by John Benteen
And so they seized at any break in the drab and dusty pattern of experience, cowhands, ranchers, merchants, miners, railroad men, and farmers. A schoolhouse dance was worth a journey of five dozen miles each way, or a dogfight, or a hanging, or anything offering change, excitement. But, every two years, election time was the best of all, better than circus, county fair, execution, and payday Saturday night rolled into one. Because an election lasted longer, offered more fodder for argument and conversation, gave a man something to think about besides the wind, the weather, and his debts. Elections engaged the passions, the emotions, and they were serious business from start to finish. And that was why, even though the Democratic convention in Colter County was only a preliminary before the main event, the town of Warshield this chill evening was like an anthill through which someone had pushed a boot. It swarmed with people, every saloon went full blast, and there were lines at the free barrels of whiskey paid for by Chain Ranch, bearing signs: COURTESY OF FRANK GAYLORD!
For the first few hours the mood had been a festive one. But now, thought Gaylord, standing on the sidewalk outside Needham’s Store, it had changed. It was growing taut, tense, ugly. He looked at the crowd milling around the entrance to the stairs leading to the Masonic Hall above, and he pulled out his watch. Five minutes until eight—the hour when the convention was due to start. And the delegates from Chain Ranch were here, and from Sir Randolph Hart’s Wagon Rod. So, of course, were the ones from Warshield—yonder was Carla Doane, standing apart from the mob, engaged in whispered, apprehensive conversation with the lawyer, Fielding. But Clint and Joey Wallace had not appeared—and neither had the delegates from the settlement of Spear Creek, Clint’s key supporters.
Gaylord bit his lip, and his gaze shuttled to Ross Gruber, standing with Lang and Sir Randolph Hart at the head of their combined delegations of thirty hard-bitten cowboys. Gruber caught the look, smiled faintly around his cigar, and shrugged. He spoke to Hart; then, trailed by Lang, he sauntered over to Gaylord. “Looks like Wallace lost his nerve,” he said.
Gaylord’s voice was low. “Major, I warned you about interfering with the Spear Creek delegation.”
The good humor seeped from Gruber’s face. “So you did. And I assure you, Sheriff”—his voice was crisp—“I have not done so. Wallace and his people are grown men. If they can’t get here on time, that’s their hard luck. Where’s Judge Merkel?”
“Right here, Major.” A dumpy man in a gray suit shoved through the throng, a key ring in his hand. Merkel, the district judge, held a federal appointment, but he knew who had gotten it for him—the association. He was Gruber’s man; and he was also chairman of the Democratic party in Colter County.
“Way I make it, Judge,” Gruber said, “in four more minutes you call this convention to order. Might as well unlock the door and let the people in. By the way, if I might make a suggestion ... I think you should go directly to the nomination for county sheriff as the first order of business, tolerating no delay at all. The nomination should be approved by a majority of those delegates present and voting.”
Merkel nodded a little apprehensively. “I’ll try. But there’ll be some hell raised.”
“You’re damned right there will be.” Frank Gaylord’s voice was harsh. “This convention’s going to proceed in the usual way.”
“Frank.” Gruber’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Don’t forget who your friends are.”
“I’m not forgetting,” Gaylord said. “But Clint Wallace is a friend of mine, too. We’ve had this out before, Major. I’m not afraid of facing him in a square election. And I aim to see he gets a fair shake on the nomination.”
Gruber did not answer. “Judge, unlock the door and let’s get on with it.”
Merkel looked around apprehensively, took a step toward the door, then halted. “Judge!” Fielding’s voice rang out above the mutter of the five or six dozen people gathered in the street and on the sidewalk. “One moment, please.”
Then he and Carla Doane were coming up on the sidewalk before the store. Fielding’s face was pale and grim, his eyes dark, intense. Lang stepped forward, shotgun in his arm’s crook. “Major—?”
“Ease off,” Gruber said. “Well, Fielding?” He removed his hat. “Mrs. Doane … ”
“Judge,” Fielding said, “as soon as you call the convention to order, I’ll have several motions to present. These should precede any nominations.”
“A play for time?” asked Gruber, with irony. “To give your late delegates a chance to be seated?”
“Normal proceedings of any convention,” Fielding said. “First I’ll request a reading of the minutes of the last meeting of the Democratic County Committee—”
“What you request and what Judge Merkel rules in order may be two different things,” said Gruber. “Now, Judge, only a minute left. If you’ll—”
“Major Gruber.” Carla Doane stepped forward. She looked at Gaylord, and something in him clenched at the contempt burning in her eyes. Then she faced Ross Gruber. “Mr. Wallace and the Spear Creek people were due an hour ago. If they’ve been delayed, there’s only one conclusion to be drawn. And I warn you now, sir, if those people have been harmed in any way—”
“Mrs. Doane, I take no responsibility for your delegates one way or the other,” Gruber snapped, face reddening. “And I will not be threatened. Mr. Fielding may make his motions. Perhaps the judge will refer them to the delegates present. Perhaps they will be voted down. And—”
“And,” Carla said bitterly, “Chain will take over the convention and ramrod through Frank Gaylord’s nomination. Then he can run on both tickets without any opposition.” She whirled on Gaylord. “Is that the way you want it, Frank?”
He could not help what stirred in him then as he looked down at her: memory and regret. And however this came out, he would not have her thinking that of him. He drew in breath. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not the way I want it, and I’ve already told Ross Gruber that. Major,” he raised his head, to see Gruber looking at him fiercely, “I’ll have my say now. This convention will take its normal course. There’ll be no nominations made by anyone until whatever preliminary motions that are made are considered. That ought to take about a half hour, I’d guess. Maybe Wallace and the Spear Creek delegates will be here by then. Anyhow, that’s the way it ought to run— and if it doesn’t, I’ll not let my name be entered for nomination on the Democratic ticket.”
He heard Carla’s sigh of relief, and saw the rage in Gruber’s eyes. But with no regrets he went on evenly: “If Clint and the Spear Creek bunch aren’t here by then, there’s nothing more we can do.”
“Fair enough,” Fielding said. “We have no quarrel with that. Thanks, Gaylord. We’ll ask no more.”
“You wouldn’t get it if you did,” Gaylord answered flatly. “You—” Then he broke off because he heard the sound of riders coming. Beside him, Carla tensed and raised her head.
Then someone shouted: “Spear Creek! It’s Clint Wallace and Spear Creek comin’ in!” And from the majority of the crowd a ragged cheer went up.
“Thank God,” Carla whispered. Gruber made a sound in his throat. Now they had entered the main street of the town, a dozen horsemen riding at the trot. All were armed, and Clint Wallace was at their head, flanked on one side by Billy Dann and on the other by Lew Morrell, the man from Texas. The crowd shifted, making way.
Hooves clopped, bit chains jingled, gear squeaked as the Spear Creek men rode up before Needham’s Store. Clint Wallace reined in, lifting his hand in the signal to halt. His eyes swept the crowd and picked out Gruber, Gaylord, Carla, and Fielding. Then, eyes hard, Clint swung down, Dann and Morrell also dismounting.
Clint came forward, and the yellow light from the window of the saloon next door fell across the trio. Frank Gaylord drew in his breath. The former deputy’s face was red and puffy, his cheeks smeared with black smudges almost like war paint. His clothes were filthy, his left hand bandaged. Except for the bandage, Billy Da
nn and Lew Morrell were in the same condition—and so, Gaylord saw now, were the other Spear Creek men.
“Clint!” Carla’s voice was full of fear. “What happened?”
Wallace ignored her, taking a step toward Gruber and Gaylord, on the sidewalk. The other two moved up beside him. Gaylord was aware of Lang, on the far side of Gruber, shifting stance. And now there was violence in the air, a bitter, acrid tang of it that he could almost taste, like the charged atmosphere before one of those terrible high-plains storms. Dann was unarmed, but Clint and Lew Morrell each wore two guns; and the light shone off the rifle barrels of weapons held by the other Spear Creek men, still mounted, looking down at the crowd.
Clint’s voice was hoarse, weary, almost a whisper. His eyes, cold blue, full of rage, shuttled from Gruber to Gaylord, then back to the Chain man again.
“Well, Gruber,” he said, “it didn’t work. You did your best to stop us, but we got here anyhow. Now, stand aside. We’re goin’ in. Let’s git this convention started.”
There was, then, a moment of complete hush on the street of Warshield, save for the jingling of bit chains, the soft noise of a restless horse’s hooves in the dust, as it sidled. Gruber stood there by Gaylord, thick, heavy, spraddle-legged, solid as a bull buffalo. “I don’t know what you mean, Wallace.” His voice was deep and steady.
Lew Morrell spat into the dust, then moved forward a pace or two, thumbs hooked in double, crisscrossed gun-belts. The holsters swung low, anchored with thongs around his thighs. His mackinaw was tattered; flesh showed through a strange, dark-edged hole in his Levis at the knee. “You don’t know what we mean?” His tone was edged, mocking, and Gaylord heard the rage in it, controlled and, for that, all the more deadly. “It wasn’t Chain, huh, that fired the grass in Pronghorn Coulee about four this afternoon?”
“Fired ... Pronghorn Coulee? What are you men talking about?” Gruber was defiant. His voice held surprise, but its edge was tinny, and suddenly Frank Gaylord felt a coldness growing in him.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Morrell said. “Clint’s got a throat full of smoke, it hurts him to talk, so I’ll do it for him. Just as we was fixin’ to leave Spear Creek, half the damn prairie on the north side of town went up in flames. And the way the wind was blowin’, it looked like burnin out the whole settlement.” He drew in a breath that made his barrel chest swell. “Every man jack at Spear Creek—and the kids and women, too—it took us all to git it out. If the wind hadn’t changed, and that was a plumb miracle, we might not have. As it was, it held us up for hours, and we’ve damned near killed our hawses gittin’ here.”
“But we’re here,” said Billy Dann. “And we’re gonna nominate the next sheriff of Colter County.” He turned to Merkel. “Now, Judge, unlock that door and let’s git on with it.”
“Wait a minute.” Gaylord stepped forward. “Let me get this straight—”
“There’s nothing to get straight,” Gruber said tautly. “They had a prairie fire at Spear Creek, it seems. They got it out and they made it here on time. All right. But I don’t like the implication, Wallace. Fires are common in this kind of weather. You can’t hold Chain responsible for an accident.”
“Accident!” Gaylord could see that Morrell seethed with rage. “When a fire starts half a dozen places at once along a mile-wide front? Where I come from, we call it arson—and any sonofabitch that would burn out a whole settlement jest to rig an election—!” His voice choked off with fury, broken loose beyond control now; his hazel eyes were blazing. He stepped forward. “Gruber—”
“Wait!” Gaylord rasped, but he was too late.
“Lang,” Gruber said, and suddenly the bodyguard was there, between Morrell and the manager of Chain.
“All right, Morrell—” Lang began, starting to tilt up the shotgun. “You—” He broke off.
It seemed that Morrell’s hand had not moved, but the Colt in it, hammer eared back, was centered dead on Lang’s belly. Even Gaylord gaped for a pair of seconds; he had never seen a faster draw.
Then the sheriff was acting instinctively, big hands up and spread, empty, as he placed his body between Lang and the muzzle of Morrell’s gun. “Morrell,” he said coldly. “Put it up.”
Morrell’s eyes met his, and their hazel depths still flamed. “Sheriff, don’t you tempt me. You were in it, too … ”
“No,” Gaylord said. “Put it up.”
“Lew,” Clint Wallace whispered, “you heard the sheriff.”
Morrell hesitated. Then, very slowly, he pointed the Colt downward and eased the hammer. He replaced it in his holster. “But if that Chain lizard with the shotgun—”
“Clint, see Morrell stands fast.” Without waiting for an answer, Gaylord pivoted. “All right, Lang,” he said wearily. “Again ... the shotgun. And this time you don’t get it back.”
“What?” Lang’s eyes flared. “I told you before—”
Gruber said harshly: “Lang, let me have the shotgun.”
Lang turned on him. “Gawd’s sake, Major! Listen—”
“That’s an order,” Gruber said, with absolute firmness.
After a long second Lang, lips thin, passed the gun to Gruber, who broke it and handed the shells to Gaylord. “I’ll be responsible for this.”
“I don’t want to see him carrying it off of Chain range again,” Gaylord said.
“He won’t. Now, I suggest we cease this nonsense and get about our business. It’s past the appointed time for the convention to start. Judge, open up, if you please.”
Merkel unlocked the door with a trembling hand. Gruber said, “Chain, follow me. Sir Randolph, are you coming?”
That broke the tension. Gaylord stepped aside as the Chain and Wagon Rod men filed past. The men from Spear Creek swung down wearily and hitched their horses. “You fellows go ahead,” Clint Wallace said. “Morrell, you cinch your temper and watch your step. Billy, you take it easy, too. Fielding, Carla, I’ll be along directly.”
“All right. Come on, Carla.” Fielding led her up the stairs.
Presently only Gaylord and Clint Wallace remained on the sidewalk. Clint turned to the sheriff. “Frank, you really believe Chain didn’t have that fire set to slow us up and make us miss the nominations?” His voice was hoarse, strained.
Gaylord hesitated. “You find me proof that he did, I’ll put him under the jail, and you know it.”
Clint looked gravely at him. Then his weary face split in a smile. “Yeah, I know that. Don’t get me wrong, Frank. I don’t think you had anything to do with that fire. But … ” He licked puffed, cracked lips, and when he went on his voice was pleading. “Frank, listen. It ain’t too late. That offer I made in Carla’s kitchen still holds good. You could stand up there tonight and refuse to accept Chain’s support and join up with us and ... I would be mighty proud to serve under you again.”
For a moment Gaylord felt the temptation. Then he looked down at the badge on his coat. Deftly he detached it and tossed it in his palm. “I told you, Clint, it can’t be done. This badge ... nobody in Colter County’s gonna wear it without Chain and Wagon Rod’s backing. It ain’t a question of seeing it on me or you. It’s a question of seeing it on me or somebody like Tom Lang. Whose chest you want to see it on?”
“And I tell you, we can elect you without either Gruber or Hart.”
Gaylord shook his head. “That’s a chance I won’t take. For my own sake ... and for the county’s.” And for Florence’s, he added mentally. But his decision was unshakable; it could be no other way, and Clint read that in his face.
“All right,” he said at last. “But remember this: you run with the goats long enough, you’re bound to wind up smellin’ like a billy, too. I aim to fight you, Frank.”
Gaylord grinned; and then he could not help it, he squeezed Clint’s arm. “Do your damnedest, son. If we got to have a race, we’ll make it a stomp-down good one. And may the best man win.”
Clint smiled faintly. “Then let her rip,” he whispered, and he climbed the sta
irs ahead of Gaylord.
Chapter Nine
Frank Gaylord was almost relieved when, as had been foreseen, Clint Wallace took the Democratic nomination for sheriff by a margin of four delegates. Now the air was clear, battle lines drawn; and Gaylord, a fighting man all his life, never entered into combat, physical or political, except to win. And, he told himself, he would win back his badge, too; he had no intention of letting Gruber, Hart, or anyone else take credit for the victory he vowed to achieve. It would be his; he would get himself reelected by a margin that would stun not only Clint, Carla, and their people, but Gruber and the association ranchers, too.
Because, Gaylord thought grimly, it was time to let all of them see who had the power. Not just Gruber, not just Hart, but the people in Cheyenne as well. By God, he would bring in the biggest, broadest majority ever racked up in Colter County, maybe in Wyoming, Clint or no Clint, and when that badge was on his chest for four more years, he’d run his county as he saw fit, not as Ross Gruber wanted it. And when he went to Gruber for the hand of Florence, it would be as an equal, a man of consequence, who had clearly demonstrated his own massive strength.
Typically, he carried the battle straight to the heart of Clint’s home territory, Spear Creek. An hour after dawn on the morning following the convention, he was in Pronghorn Coulee with Charlie Crippled Deer, investigating the prairie fire. Gaylord’s face shadowed as he looked across the vast burn toward the little settlement of sun-dried frame houses not far away. If the fire had reached them, Spear Creek would have become a torch, general store, saloon, blacksmith shop, and all going up in smoke, along with their owners’ hopes and fortunes. That thought twisted his gut; if this was arson and he could find the firebug, he’d see him put away for years.
