by John Benteen
Gruber’s shot went wild, delayed a fraction of a second too long. Gruber’s right leg, bone smashed, went out from under him. He fell on the roof, but lifted himself with his arms. Then, directly in front of him, part of the roof gave way. For the part of the house it covered was the kitchen, where the fire had begun. Suddenly orange flames licked high in front of Gruber. Then more boards collapsed, more fire blossomed at his right.
Now the whole roof shook. Gruber’s eyes were wide in the cruel orange light. Dragging his leg, he made for the edge of the roof, then was balked by more flame. Now he was on a burning island of wood above an inferno, and he turned back toward the window. “Gaylord!” he cried. “Gaylord, for God’s sake, help!”
There was only one kind of help Gaylord could offer. Even as he raised his gun again, lined it as carefully as Gruber had, Gruber saw and understood. He froze, mouth open, skin already blistering; he did not move; dared not for fear that Frank Gaylord’s bullet would miss.
Gaylord fired and Ross Gruber, shot through the head, fell forward.
His face had barely hit the surface of the roof before the whole house shuddered. Then boards, shingles, Gruber, and all disappeared into a roaring, hungry inferno that swirled up the house’s flank, an orange mass of leaping flame.
Gaylord, motionless for long seconds, then felt the searing heat. The hall was clogged with smoke, the whole building shaking dangerously. He turned and ran down the hall. There was another window at its other end. Not only locked, it was nailed tightly shut. Gaylord smashed the glass with his gun and knocked out the wood framing. He raked his boot heel along the lower sash, then holstered the Colt. As he looked out he saw white faces in the yard, like scraps of torn paper, upturned, and bodies lying on the grass. Then there was no time to see more; he slid through the window. Jagged bits of glass cut his hands as he hung dangling from the frame, boots fifteen feet above the ground.
Smoke and flame roared out of the broken sash above his head. There was nothing for it; Gaylord let go and dropped. He hit hard, rolled, and felt something give in his ankle. Then hands seized him, were dragging him across the grass.
“Carla,” he yelled, full of fear. His smoke-burned throat closed up, choked. “Carla,” he whispered.
“I’m here, Frank.” She was bending over him. “Are you all right? Oh, God, are you all right?”
“I’ll make it,” he managed in a whisper. “Swain? Where’s Swain and Lew?”
Fielding, close by, said, “We got ’em out. Lew took a bullet, Swain’s got a busted head, but they’ll both live.” He added sickly, “Lang and Withers are still in there.”
“And Gruber,” Gaylord husked.
“We saw,” Fielding answered; and for a moment then there was nothing but the roaring of the fire. The whole house was going now, lighting the sky, and people yelled and a fire bell rang. But it was all right, because Carla was safe; and the others; nothing else but that was of any consequence.
Then, with Carla’s help, Gaylord struggled to his feet. At a safe distance, they stood there, watching the building shake, then, wall by wall, collapse. “I’m sorry, Carla,” Gaylord whispered, leaning on her.
Her arm was around his waist, and now it tightened. “It doesn’t matter,” she answered in a strange voice that carried above the roar of flames. He could not tell whether she was laughing or crying; she just held him desperately. “Let it burn! We’ll build another one!”
We. Gaylord looked down at her, and he steadied himself on the one ankle that was not sprained, and as she leaned her head against his chest he stroked her hair. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You and me, we’ll build another one.” And he was still holding her in his arms when the fire brigade thundered, too late, into the yard.
Chapter Thirteen
“Sheriff,” Callaway said. “Stage is ready to pull out.”
Gaylord rose and went to his office door. Winter wind whipped dust along the street, ruffling the blond hair of the slender woman in traveling clothes being helped into the coach by the driver. Seated, Florence Gruber looked out the window, caught sight of Frank Gaylord standing there, and turned her head. There was something lonely and pathetic about her; and as the driver mounted the box Gaylord felt a thrust of pity. Then it faded. She was every bit as hard-bitten as her brother. He had been present when she loosed her obscene tirade of hatred at Lord Peter Swain, who had brought her the news of Gruber’s death—and at himself as well. Not even grief for Ross Gruber, but sheer ferocity at being cheated of the future she’d imagined. Gaylord’s mouth thinned. She would get along, he thought. She was as hard as anyone he had ever met. Anywhere she landed, she would get along.
He watched the stage rattle down the street, turn east, and vanish. With it gone, he raked his eyes up and down the main street of Warshield. Nothing on it had altered in the past forty-eight hours, and yet it was a different town, he thought. The air had a different feel; there was no longer that tension like the pause before a storm: that storm had broken; now it was over.
Gaylord looked down at his chest and fingered the badge pinned there. He had not asked for it; they had forced it on him: Fielding, Carla, Swain—even Sir Randolph Hart, when he had learned the truth about Ross Gruber.
It was Fielding who had set the thing in motion, even before the embers of Carla’s house were dark. In the doctor’s office, where Swain’s head and Morrell’s smashed shoulder and Gaylord’s sprained ankle were being bandaged, he said, “Well, the polls still open in three hours. And neither party has a candidate for sheriff.”
Gaylord raised his head and looked at him.
“Frank,” said Fielding, “I could get together a rump convention of both parties in about an hour. We could recertify you as a candidate. Put you back on the Republican ticket—and on our own as well.” He smiled thinly. “In about an hour we could have some stickers printed with Gaylord’s name on ’em. To go over Lang’s and Clint’s. What about it?”
Swain sipped the drink the doctor had given him. “I think I have a better offer for Mr. Gaylord. I’ll be needing a new manager for Chain Ranch—a man of courage, ability, and integrity. I would like to offer Mr. Gaylord that position.” He paused. “You’d have the same salary we were paying Gruber, plus the right to run stock on our range in your own name. And, eventually, I daresay it could lead to considerable future benefits. You would be, after all, a power in the government of this county and this territory.”
Now Fielding and Swain both were staring at him. So was Carla, sitting across the room. Gaylord rose, limped to the window of the doctor’s office, and looked out across the sleeping town. “Carla?” he said.
“The decision’s yours to make, Frank. I don’t care what it is, so long as you’re happy.”
Manager of Chain, Gaylord thought. And they would come to him—the others, the powers, like Shell, Sir Randolph Hart, MacAlpine ... and Gruber’s salary had surely been three times, maybe four, what the county paid its sheriff. With money like that he could make Carla comfortable, give her everything she deserved …
“Frank,” said Fielding. “Like Carla says, the choice is up to you. But no matter who runs Chain, good, bad, or indifferent, this county needs the law. If Clint was still alive, I’d say take Swain’s offer. But Clint is dead, and ... there’s no one else but you.”
His voice was earnest. “Even with Chain reformed, we’re not out of the woods yet. The association’s still in power in Cheyenne, the maverick law’s still in force, there’s got to be a strong man, a good man, behind that badge ... I know what you’re thinking: as manager of Chain, maybe you could draw more water, change things quicker. But … ”
“But those wolves in Cheyenne would eat me alive before I knew what happened.” Gaylord turned, smiling wryly. “That it, Terry?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Well, you’re right,” Gaylord said. He drew in a deep breath. “I had my crack at it, I saw how it works. It’s not something I know how to handle.”
He
paused. “But a badge. Yeah. Yeah, a badge is about my size.” He faced Peter Swain. “I’m sorry, Swain. But I’m not a cowman anyhow. I never have been. And I’m too old to learn, now. I’d better stick to what I know I can do.” He smiled at Fielding. “You need a sheriff,” he said, “and if your people want me—why, I’ll be proud to serve.”
Fielding looked at him. “They’ll want you,” he said. “When I finish talkin’ to ’em.” Then he came alive, always the politician. “Good Lord, it’s getting late. I’ve got a lot to do!” He hurried out.
When the door closed behind him Carla came to Gaylord and took his hand. “I’ll make sure you get the women’s vote,” she said and laughed.
Swain finished his whiskey and stood up. “Well, he’ll have the vote from Chain Ranch and Sir Randolph’s place, I’ll see to that. Frank, I wish— But perhaps it’s just as well. I’ll keep Lew here to advise me while I go through Gruber’s accounts and get the picture; he’ll be my second in command. Then, if he cares to stay on—”
“Not me,” Morrell said. “I’ll stay for a while, but then I’m headed back to Texas. Wyoming’s either too damned cold or too damned hot for me.”
Swain chuckled. “Then I suppose Martin Shell will recommend a manager.” He was serious. “One thing is certain, Frank. You can be sure that Chain will cooperate with you—and the rest of the county—in every way. I’ll give you my word on that. Now ... I am no longer a young man and it’s been an exhausting time. Lew, if you will find us a conveyance and someone to drive it, I should like to head straight for my ranch. There is still the sad news to convey to Miss Gruber—and much to do.”
“I’ll see to it,” Morrell said, then he went out.
“Now,” Carla said, “I think we’d better—” She broke off as, outside, on the main street, trumpets blared. Then she ran to the window. “Frank! Come here!”
He hobbled over and stared. There they came, marching down the center of the street in the cold light of false dawn—the Warshield Silver Cornet Band, with George Hayes, the town barber, in the lead, waving his baton. Trumpets, trombones, drums, and fifes, they shattered the early morning stillness with a thunderous rendition of “There’ll Be a Hot Time In the Old Town Tonight.”
And there was just enough light for Gaylord to read the crudely lettered signs held aloft by two small boys marching with them, GAYLORD FOR SHERIFF!
Carla laughed. “Terry didn’t waste a second, did he?”
And that was only the beginning, Gaylord remembered as the dust raised by the stage’s passage settled. It was the biggest election day Warshield had ever seen. Fielding managed everything, spreading the news about Gruber, restoring voters’ confidence in Frank Gaylord, overseeing the printing of the stickers and the voting. For the first time in Gaylord’s political career, he was unanimously elected to public office without opposition or a dissenting vote.
He closed the door, turned back inside the office, poured himself a cup of coffee, and drank it. Then he put on his coat and adjusted his gun in its holster. Last night the county board, apologetic, had sworn him back in. And then there had been another ceremony, presided over by Judge Merkel.
It was the first time, too, that Gaylord had ever celebrated his reelection by getting married.
He grinned. Carla was busy even now in the small house across town which they had rented until the big one could be rebuilt. He hungered for the sight and feel of her, but that, like their honeymoon, would have to wait. After all, he was on duty now.
He turned to Callaway. “Tom, you hold things down here. I’ll go out and take a look around the town.”
Callaway nodded, and Gaylord stepped out onto the sidewalk. The wind from the Big Horns was clean and cold. He drew in a deep breath of it, made sure the star on his sheepskin coat was tightly fastened, and, limping slightly, set out, as was his custom, on his routine ten o’clock patrol.
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