” Gaylord said. “We’ll take no chances.” Crippled Deer nodded and swung down. “I’ll scout ahead.” He handed Gaylord the reins.

  “Whoever they are, be careful they don’t see you,” Gaylord said. “This light, you might git shot.”

  Charlie’s copper face grinned tightly. “They won’t see me.”

  Gaylord and Jonas swung down in a cutbank’s lee, loosened cinches to let the horses breathe, and rolled cigarettes. Part of Gaylord’s mind remained alert, aware of every sound and shift of wind and motion of grass or tree or swirl of dust; the rest of it ran back over the events of the past four weeks, after he had stalked out of Carla Doane’s kitchen.

  He had not really believed that they could do it. First they had to capture the Democratic precinct meetings to elect their own delegates to the county convention. Then, at the convention, if they had enough delegates, they would have to force through Clint Wallace’s nomination over Gaylord’s own. And, to begin with, there were only four precincts in the county. Chain Ranch was one, and Sir Randolph Hart’s British-American Grazing Company, the second big ranch in Colter County, was another. That left only Warshield and the little village of Spear Creek, over on the west side of the county. Of course Gruber and Hart had locked up both the Democratic and Republican precinct meetings on their ranges; they voted the same men at each. Spear Creek was insignificant, only a handful of voters. That left Warshield, the pivot precinct. And surely he, Gruber, and Hart swung enough influence there to beat down any challenge in the Democratic meeting; there was no question about the Republican one; it was already theirs.

  Still, Gruber and Hart had to be warned, and Clint defeated, for his own sake and for the county’s. When Gruber had heard the news his face had darkened. “Why, the insolence of those damned rustlers! Well, we’ll teach ’em a lesson they’ll remember to their dying days!” He had turned on Gaylord. “You realize there’s no way I can show your friend Wallace any special consideration after this! He’s made his bed and now he’ll have to lie in it!”

  Gaylord met his eyes. “Gruber. There’s one thing we’d better get straight here and now. I’ll stand for no rough stuff where Wallace is concerned. Absolutely none. I don’t intend to let him whip me in any election, but we’ll beat him fair and square or you better find yourself another candidate.”

  Gruber’s fists clenched. “Don’t overstep yourself, Frank.”

  “That works two ways.”

  Then Gruber eased, laughed shortly. “Yes, of course it does. Don’t get your hackles up, Frank. I’m edgy these days, anyhow. It’s not an easy thing to make a ranch like this show a profit that’ll keep its owners back in England happy—people who’ve never been here and don’t understand conditions. Sometimes my nerves get a little raw.” He nodded. “Of course. We won’t need rough stuff, anyhow, to ruin their little scheme.”

  A week later the Republican precinct meetings were held; delegates backing Frank Gaylord for sheriff at the convention were elected without difficulty. Three days later came the Democratic meetings. Gaylord had been on hand for the one in Warshield, held in the Masonic Hall above Needham’s Store.

  He was startled. Usually only a handful of citizens attended such meetings; there had been thirty present at the gathering of Republicans. But now the hall was packed, overflowing, and people were still crowding on the stairs. Some, plenty, Gaylord recognized as Gruber’s men, his own supporters. But there were others, the greasy-sack ranchers in their shabby denims and run-over boots, cowboys and drifters, some merchants and businessmen of the town—and, to Gaylord’s astonishment, women. Led by Carla Doane and Joey Wallace, they were there by the dozens. He had forgotten that there were so many women in Colter County, But even the dance-hall girls and prostitutes from
the saloons down the line showed up, in their best finery.

  Fielding, Wallace, and Carla were among the first to come, and Fielding stalked up to Gaylord. “Well, do you believe me now?”

  “How in the hell—”

  Wallace said, “We told you, Frank. There are a lot of people fed up bad with Chain. They’ll strike at Gruber— even if they have to do it through you.”

  “Yeah, but these women—”

  Carla said very coolly, “Have you forgotten, Sheriff Gaylord? Women have the vote in Wyoming Territory. And Joey and I thought it was about time they started using it.” She allowed herself an icy smile. “That’s one thing Major Gruber overlooked—using women to solicit the women’s vote. But we didn’t.”

  “So I see,” Gaylord said.

  After that, it had been a knock-down-and-drag-out fight. Gruber’s contingent put up a terrific battle, but they were swamped by the Fielding-Wallace forces. Even though a batch of Chain riders arrived, to vote here as well as in their own precinct on the ranch, they were too late to get in and turn the tide. Placed there deliberately by Fielding, a dozen women blocked the doorway to the jam-packed hall. Without using force, there was no way the Chain men could bull through—and force against the female sex was out of the question. Balked, they stalked out and headed for the saloons. The Fielding forces won a decisive victory, not only there but in Spear Creek too, which Gruber had ignored as not being large enough to matter.

  “All right,” Gruber rasped when he heard the news. “They’ve won a couple of precincts. The convention’ll be a different matter! Wallace is still a long way from getting his name on the Democratic ticket!”

  Maybe, Gaylord thought now, finishing his cigarette, and maybe not. He and Jonas tightened their mounts’ cinches. One week from today, the convention would be held in Warshield. And, no doubt about it, Fielding had the delegates to dominate it. Gruber could not break it up with rough stuff, even if he wanted to; half of Fielding’s people were women.