Coe’s ancient, seamed face flushed. Perhaps to avoid an answer to so direct a question, he spoke to a man at the edge of the gathering crowd. “Carry him to the hotel. Get someone to help you.”
The girl watched him, her face revealing both disappointment and disgust. Coe, still avoiding her eyes, caught young Alf Browder by a thin shoulder and said, “Fetch the doctor, son.”
When he could no longer decently avoid it, he returned his gaze to the girl. Her eyes awaited his answer. He said, “Rose, when the man comes to, if he wants to swear an assault warrant, I’ll serve it. Does that satisfy you?”
She asked with a certain contempt, “Does it satisfy you, Mister Coe?”
She stood up, to be out of the way as the two men lifted Street’s limp body. She faced Coe, a study of indignation, hands on hips, dark eyes flashing. She repeated, “Does it satisfy the sheriff’s office?”
He made a patient, helpless gesture. “Rose, what would you have me do? The man’s beat up. It happens all the time. Am I supposed to charge someone with attempted murder every time there’s a fight?”
“Suppose this one dies?”
“He won’t. If he does, I’ll have Bauer in the lockup within twelve hours.”
Rose Healy snorted in a most unladylike way. “And he’ll be out in another twelve on a self-defense plea.”
Coe shrugged wearily.
Rose stamped a small foot angrily. She studied Coe’s face for an instant, and then her shoulders settled in defeat. Turning, she ran after the two men who were carrying Street.
Catching up, she asked, “What are you going to do, just dump him in his room and leave him?”
The man carrying Street’s head and shoulders answered, “Coe sent the Browder kid after Doc.”
Rose subsided, helplessly angry still. She held the hotel door while they carried Street inside, and followed up the stairs behind them.
Doc came shuffling into the room before they hardly had time to straighten Street out on the bed. Doc was a small, totally bald man. He wore pince-nez glasses that gave him a studious, intellectual look. But Doc was an awful soak, Rose knew. She peered into his eyes now, seeking signs of drunkenness. The reek of his breath was almost overpowering, but his eyes were clear for once.
The two men who had carried Street in now left, breathing heavily. Doc went over to the wash basin and poured it full. While he washed his hands, he studied Rose. Her expression was one of purely unselfish concern for the hurt man on the bed, and Doc made a gently mocking smile. “Another of your strays. Rose?”
Her eyes flashed. She stared at him angrily for an instant. Then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, her smile broke through the somberness of her face. She said ruefully, “I suppose so. But, Doc, it just isn’t fair. This man has done nothing to Gunhammer.”
He replied dryly, “Except inheriting Will Rawlins’ place.” He dried his hands and looked over toward the man on the bed, then back at Rose. He stared at her thoughtfully a moment with some hope in his eyes but finally shook his head. “Hell, no. You haven’t even thought of it yet.”
“What are you talking about? What haven’t I thought about yet?”
“You haven’t even realized that this man stands between you and Gunhammer. You haven’t even thought of using him.”
Rose felt a vast impatience. “Of course I haven’t thought of it. Get over there, Doc, and patch him up. He could die while you stand here gabbing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Doc grinned but he opened his bag and went to work.
V
The doctor worked steadily for a full thirty minutes. When he finished, there was the reek of alcohol in the room. The gaping slashes in Street’s head were sewed up. Street’s face was clean, the cuts salved. Doc wiped off his hands.
Rose sat in the room’s single chair, her face white. Doc said, “He’ll live. He’s got a bad concussion and it may be morning or after before he comes to. He’s got to rest until he’s well.”
“Can he be moved?”
Doc grinned mockingly. “Rose, I remember riding clear out to Chain once to splint a robin’s broken wing. You haven’t changed, have you?”
She flushed. She had always felt guilty about that. But there was a consuming compassion in her for all hurt things, which time had not dimmed. She murmured, “I wouldn’t do it now. I wouldn’t make you come that far for a robin.” She made an impish grimace. “But I’d want to.”
Doc’s face lost its mockery and became kindly. “All right, Rose. Take him home with you if you want. Cushion his head good. It won’t hurt him no more than lying here without any care.”
“You’re sure, Doc? I wouldn’t want to hurt him worse.”
“He’s a hard-headed brute. I’ve got to come out and see old Sean anyhow tomorrow. I’ll look at this one while I’m there.”
Rose smiled again. Her face, containing neither patience nor humor in repose, changed entirely when she smiled. She was a girl meant to smile often, but her smiles had been few the past couple of years. There had been Sean’s illness, coupled with the constant pressure of Gunhammer against Chain. There had been the burden of running Chain, the worry of losing it. There had been her unhappy love affair with Nick Lacey, terminating when she discovered he wished not to marry her but Chain.
She said, as Doc went out, “Seguro’s in the bar. Ask him to get the buckboard and fill the back with blankets. Tell him to come up when it’s ready and bring someone else to help.”
“All right, Rose.” Doc paused in the doorway for an instant, hesitating. Seeming to make up his mind about something, he finally said, “Rose, don’t get burned again. You don’t know a single blamed thing about him.”
Rose closed the door firmly in his face, appreciating the motive behind his warning, yet angered all the same.
She sat down and stared across the room at the stranger’s face. Her mind admonished, Be honest, Rose. Nick did hurt you. But this one won’t. Because when he’s well, he’ll sell to Gunhammer and go away.
The thought made her vaguely unhappy, blue. It is doubtful if anyone else could have seen what Street was like, looking as Rose had only at his beaten, battered face. Yet in Rose was the odd ability to look beyond the distortion of a creature’s wounds. And she had found something in Street she liked. It could have been the way he stood, glaring around him as he tried to find his enemies, the ones who had beaten him and gone away. It might have been the way he refused all help, falling on his face for lack of it. Or it may have been only his helplessness.
Yet like all the other creatures she had helped, he would heal and go away, forgetting the care and the nurse who gave it. No. Perhaps this one would stay. If Gunhammer had not already killed his spirit.
* * * * *
Ralph Coe returned to his office on Cougar, opened the unlocked door, and went inside. He crossed the darkened room, avoiding furniture with an uncanny precision born of complete familiarity with each object in the room. He struck a match, raised the lamp chimney, and touched the flame to its wick. Then, he sank down into his creaking swivel chair and raised his scuffed boots to the desk.
He cuffed his hat back on his forehead and sighed heavily. Today had taken a heavy toll of his self-respect and he knew if he had any left at all when this was over, he’d be a lucky man. The years rested heavily on his shoulders tonight. He should have retired ten years ago, and he almost had. But then Mercy had been stricken with her illness. The first year had eaten up all the savings of a lifetime. Elections came along and Coe had seen no alternative but to run again. The voters liked him. They proved that again and again. He was old, but he was active. Perhaps they felt that he could deputize strength, but that only he had the experience and know-how a good lawman needs.
He looked back at his life briefly, proud of it all except for the past few years. Proud of it until the Lacey boys grew into men and began to ride the c
ountry with their roughshod ways. Proud of it until Nick Lacey brought Max Bauer back from Denver to ramrod Gunhammer. He had known then, knuckling under to old Brandt Lacey, that Gunhammer could lose him an election any time he failed to please them. And what would he do if they did? How would he get the money he had to send over to that sanitarium in Denver if he didn’t have the sheriff’s pay coming in each month?
Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Gunhammer had probably broken this Rawlins’ spirit tonight. When he recovered, he’d sell. Coe felt bad about Rose Healy. But he knew Gunhammer would leave her enough of Chain to live fairly comfortably. And she’d get married sooner or later. Too bad she hadn’t married Nick Lacey when he was courting her. Then all this trouble might have been avoided. Anger stirred this old man for an instant, then went away. Shame came and he fought it fiercely. A man did what he had to do. This was what Ralph Coe had to do. Maybe he didn’t like it. Maybe his pride fought it. But there was no single other way out for him.
Scowling, he heard a step outside the door and looked up. Max Bauer came in, grinning. One of Max’s lips were puffed, one of his eyes was swollen and slightly blue.
His manner was mocking as he said, “Sheriff, you weren’t thinking of swearing out any warrants, were you?”
Coe’s face flushed. Trust this evil one to seek out a man’s weaknesses, his sore spots, then deliberately rub salt into them. Bauer was a man whose greatest pleasure was inflicting pain, whether it be physical or pain of the mind and soul. He knew Coe’s sore spot was his relinquished self-respect and tonight he had come deliberately to grind what was left of it into the dirt. Coe took a grip on the arms of his swivel chair and said, “No. I wasn’t thinking of swearing out any. Rawlins might when he comes to.”
Bauer laughed, tossing his shaggy head and showing his even white teeth. Coe thought, The teeth are Bauer’s vanity. Too bad Rawlins couldn’t have knocked them out. He said, “Max, don’t go too far. Don’t go so far the Laceys won’t back you.”
Bauer’s smile was wicked. “Threatening me, Coe?”
Coe shook his head wearily. “No. I’m not threatening you. I know better than that.” He stared up at Bauer, suddenly tired of this cruel fencing. He said, “Max, get it over with and get out, will you?”
He could not help the pleasure he felt, seeing the flash of anger in Bauer’s eyes. Bauer growled, “You’re the second one who’s told me to get out today. Watch your step, you old fool, or you’ll be hunting a job next election.”
Coe swallowed. He looked at Max’s boots and his voice was very low. “All right, Max.”
This was apparently what Bauer wanted—the sheriff’s complete surrender. He laughed softly, his mood bright. Then without another word he turned and went out, slamming the door behind him with deliberate viciousness. Coe discovered that his hands were trembling. His head felt light, almost as though it were separated from his body.
He sat very still for a while, and finally fished a sack of tobacco from his pocket and began to build a cigarette. His hands were steady now, and he made himself a promise that might never be kept. But he made it anyway. Max, if ever Mercy doesn’t need me, if ever the time comes when I don’t have to have this job … why, Max, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to rid the country of you once and for all. And having promised himself this, a measure of his manhood began to return.
VI
At midnight a curtained buggy drove into Escalante off the Cougar Creek road. It was followed by two horsemen, one of whom trotted ahead as it approached the two-story house of Verona Ormsby. This one dismounted and tied the buggy horse. The other swung down beside the buggy and waited with a sort of deference for its occupant to alight. An old man got out of the buggy, snarled irritably at the dismounted horseman, and then stalked stiffly toward the house. Apparently someone inside had been expecting visitors, for the door flung open at the first sound of his boots on the porch. The other two, having tied their mounts, followed him silently inside. This was the Lacey tribe, old Brandt with Nick and Glenn following him in. Bruce, the handsome one, was the man who met them at the door.
The old man shucked out of his coat, tossed his hat on a chair. Then he went directly to the fireplace, backed against it, and spread his horny, gnarled hands to its meager warmth. He glared irascibly at his three sons, letting his gaze rest finally on Bruce. He said, “Now. What the hell’s been happening in town today? Why do you have to drag me ’way down here in the middle of the night?” He completely ignored Verona, seated on a brocade sofa over against the wall, a slight she resented violently.
Bruce was a classic-featured, dark-skinned man of perhaps twenty-five. His eyes were dark, holding a devil of merriment that Verona knew was not merriment at all but a kind of wastrel refusal to take anything seriously. Bruce said, “That damned Rawlins came in on the stage this morning. Seems he had a tussle with a gunfighter on the stage and accidentally killed him. I guess he was feeling pretty big about it because he wouldn’t listen to either Bauer or Hayden.”
Old Brandt’s face flushed with anger. His voice raised irritably, “Damn! It looks like I’m going to have to do this myself.”
Nick broke in calmly, “Don’t get yourself worked up. It’s all taken care of. For some reason Rawlins tried to come here tonight. Maybe he wanted to square himself with Verona, but …”
The old man interrupted savagely, “Don’t tell me not to get worked up! And what in tarnation’s Verona got to do with it?”
There was a silence in the room, broken by Bruce’s nervous cough. The old man’s eyes sought him out and pinned him fiercely in place. “Well. What’s she got to do with it?” There was a world of contempt in the way he said she.
Bruce colored. His smoothly olive face glistened with a beading of sweat. He said, “The gunfighter was Verona’s husband.”
Old Brandt shot a glance at Verona that made her shrivel. Then he turned back to Nick. “Go on.”
Nick, the strongest of the tribe and a squarish man of thirty, said, “Max was laying for Rawlins. He guessed he was coming here and got ahead of him with two of the crew. They worked him over out in front of the house. Damned near killed him.”
Again there was the briefest of silences, broken this time by Verona’s sharply indrawn breath. Brandt glared at her again. “So what did that accomplish?” he asked of Nick.
“Why, the man will sell when he’s well enough. Isn’t that what we’ve been working for?”
Brandt’s voice became very quiet but it was laden with contempt. “Yes. That’s what we’ve been working for. It’s what we’ve been working toward for damned near two years. And have we got it yet? Hell no. Because the bunch of you are bunglers. Because you refuse to use your stupid brains.” He paused for breath, and then went on. His audience was taking this with varying degrees of false humility. Bruce’s eyes held merry mockery, carefully veiled. Nick was angry. Glenn, the hypocritical one, was nodding sober agreement. Verona was white and trembling with her dislike and humiliation. Brandt said, patiently as though talking to children, “We need to own that Rawlins spread. It’s deeded land. If we take it, in comes the US marshal and we can’t handle him like we do Coe. So what happens? Will Rawlins tries to hold us up for it. Ten thousand he asks for it. And you get him killed. Does that help? Hell no. Because you didn’t take the trouble to find out whether or not he had any heirs. It turned out that he did. You know how you could have handled that? Sent a man back East to where this Rawlins lived, bought him out, if he’d sell. If he wouldn’t, kill him and forge a deed.”
Gradually the force in him and the logic of his argument subdued the resentment in his sons. Their expressions became faintly sheepish. Bruce asked, “What do we do now?”
Brandt shrugged. “Wait till the man recovers. Let Max approach him then. Let Max threaten him a little. See what happens.”
“What if that don’t work?”
Brandt smiled pat
iently. “The time is past for working with brains and logic. If he won’t sell, work him over again. And again. Until he does sell.”
He seemed to dismiss the subject from his mind. He left the fireplace and got his hat and coat. He stopped and looked down at Verona, asking disgustedly, “What the hell does Bruce want with you anyway?”
Giving her no chance to reply, he stalked out the door. Verona sprang up from the sofa, her green eyes blazing, her face chalky with rage. She turned her rage on the hapless Bruce. “Who does he think he is, coming in here like that, insulting me? Don’t ever let him in here again, or I’ll kill him!”
Bruce slipped the Schofield .45 from its holster and handed it to her, grinning. “Want me to call him back?”
She threw the gun at him with all her strength. He ducked it easily and it smashed a vase on the table. His grin widened.
Bruce’s mockery did not abate. But a certain spark grew in his eyes that had not been there before. He said, “Better go, boys. She’s a heller when she gets this way.”
They got their hats and hurried out. A moment later, Verona heard the drum of their horses’ hoofs retreating down the street. She looked at Bruce, hating him, wondering how she could ever have loved him at all. She said, “You, too. Get out of here.”
The spark was plain in his eyes now, and the mockery was dying before it. He murmured, “Sure you want me to?”
“Yes. Yes. Go on home. I want to think.”
The spark died in his eyes. He grinned again, mocking. “Grieving for your husband, darling?”
She sat down and buried her face in her hands, unspeaking. She could not combat Bruce. She ought to know better than to try. He could show her either passion or mockery, but nothing else. Whatever went on inside his head, in his secret thoughts, he never revealed, even to her. She realized suddenly that he was like a complete stranger to her.
Lawless Town Page 4
