by John Benteen
His small, red-lipped mouth twisted. “Same old story. We was dead, only we wouldn’t lay down. We tried to ride the grubline, but there warn’t no grubline. And after a while we got tired of havin’ our bellybuttons up against our backbones. I knowed where the Chain horses run, and we figured Chain owed us somethin’. So, okay. We lifted eighteen head. Figured we could get away with it. Well, we figured wrong.” He spat out cold coffee between his cracked, run-over boots. “We can’t fare no worse in Rawlins than we have so far.”
Gaylord said, “Damn it, Tully, you could have come to me. If you’d asked me, I’d have found you somethin’.”
“We talked about it,” Wyatt said. “But then we decided you were Gruber’s man as much as Lang is. And no point in wastin’ time bendin’ your ear; you’da told us the same thing Gruber did: If you don’t like it here, go somewhere else.” His eyes suddenly blazed. “And, goddamnit, I like it here! And when I come to Wyomin’ I didn’t know I’d have to kiss Ross Gruber’s behind, and the association’s, to stay here! Looks to me like a man oughta be able to make a livin’ in this country without kissin’ Gruber’s butt! But—” His mouth warped again. “But you wouldn’t know about that, Sheriff.”
Gaylord snapped: “That’s enough, Tully! Now, you three roll your sugans! We’re headin’ back to Warshield! Charlie, you and the others bring in the saddle stock and round up those loose horses. Jonas, you and Lang keep an eye on the prisoners.”
Lang lifted his shotgun. “Yeah. All right, you waddies snap to it. And the first man breaks, he collects nine buck!”
As the prisoners began to roll their blankets Gaylord turned to the fire, poured the dregs of the coffeepot on it, and began to kick dirt over it.
And then the shotgun roared.
In the narrow canyon its sound was thunderous.
Gaylord whirled, Colt in hand, then froze.
What had been Tully Wyatt lay sprawled on the ground, only a red mess now, nearly cut in two by the blast of the open-bore ten-gauge. Larry Wilson lay groaning nearby, his right pants leg turning red.
“Lang!” Gaylord bellowed. “Goddamn you!” He took a step forward, Colt raised like a club, and Lang spun on him, teeth bared.
“Stand fast, Sheriff! You want the other barrels?” Gaylord heard the rasp of his breathing. “That bastard had a gun cached in his bedroll. He was draggin’ for it when I let him have it!”
“A gun?” Gaylord turned. Impossible. He’d checked their gear himself. Then he saw it, propped against a saddle beneath a blanket. Covered like that, it could have been a draped and hidden Winchester. But it was not.
Gaylord snarled a despairing curse. He strode to Tully’s bedroll, threw back the blanket, straightened, and faced Lang with flaring eyes. “His banjo!” he rasped. “It wasn’t a damned thing but the poor kid’s banjo!”
Lang’s gaze shuttled to the instrument leaning against the saddle. For a moment even he looked shaken. Then his mouth twisted in a warped grin. “Well, his bad luck he reached for it without takin’ that blanket off of it. What the hell, I saved the territory a pile of money!”
Jonas was already cutting away the cloth around Wilson’s wound, as Henderson stood there pale-faced. “He took one buck in his leg,” Jonas said. “Ain’t too bad.”
Gaylord nodded, never looking away from Lang. “All right,” he said. He holstered his Colt and held out his hand. “The riot gun, Lang. Give it here.”
Lang’s eyes had a reddish glow. He held the weapon with its barrel centered on Frank Gaylord’s belly. “No, sir. Nobody takes my shotgun.”
“I do,” Gaylord said. “You’re my deputy and you killed this man in the line of duty. That’ll save you from Rawlins yourself. But you used bad judgment and I’ll not have it repeated. I want your riot gun and your other irons.”
Lang did not answer. “That’s an order,” Gaylord said. “Jonas, if he shoots me, you and Charlie burn him down.” He stepped forward, and Lang tensed, but Gaylord did not interrupt the smooth motion in which he seized the shotgun barrels and swung them aside. He and Lang locked eyes, and then Gaylord pulled and Lang released his grip. Gaylord broke the weapon, withdrew the live shell, and rammed it in his pocket. “Now the handgun.”
Lang made no attempt to mask his hatred as he passed it over. “This ain’t finished, Gaylord.”
“It had better be,” Gaylord answered calmly. “Charlie, rig two travois, one for the body and one for Wilson. Larry, I’m sorry. I don’t reckon that helps you, and it sure don’t help Tully. But you should never have touched those horses.” Suddenly he felt it, all of it, the riding, the sleeplessness, the strain, and the anger and the sickness lying in his belly like a huge lump of something poisoned and undigested. But none of it showed outwardly as he went about the business of getting his prisoners, the body, and the stolen horses underway to Warshield.
Chapter Eight
That weariness and sickness seemed to linger even after he was back in town, and there was only one medicine for it: Florence Gruber.
Three days later, riding with her across the Chain range, he felt it all peel away from him, the heaviness, the sense of being somehow smeared with something foul. It was a fine morning, and she was a superb sidesaddle rider, mounted on a small, blooded black gelding; in red velvet riding habit, sun glinting on blond hair, she was something to take away a man’s breath. And once more it was all worth it, especially when they stopped to water their horses in a grove of cottonwoods by a little creek.
She came into his arms naturally, as if it were where she belonged, and held up her mouth for his kiss. “Ah, Frank,” she said at last when she pulled away. She walked to the stream’s edge, and looked at the clear, running water. He came to stand beside her. Presently she said, very quietly, “Where do we go from here?”
“I know where I want to go.”
She looked obliquely at him, blue eyes half lidded. “Do you?”
“Yes. And you know, too.”
She did not answer, but turned her gaze to the stream again. “After the election I should be going back to Philadelphia.”
Gaylord smiled faintly. “Do you want to?”
She laughed softly. “Not really. Philadelphia will seem awfully small and dull after Wyoming. And … ” again, that oblique glance, “lonely.”
“Then don’t go back,” Gaylord said. “Stay here.”
She turned. “Frank, is this a proposal?”
“You know it is.” Something clogged his throat. “Yes. I want you to marry me, Florence.” Words rushed out, then. “I haven’t got much now, no, not a lot to offer you. But if I get reelected, and I aim to, I’m not going to stop with being sheriff of Colter County. I used to think that was all there was. But now I’ve raised my sights. I’ve got plans of my own, Flo, big plans. You might think they’re crazy, but—” He broke off.
“No. No, I don’t think they’re crazy. Neither does Ross. He has plans for you, too; you know that. He believes in you. So do I. And ... it pleases me to see how much you believe in yourself and us.”
“You’re saying yes, then.” Gaylord took a step toward her.
She held up her hand. “I can’t say yes until you’ve talked to Ross, Frank. I guess I’m old-fashioned, but ... he’s head of the family now, and I’m dependent on him, and ... I know he thinks the world of you. Talk to him first; then ask me again.”
Gaylord stood motionlessly. “If he says yes—?”
She smiled, and the way it lit her face almost made him dizzy. “I think you know what I’ll say then.” She turned away. “Now, let’s ride back to Chain. He’ll be in this morning, and you can speak to him.”
“Come in, Frank.” Gruber rose from behind his office desk. “You and Florence have a nice ride?”
“Fine one, Ross.” Gaylord looked at the squat, powerful man, with his square, brown face, piercing eyes, and broken nose. He felt a strange surge of resentment. All his life he had been a free man, making his own choices, his own decisions. But now his future
rested in this man’s hands. Major Ross Gruber held the key to everything he wanted to make his life complete. And for the first time Gaylord felt the necessity of pleasing someone else, of having to curb his own will, like a wild horse tamed to a strange hand. And yet there was no help for it. Not, at least, until he was reelected and he and Florence were married.
“Good.” Gruber smiled, took two cigars from a humidor, and passed one to Gaylord. They lit up. “Ross,” said Gaylord, “I want to talk to you.”
The major looked quizzically at him. “Florence.”
“Yes. I want to marry her. She says I’ve got to ask your permission. Well, I’m asking it.”
For a moment smoke veiled Gruber’s face. Then he took the cigar from his mouth and his expression was revealed. Actually, there was no expression at all.
“Frank,” he said, “that puts me between a rock and a hard place.”
He turned over the correspondence he’d been reading, went to the window, and stood there for a moment, looking out. “Florence is my only kin,” he said at last. “Myself, I’ve never married. Wouldn’t inflict the life of an officer’s lady on any woman. So she’s all I’ve got, all I’ll ever have, I suppose. A responsibility that’s borne down on me for years.” Falling silent, he opened the window and the fresh autumn breeze, warm for this time of year, filled the room and riffled the papers on his desk. “She’s sought after, you know. She could marry well, very well, in Philadelphia.”
Gaylord said nothing, touched with fear by Gruber’s tone.
Then the major turned. “And yet,” he said, “given a choice between Philadelphia and Wyoming, I’d rather see her stay here in Wyoming. Where I am, close to me. And I would like to see her marry a Wyoming man. But one of consequence, you understand. Florence is not a pioneer woman. She’s not like your friend Wallace’s wife, where even a soddy on the prairie seems a blessing after a life of sin in a dance hall. She’s ambitious, and she likes society …”
Then, surprisingly, he laughed. “Don’t look so woebegone, Frank. I’m not saying no.” He sobered. “But I am saying wait.”
“Wait?” Gaylord echoed.
“Wait until you’re reelected.” Now Gruber’s voice was crisp. “I think you and Florence would make a good pair. I have plans for you both. But I can’t put those plans in train until you’re reelected—and not just barely, but by a whopping majority. Once you’re sheriff of Colter County again, the rest of it falls into place. With the Wyoming Stock Growers Association, and the Cheyenne Club, the people who draw the water here. But if you don’t make sheriff again, if you let Wallace beat you out—” He paused. “Then what would you be? What would you have to offer her?”
Gaylord drew in breath. “Not much,” he said. “All the same … ”
“No, not much. So, let’s leave it at this: I would be happy to see my sister marry the sheriff of Colter County, a man with a grand future ahead of him. But I couldn’t give my consent to her marrying an unemployed man with no future. Therefore, I can’t answer you until after the election.”
“Damn it, Ross, the election’s no problem. I’ll win … ”
“Will you?” Gruber picked up his cigar again and relit it. “I don’t know, Frank. The rustlers are powerful in this county. And Wallace has their backing. If he’s nominated at the Democratic county convention, if he gets his name on the ticket, then you’re in real trouble.”
“He’ll be nominated,” Gaylord said, “but I can still beat him, fair and square.”
“Can you?” Gruber fixed him with cold, dark eyes. “I’m not so sure, Frank. I think what we should do is head off his nomination. I think we should make sure you are nominated on the Democratic ticket as well as the Republican one.”
“Well, that won’t happen,” Gaylord said. “I ain’t got a chance. Clint’s got the delegates from Warshield and Spear Creek. Chain and Wagon Rod can’t beat him out. He’s a cinch for the Democratic nomination. But, damn it all, I’ll whip him in the election.”
“No,” Gruber said flatly. “That’s a chance I don’t want to take. I don’t want Wallace’s name on the Democratic ticket. I want him frozen out completely.”
He dropped into the chair behind his desk. “I can see now where I made a bad mistake—and so did you. Chain and Wagon Rod’s got enough delegates to offset the ones from Warshield. But Spear Creek could turn the balance in the rustlers’ favor if those delegates are allowed to vote.”
“No way you can stop ’em,” Gaylord said thinly.
Gruber smiled. “Leave that to me. They got a long way to come to Warshield. A lot of things could happen to delay ’em until the convention’s past.”
“No,” Gaylord said flatly.
Gruber’s brows drew together.
“They’ve been elected legally, they’ll vote for their nominee legally in the Masonic Hall day after tomorrow. Let Clint be nominated if they want him. I’ll see he doesn’t win the badge. I know how to campaign for public office.”
“Maybe.” Gruber’s voice rasped with his displeasure. “All the same … ”
“I’m telling you,” said Gaylord, “that’s one thing I won’t stand for.”
Gruber looked at him for a moment. “Frank, don’t get foul of me. Remember, a lot hangs on this election for a lot of people. Me, you, and ... Florence.” His mouth twisted. “You may be a good campaigner. But we don’t have any women on our side—and meanwhile, that Doane female and that saloon girl that Wallace married are recruiting women voters all over Colter County. This crazy business of giving women the vote here can ruin us; overlooking it’s another mistake we made.”
“Maybe. But what I said stands. The Spear Creek people ain’t to be hindered.”
Gruber’s eyes flared with rage, sudden, almost insane in its intensity; and Gaylord remembered all at once a story he’d heard about the man not long after he’d come to Warshield. Somebody in a bar had told it: He tried using a spade bit on a colt that was hackamore broke. He ruined its mouth, and after a while it would just come apart, do nothin’ but buck the minute he hit the saddle. He liked that, liked to show off. But one day he got thrown. And then it was like he’d gone crazy. He didn’t even get up off the ground, jest pulled his gun and shot the horse then and there …
And in that instant Gaylord saw how deep ran the streak of violence in Gruber, how fierce his pride and self-will. For a clock tick, he thought that Gruber would come across the desk. But then it passed; the Chain manager drew in a long breath. “Have it your way, Frank. But—” He broke off as someone hammered on his office door. “Yes?”
“Lang, boss. Need to see you a minute. Right away.”
“All right. Excuse me, Frank.” Gruber, jaw set, rose and went out of the room.
Lang. Well, there was nothing he could do about Lang, either, Gaylord thought. No way to hold him for the shooting of Tully Wyatt, so he was back doing business at the same old stand, shotgun and all. Gaylord rose and paced the room. Damn it, how had things gone so wrong, everything gotten twisted up? Then he halted as the wind, gusting suddenly through the open window, lifted papers from Gruber’s desk and dropped them on the floor. Gaylord stopped, picked them up, and laid them back on Gruber’s desk. As he did, the contents of the one on top leaped out at him in copperplate script:
… my associates and I most disturbed about latest balance sheet. We are considering personal inspection of your operation in near future at a time of our choosing. While we understand that present market conditions are poor ... Then the door opened and before he stepped back he just had time to see that the letter was headed London, England, and signed “Swain.”
“Now, where were we?” Gruber said. “Yes. One last time—you still object to Chain’s handling the Spear Creek delegates?”
“I won’t have it.”
Gruber shrugged. “I guess that’s it, then. After the election we’ll talk some more about Florence.”
Gaylord held his own temper in check with effort. For that matter, if Florence wo
uld have him—and he knew that she would—Gruber couldn’t balk their marriage. But let that ride for now, play it easy. Don’t push the issue. Likely that letter from his bosses already had the Chain manager in a foul mood. “Okay. I’ll see you in Warshield at the convention then, night after next?”
“I’ll be there,” said Gruber. “At the head of the Chain delegation.”
They shook hands and Gaylord went out. Florence met him in the corridor, eyes wide with question. “What did he say?”
Evenly, Gaylord told her; and she looked downcast. “So it all depends on that silly election.” Then she brightened, pushed her body against his. “Well, you’ll just have to win it, won’t you, darling?”
Gaylord smiled. “I aim to,” he said and kissed her.
After a long goodbye she let him out. On the veranda Lang lounged against a post, yellow teeth clamped on a match, shotgun cradled in his arm. He did not speak, but followed Gaylord with hard, reddish eyes as the sheriff unhitched and mounted.
Gaylord ignored him. He had plenty of other things to think about as he rode back to Warshield.
This was a hard land, and life on it for all but a few was drab and brutal. Cowboys and little ranchers alike worked from dawn to dusk, risking life and limb on half-broken, iron-jawed horses; the former for a dollar a day, beef and beans, and a place to spread their blankets; the latter sometimes for even less. Even town merchants had to scrabble with worry-knotted bellies, competing for scarce trade and scarcer dollars. If a man was out of work or went broke, or when he grew old or got crippled up, he could expect no pension and little charity, less, probably, than a favorite saddle horse past its working years. You made it or you didn’t, free to get rich, free to starve.
But the real enemy was the land itself, vast, magnificent, and contemptuous of the puny humans daring to try to tame it and wring from it a living. It expressed its scorn in merciless ways: searing summer heat, bone-numbing winter cold, and a wind that hardly ever stopped, rasping nerves with its ceaseless gusting. But the crudest thing of all was the sheer size of Wyoming Territory, the great empty reaches of it, where loneliness was as much a part of life as breath itself, monotony a mean, subtle thing that could erode the mind and spirit as the wind ground down a bluff or butte. If you lived alone out there in the emptiness for too long, Wyoming could drive you mad.
