Gaylord's Badge

by John Benteen

  Lord Peter Swain said, “Look here, you men. I don’t understand this at all. Lew, watch him closely. Now, sir, tell me what you’re about.”

  Morrell had recovered now. “Yeah, talk, Gaylord. Fast.”

  Tersely, Gaylord told them what had happened, watching Morrell intently. “It had to be you,” he finished savagely. “You laid hands on Joey and Clint caught you at it. ... Fielding told me you were there alone with her, and—”

  “And you’re a goddamned fool,” Morrell rasped. “If you think I’d hurt Joey Wallace or Clint either ... But—” His voice almost broke. “Gruber did a good job, didn’t he? He saw his chance and took it—and pinned it on me.”

  Gaylord shook his head. “It won’t wash, Morrell. It was Gruber had ’em killed, all right, but it was you who did the butcherin’. You’ve been his man all along, haven’t you? He hired you to come in, get in with the little ranchers, do his killin’ for him when he needed it—”

  “Sheriff Gaylord,” Swain, the Englishman, cut in sharply. “You are quite mistaken.”

  “Am I?” Gaylord turned on him.

  “Indeed.” Swain looked at him steadily. “I can assure you that Mr. Morrell did not kill anyone at any time in Colter County. He is a former Texas Ranger and a highly respected range detective under his real name, and he has been in my employ for several months. It was I who hired him and sent him to Colter County. And my orders to him were to make a thorough investigation of Ross Gruber and his management of Chain.”

  It was fully dark now; the wind had risen, howling through the pines like a spirit exiled from hell and heaven both; sparks flew upward, vanished.

  Swain went on: “I’ll try to make this brief, Sheriff. I don’t want this misunderstanding to last one moment longer than necessary ... Our company has been most disappointed with Gruber’s performance as manager of Chain. Losses in the past two years have been substantial. When Gruber persuaded us to go into this enterprise, he made bright promises; none has been kept. And now we have come to feel, my partners and I, that it is quite probable that Gruber has swindled us on an enormous scale—and that this was probably his intention all along.”

  His eyes flickered to Morrell, who held the gun steady. “He tried to justify these losses by claiming rampant cattle theft—I believe you call it rustling—by small ranchers and unemployed cowboys. There was, he said, no chance of a profit until this was brought under control, which he said, with the help of the Stock Growers Association and the local sheriff—you—he was working hard to do. Still, nothing seemed to get better. I wrote my friend Sir Randolph Hart to verify Gruber’s statements; Sir Randolph replied that he had certain problems, but not of the magnitude that Gruber claimed. Still, as a stranger, he had to rely on Gruber’s leadership and advice.”

  Swain paused. “That answer was unsatisfactory. On my first visit to Wyoming, when Chain was founded, I had met a rancher named Martin Shell, a most impressive man. I wrote to him in confidence, asking for his advice. His reply shocked me. Gruber, he said, was lying. There was minor rustling, but not on such a scale. Moreover, Gruber was spending a lot of money to make himself a big man in the association and in Wyoming, and he thought that he was a bad influence on both. He seemed to be deliberately making any reconciliation or agreement with the cowboys and the small ranchers impossible for everyone. And all of the territory would suffer the consequences if he kept on ... Would you like a cup of coffee, Sheriff?” Without waiting for an answer he poured one from a pot by the fire and handed it to Gaylord. The first swallow of its hot blackness revived him and he listened closely as Swain went on.

  “My partners assigned to myself the responsibility to investigate this matter. We also have holdings in Texas, and Mr. Morrell had been helpful to us before. I retained him to come to Colter County and ascertain the true facts and then report to me. In the meantime, I voyaged to America myself, with the intention of first having Morrell’s report, and then confronting Ross Gruber with it on a surprise inspection of Chain Ranch.”

  Gaylord remembered the letter in Gruber’s office, the man’s worry every time he spoke of the English owners.

  “The quickest way to find out what was goin’ on,” Morrell put in, “was to win the confidence of the little ranchers. I did that by deliberately bad-mouthin’ Gruber and pickin’ a fight with you—Gruber’s man. That put me on their side, they trusted me, and I knew if they were rustlin’ I’d find out in a hurry. But there ain’t any rustlin’, Gaylord, nothing like what Gruber claims. A cow or two now and again for eatin’ beef, not much more than that. Gruber’s been stirrin’ up trouble for some purpose of his own.”

  “Which has now become quite clear,” Swain said. “I’ve talked in person with Mr. Shell. On a trip to the Dakotas, he picked up the information that Gruber has been in contact with a syndicate of Frenchmen who have holdings there. He has promised them that, for an interest in it, he could deliver Chain Ranch to them at a rock-bottom purchase price. Obviously his intention has been to discourage us and put us in a mood to cut our losses and sell out cheaply to the French. At the same time, though I have no proof as yet, I daresay he has used money siphoned from our profits to cement his own position in Wyoming. First, of course, to gain control over Colter County; then he would seek influence in Cheyenne itself. Once he had it, we, ignorant foreigners, would be in poor position to bring him to book. Gruber, in other words, has simply planned to climb to power at our expense. And, possibly, at yours.” His voice was cutting. “Certainly, Mr. Morrell had no imaginable motive for killing your friends. Only Gruber could profit from such a murder.”

  “Or you, Gaylord,” Morrell said coldly.

  Gaylord stared at him for a moment, then drained the coffee cup. “No,” he said. “You’re not clear yet, Morrell. Bein’ an ex-ranger and a cattle dick doesn’t make you any sort of angel. You were alone in that soddy with Joey most of the afternoon, and maybe you figured, since she’d been a fast woman once, you’d take a chance ... Maybe Gruber’s all you say. But the fact remains, Clint laid the blame on you.”

  Morrell said evenly: “How?”

  “I told you. His last words to Fielding were: ‘Morrell … Ten Sleep’.”

  Morrell’s mouth twisted. “Because he couldn’t trust you to square with Gruber for him,” he said contemptuously. “Don’t you see? He was telling Fielding to find me and say what had happened.” Morrell sucked in breath. “Just that morning I had a letter Fielding brought me from Lord Peter, here. Said he wanted me to meet him in Ten Sleep last night, that he was comin’ over from Buffalo in Johnson County. Okay, I went home with Joey to their soddy and stayed with her until Clint and Billy came. But I didn’t lay a finger on her, I guarantee you. And then the four of us had a drink, and I told Clint I’d be gone a day or two, had business in Ten Sleep, would be there if he needed me. And then I pulled out.” He turned to Swain. “Hand me a cup of that stuff.”

  Swain poured a cup of coffee. Morrell went on, his voice bitter: “Meanwhile, I reckon, Gruber had made up his mind. You didn’t stand a chance of beatin’ Clint, so Clint had to go, and it didn’t matter if Joey and Billy went with him. Somebody must have been watchin’, saw me pull out, then moved in and killed ’em all. Rigged it to lay the blame on me. Another bright idea of Gruber’s, I reckon. He had me figured for a Knights of Labor organizer, which suited me just fine, made good cover, threw him off the track. And I reckon he figured I couldn’t do much organizin’ in Wyomin’ if I was wanted there for triple murder.” Eyes fastened on Frank Gaylord over the cup’s rim, he drank the coffee.

  “Mr. Gruber,” Swain said, “is a clever, dangerous, and ambitious man.”

  Morrell lowered the cup. “So is Gaylord,” he said harshly.

  “No,” Frank Gaylord said. Suddenly he was very tired, because he knew all that Morrell spoke was truth. It added up, it had to. And, of course, he himself bore more guilt than he had dreamed of. “No,” he said. “I ain’t all that.” He leaned wearily against the rock face. “I�
��m just a man that maybe wore a badge too long. Maybe it got a little too heavy for me to carry.”

  “They do that, sometimes,” Morrell said quietly. “Well, what do you think, Gaylord? You size it up the way we see it?”

  Gaylord looked keenly at Morrell. The Texan met his gaze steadily and unafraid, all mockery gone, and a grief that was genuine showing in his eyes. Slowly Gaylord nodded. “I never doubted all along,” he said, “that Gruber had it done. And, yeah ... I think it was the way you laid it out. Not you, but—” He looked out into the darkness, seemed to see the wink of brass tacks in a shotgun stock. “Lang. More than likely. All right, Morrell, you can put up that hardware.”

  Morrell hesitated only a second; then he holstered the gun with a motion so swift that Gaylord hardly saw it. “You’ll want your own irons.” He passed Gaylord’s weapons to him.

  “Very well, Sheriff,” Lord Peter Swain said. “What do you intend to do?”

  Gaylord slid his own Colt into its leather. “First, bring up my horses,” he answered. “Then we’ll talk.” He worked his way back up the rock face in the dark. It was snowing harder and bitterly cold. But, thinking of Tom Lang and Ross Gruber, Gaylord did not feel the chill; rage was too hot a fire within him.

  A day had passed and still the storm had not abated. The men and horses hunkered in the lee of the rock, leaving shelter only to seek more firewood, dividing for their mounts the rations and grain that Gaylord had brought.

  “First,” Gaylord said when he’d brought back his horses, “I want to know what your plans are, Lord Peter.”

  Swain frowned. “Originally, on Morrell’s advice, I had planned to wait at Ten Sleep until after your election. He assured me Mr. Wallace would be elected sheriff—and only then would it be safe for me to reveal my presence in Colter County. Otherwise, Morrell thinks, my own life would be in danger. That, certain of the law’s cooperation, afraid of what I’d find in an investigation of Chain Ranch, Gruber wouldn’t hesitate to do away with me before I could confront him with what I have learned about his operations. And Morrell had said I could count on no help from you; indeed, perhaps just the opposite.”

  “All right,” Morrell said. “I misjudged you, Gaylord—and you misjudged me.”

  Gaylord nodded. “But if you had protection from the sheriff of Colter County, you’d go in and fire Gruber?”

  “Yes. And ask you physically to oust him, if necessary. But, of course, perhaps that will not be necessary now. I assume you will arrest him for these despicable murders?”

  Gaylord said harshly: “Yes. That’s what I aim to do.” He looked out at the swirling snow, anticipation burning in him like the glow of whiskey. “He’s been riding high. Now he’ll be brought low. No more Chain. No more power. And I’ll see him and Lang swing for murder.” He paused. “But we got to hurry. Because after the election I may not be sheriff anymore.”

  The other two looked at him. “We had it out,” Gaylord said. “I was wrong about who pulled the trigger, but right about who gave the order. He knows I’m on to him and he knows what I’ll do about it. I’m finished as Chain’s candidate and, God knows, I don’t expect the little ranchers to back me. So I’m a dead duck as of election day.” He touched the badge pinned on his coat. “But I’ll still be wearing this for four days more, and have the authority that goes with it. That ought to be time enough.”

  Morrell rolled a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. “If you can get back in time. There’ll be no travelin’ through this blizzard. And even when it quits it’ll be a good two days, and maybe more, back to Warshield. It’ll be touch-and-go whether we make it before the polls close.”

  Gaylord turned on him. “We?”

  “We,” answered Lew Morrell. “I signed on to work for Lord Peter; he’s bought my gun till this is over. Besides ... Clint and Joey and Billy Dann were all my friends. Yeah, Gaylord, I got a piece of this, too.”

  Gaylord looked at him for a moment, then dug into his pocket. “Catch,” he said, and something bright winked across the fire. Morrell nabbed it deftly and looked at the star in his upturned palm.

  “I’m deputizing you, then,” said Gaylord. “Raise your right hand.”

  Morrell’s mouth twisted in a grin. “You’re damn well told,” he said, and did so. When he had pinned on the badge he said, “Now the only thing left to do is pray for this snow to stop.”

  But it did not; it blew all that afternoon and night. Gaylord tried to quench impatience, but it was futile. From now on every minute counted; he had to act while he still had his badge.

  Only four more days, less—and then it would no longer be his. That seemed strange, unbelievable. He had worn one for so long; his whole life for twenty years had been built around a little piece of metal smaller than a playing card. An ounce or so of steel and silver; but carrying it took all a man’s strength and will. Well, as he’d said, maybe he’d carried it too long, maybe it was too heavy for him; maybe he’d be better off without it.

  From that, his mind slipped to Carla Doane. His loss of Florence no longer bothered him at all, but Carla was a different matter. Well, he was not fool enough to expect her to forgive him. Badge and woman both gone; he would end as he’d begun, a long time ago, with nothing. Fair payment for his own greed, his own blind ambition; and he would take his medicine. All he could do was wish her well, hope she eventually would find a man worthy of her. She’d had bad luck with men: first Linwood Doane, then Frank Gaylord ... Damn it, was it going to snow all month? As it was, they’d have to break trail all the way down the mountains; it would take a day just to get to Ten Sleep ... He rolled up in his blankets and tried to catch some sleep. Finally, after a restless half hour, it engulfed him.

  It was still snowing in the morning, but not as hard. Now the flakes fell vertically, and the wind had died. Gaylord, staring at the sag-bellied sky, made his decision.

  Time was running out. “We’ve got to move,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  The snow was belly-deep to their mounts as they worked back through the woods to where the trail should be. Gaylord put his mountain-bred packhorse in the lead as they started down the slope, urging the lightly burdened, surefooted, and hill-wise animal along with a rope’s end. Feeling its way cautiously, instinctively, it floundered through the high-piled white, breaking trail, with Gaylord following on the other mountain horse. That left fair footing for Morrell’s and Swain’s less adept mounts.

  It was nerve-racking traveling. They were wholly dependent on the horse’s senses; if it lost its way, made a mistake, it might lead all of them to disaster, over some drop-off masked by drift, maybe over the cliff itself when they were into the great gorge. But its highland shrewdness never played it false; it found the trail and kept to it.

  Meanwhile, behind Gaylord, Morrell watched, as best he could in the dancing snowfall, the heights and outcrops ahead of them. It was barely possible that Gruber might have sent men after Gaylord; if so, the snow probably would have blocked them; still, Gaylord and the Texan both were old hands, neither inclined to take any chance that could be avoided. Swain brought up the rear, a superb, experienced horseman with years of youthful service in India behind him.

  And so they plowed and labored down the Big Horns’ western slope, foot by foot and yard by yard and mile by mile, down through the tremendous gorge of Ten Sleep Canyon, an ice-draped, snow-piled world of white, the trail, steeply slanting, treacherous at every step. As they descended, the snow thinned a little and the drifts were not so deep, and now the going was faster. But already twilight fell; the journey had taken more than a day, and now there was only forty-eight hours until the polls would close in Colter County, and Gaylord—probably—would no longer be sheriff. Even he, though, was too cold and hungry and exhausted to feel impatience when at last they saw the lights of Ten Sleep ahead. All he wanted was a few hours of warmth and rest, with his belly full of coffee and hot food.

  They warmed themselves at the potbellied stove in the ca
fe, wolfed enormous suppers; Gaylord revived. Now he felt the urgency again. While the others rested he found the blacksmith-livery man, reclaimed his sorrel, procured fresh mounts for Morrell and Swain. An hour later they were in the saddle again; the snow had stopped, and they made good time for a while along a well-defined wagon road through badlands, even in the dark.

  Past midnight, Gaylord halted them; they slept for four hours in the shelter of a cutbank, then rode on. Down in the basin now, he knew this country perfectly, and he led them at a smart pace. Nevertheless, he always kept to cover, off the skyline, swinging in a circuitous route south of Chain; he dared meet no one who’d pass word to Gruber that they were coming in—Frank Gaylord, Lew Morrell, and a stranger with an English accent. Gruber, Gaylord knew, would not have been idle. He knew now that he had misjudged Frank Gaylord and overreached himself. And if he learned, as well, that Swain had come to search his books, call him to account, he would know he had only two choices: run or fight. And Gaylord knew that he would not run. He would not give up Chain Ranch, the source of all his power, that easily. He would kill Gaylord to keep it, and he would kill Swain—or anyone else who stood in his way. So as daylight faded Gaylord pulled up in a clump of willows by a stream, an hour out of Warshield. “We’ll wait here awhile,” he said.

  “Why?” Swain was cold, tired, impatient for the comfort of town.

  “Because,” Gaylord said, “I don’t know what’s happened in Warshield since I’ve been gone, what Gruber’s been up to. All I know is that we’re not riding in until the town’s gone to bed. Then we’ll find a place to hide you until I know what my next move is.”

  “Hide me!” Swain was indignant. “Now, see here—”

  “No, you see here!” Gaylord’s voice was rough. He touched his badge. “Tomorrow is election day. After the polls close then, it’s damned unlikely I’ll still be wearing this. I got to use it while I can, and use it right. It’s my last chance to legally bring Gruber in for Clint’s murder. And when it comes to that, you’re my ace in the hole; I’ll see nothing happen to you. For God’s sake, man, do you think Gruber’ll stand still, without a fight, and let you strip him of his power? Until I can protect you, your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel if Gruber finds out you’re here. With you dead, your people in England would have to start all over again. You’ve got to lay low until I know what my next move is. I need information, I need a place to hide you, and I need men to help us. And there’s only one place I can get all that.”