“My father was a cattle buyer. When he was killed, I just took over where he left off. There aren’t too many ways for a woman to earn a living out here. This seemed preferable to the others.”
He rose. “I’m obliged for the dinner, ma’am.”
“For heaven’s sake, stop calling me ma’am. My name is Merline.”
“All right, Merline. I’m obliged. You’re a good cook.”
He went through the house to the door and stepped out onto the porch. He turned to find her watching him, and now he suddenly remembered the way her lips had felt touching his own last night. Her forthright glance did not conceal her thoughts, and he knew she was remembering that, too.
She said, “Good-bye.”
“That sounds pretty final. Do you want me to leave?”
She frowned. “I think I do. I think if you stay, you’ll take that job, and if you take it, you’ll be killed.”
“Then I’d better leave.”
Walking back toward Texas Street, he frowned faintly, not liking his own conflicting thoughts. He wanted to stay, and admitted to himself that Merline Morris was the reason. Yet he also admitted that what she had predicted was at least a probability. He was at loose ends, and he was not the kind of man to be satisfied with remaining idle long.
He wandered aimlessly along Texas Street, letting the early afternoon sun beat hotly against his back. Even this early there was a crowd of Texas trail drivers in the street, some squatting in the shade talking, some going from saloon to saloon, some already drunk. The barkers had begun their monotonous chant from in front of their respective saloons, shamelessly exaggerating the attractions to be found inside.
Farther up the street, the people of the town went about their business. There seemed to be an invisible dividing line between the lower end of the street and the upper end. A lion was loose in the streets. The lion was drowsy now. But before the day was over he would become hungry again. Sloan shook his head angrily. It was not his problem. He had not helped create it, and this was not his town.
Ahead of him, the batwing doors of a saloon banged open and a man staggered out, to be followed by another. They came together and pounded each other briefly with fists, until one fell back. Then, so quickly that it startled Sloan, the downed man’s gun came out and barked rapidly several times. The other man collapsed and lay quite still. Sloan stopped to avoid the gathering crowd. The noise in the street mounted.
Sloan became aware that a woman was screaming farther up the street. Puzzled, he glanced around. Then, without thinking, he whirled and began to run toward that lost and awful sound.
IV
Behind him a circle of men gathered around the dead cowpuncher. Ahead of him a crowd began to gather around the screaming woman. By the time Sloan reached the scene, they obscured his sight of the woman herself. But he had caught a glimpse of her as he swung around—and had been struck by recognition. Running, he realized who she was—the woman he had watched hanging clothes on a line while a small girl played on the lawn nearby.
He reached the scene as the crowd parted to let a man come through. He was an elderly, bearded man, and he was carrying a limp, pitiful burden—the little girl Sloan had seen playing on the lawn. He stalked away, his face white and furious, toward the bank. The distraught, hysterical mother followed. And now, with a shock, Sloan knew why this woman had drawn his attention so. Out of the past, out of his memory of another time and place her identity came to him. Stunned, he watched her follow the doctor up an outside stairway to his office over the bank.
Sylvia Flint. She had promised to marry him before he went away to war. But, when he returned, she’d been gone—leaving no word for him, leaving no clue as to where she might be found. He’d searched for a while, but he’d found no trace. And now, to find her here … She was married. She must be married to have a little girl.
He scarcely heard the talk in the street. But he couldn’t miss the tone of it—outraged, angry, indignant. Frowning, he crossed to the hotel and went inside.
The town had had its breakfast—a hearty one today. A man and a little girl. Sloan’s mind was stunned. He stared at the stairway leading upward from the lobby. He turned and stared at the outside door. His mind was crowded with memories. Abruptly he turned and strode outside again.
The crowd had not dispersed. He saw the banker, Dryden, in the crowd. Dryden was watching him closely. Sloan scowled and turned away.
He walked to the edge of town and beyond, out onto the wide, golden prairie. Dust rose from his rapidly striding feet. His fists were clenched at his sides, his face cold and hard as he sought to bring order out of chaos in his mind. The shock of seeing Sylvia after all these years. The shock of seeing a child shot down in the middle of the street. The stupidity of it all—a stray bullet fired from a drunken, quarrelsome cowpuncher’s gun. The expression on Dryden’s face was suddenly very plain in Sloan Hewitt’s mind. His anger stirred like a sleepy giant.
Accidental death—that was the verdict a coroner’s jury would bring in, if there had been one here. But it wasn’t accidental. Sylvia’s little girl had been murdered by the public greed and apathy that had allowed a situation such as existed here to flourish and grow. Like spectators who had idly watched water wash through a hole in a dam, they were looking around now for something to throw into the breach. They wanted to throw Sloan in first, and when he was gone, they would throw others in, at a frightening rate, until by their very numbers the men sacrificed would slow and stop the flood. A flood that needn’t have started at all. Sloan suddenly barked a savage curse, turned, and strode quickly back toward the town.
Sun heat beat mercilessly now into the dusty streets. A few people moved about, but they did it silently, almost furtively. The barkers at the lower end of Texas Street were quiet. As though in defiance of this self-imposed respect, a piano tinkled from one of the saloons, and Sloan faintly heard a woman’s laugh.
He stopped in the shade across from the bank and stared up at the doctor’s office. He knew they were still up there, for others were waiting, too. The doctor came out at last, and helped a still-faced, numbed Sylvia Flint down the wooden stairs. He walked with her up the street toward the edge of town. The full shock of what had happened was plain in the faces of those who watched. The little girl had still been alive when Sloan had left, but she had died, else the doctor would have stayed with her. Sylvia’s hysteria had obviously given way to shock.
Sloan walked slowly in their wake. He knew that now was not the time to renew their relationship, but he also knew that Sylvia was alone. She needed her friends. Suddenly he frowned. Where were her friends? Where was her husband? Why was she alone, save for the old doctor taking her home?
He increased his pace. He saw them go into her house, saw the door close behind them. He went up the walk and knocked on the door.
The doctor answered it, scowling. “I don’t know you, and it’s a damned poor time to call. Come back some other time.”
Sloan said, “Tell her it’s Sloan Hewitt. I think she needs all the friends she has, and I’m a friend.”
She must have heard his voice, heard his name, for she came running to the door. Seeing him, her face turned even whiter than it had been before. She swayed and would have fallen but for the doctor’s steadying hands. “Sloan.” The word was the barest whisper, but the intensity of her voice was frightening.
The doctor said irritably, “Come in. Come in!”
Sloan went in, removing his hat as he did. He closed the door behind him. He stared at Sylvia uncertainly, wondering what to expect. And then she was in his arms, her body cold and trembling uncontrollably. Her tears came like a flood.
The doctor looked at Sloan over the top of her head. His eyes mirrored satisfaction, and he said, “Good. Crying is what she needs.”
For a long, long time she wept, and at last Sloan picked her up bodily and carried her to th
e sofa under the window. He laid her down, knelt beside her and wiped tears from her cheeks with a gentle, callused hand. Her face relaxed, and her lips smiled faintly. She murmured, “I’m glad you’re here, Sloan. I’m so glad you’re here.” And then she slept.
Sloan got up and walked softly across the room. He opened the door and stepped outside. The doctor followed.
He studied Sloan briefly. “You’re the one Dryden was talking about. The one he wanted to take the marshal’s job?”
Sloan nodded.
“Are you going to take the job?”
Sloan said, “I don’t know.” But he did know, even though he had not yet admitted to himself that he did.
“You know Sylvia?”
Sloan nodded. “From before the war. She was going to marry me. When I came home, she had disappeared.” That had been a long, long time ago, he realized now. Three years. With a shock it struck him that Sylvia’s daughter had been older than three. Or had seemed so. He asked harshly, “How old was the little girl?”
“Five. Why?”
Sloan turned his face away. With a hand that trembled violently, he reached in his pocket for a cigar. But his voice was calm enough. “Know when her birthday was?”
“A month ago. June seventeenth, I think.”
Sloan’s mind was racing. He’d had a leave. He said suddenly, “Take good care of her, Doc. I’ll be back,” and he strode away toward town.
The town had touched him now, had taken something from him he didn’t even know he had. The man-eating town had made its first mistake.
A part of the crowd had dispersed, but a few remained, gathered into little groups. Their talk was low, their faces sober—worried. Sloan saw Dryden and walked toward him.
Dryden’s eyes lit as he glanced up. Sloan said, “I want to talk to you.”
“I was hoping you would.”
Sloan moved away, and Dryden followed. Sloan said, “I’ll take the job, but there will be conditions. Conditions that you may not like.”
“I’ll get the others together. Would you mind waiting in my office at the bank?”
Sloan shook his head. He crossed to the bank and went inside. The lobby was cool. His boot heels pounded noisily on the white-tiled floor.
He was directed to an office at the rear of the bank, an oak-paneled office with furniture upholstered in red velour. He removed his hat and sat down to wait. He found another cigar in his pocket, bit off the end, and lit it. He tried to study himself, his own emotions, dispassionately. But he found that underlying everything he felt was anger—deep-rooted, smoldering anger that made such an analysis impossible. He knew it was enough—enough to make him take the job—enough to enforce the town’s acceptance of him on his own terms. And he knew his anger would neither fade nor die in the days to come. It would be with him while he lived; it would be with him when he died. Die he surely would, but maybe not before he had brought some kind of order to the town, had tamed it to a point where someone else could take over and finish what he had started.
He had waited less than five minutes when Dryden arrived, accompanied by the pair who had come with him to Sloan’s room earlier today, and three others.
Dryden introduced them. And then he waited.
Sloan said, “I told Mister Dryden I’d take the job. I also told him there would be conditions he probably wouldn’t like.”
No one spoke. Their faces were grave, the faces of men who would accept anything that promised to eliminate the condition now existing in their town. Sloan realized with a flash of insight that because they now accepted the conditions willingly did not mean they wouldn’t repudiate them later.
He said, “I’m to have a free hand. There’s to be no interference with anything I do. A week from now you may begin to wonder if a man for breakfast every day wasn’t mild. But this town’s completely out of hand.”
They glanced at each other, then nodded agreement.
Sloan said, “I want a contract for a year. If I’m still alive at the end of the year, which isn’t likely, your town will be clean.”
They glanced around at each other, then nodded again.
Sloan said harshly, “I’ll be hated … by every man in town. I’ll hurt you in your pocketbooks. Trail hands like a town that’s wide open, the way this one is. Saloonkeepers like it, and gamblers do, and so do the prostitutes. I have an idea you gentlemen like the way the money’s rolling in. It won’t roll in as fast in the next few months, but you’ll be alive to spend it. If that’s what you want, then we can go ahead.” There was some hesitancy this time, so Sloan got up. “Talk it over. Be sure you want what I’m offering you. If you decide you do, prepare a contract and bring it to me at the hotel.”
He put on his hat and went out, leaving utter silence behind. The sun was low on the western horizon now. The heat of the day was fading slightly. Down at the lower end of Texas Street the noise was increasing, and the barkers were back at their posts in front of their respective saloons. His face somber, Sloan stepped to the corner of the building and climbed the outside stairs to the doctor’s office.
V
He stopped in the hall and stood there, hat in hand, for a long, long time. His eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. His mouth was a thin, straight line. His hands shook slightly, and there was an ache in his chest, an unaccustomed tightness in his throat. Slowly, softly he turned the knob and stepped inside. He closed the door quietly behind him.
Now he stood with his back to the door, smelling the smells peculiar to a physician’s office, seeing the small body lying there on the table covered with a sheet. Like a sleepwalker he crossed the room. Carefully, gently he took the edges of the sheet and folded it back. He stared down into the white, pale face of the little girl. She was a pretty thing with dark, silky hair framing her waxen face. Her eyes were closed, her long, dark lashes lying on her cheeks. If only he had known. If he had only known that Sylvia and her daughter were here. They might not have been in the street today. Perhaps he would have been with them some place else. But he hadn’t known, and now it was too late. The little girl was dead, and nothing could bring her back.
He heard the door behind him and swung his head in time to see the doctor enter. The man was gaunt and untidy and ugly, but his eyes held an incredible amount of sadness as he glanced at Sloan, then glanced away. Sloan said, “You weren’t here,” wondering at the need he felt to explain himself.
The doctor said, “It’s all right. I wish every man in town would come and look at her.”
“How’s Sylvia?”
“Sleeping. You know I gave her a sedative. A neighbor woman is with her now.”
“Where the hell is her husband?”
The doctor frowned. He walked to the window and stared down into the street. With his back to Sloan, he said, “She has no husband.” He turned, his face a study of indecision. “Are you going to stay here? Are you going to take that job as marshal?”
Sloan nodded briefly.
The doctor shrugged. “Then I suppose I had better tell you. Sylvia is … oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m getting as mealy-mouthed as some of the women hereabouts. Sylvia is living with Jeff Burle. She has been for a couple of years. It’s why she’s alone now, except for that neighbor of hers that I had to practically drag over there just now.”
Somehow or other the news did not surprise Sloan as much as he thought it should. He supposed he had expected something of the sort when he saw no one come forward to comfort Sylvia in her grief. He asked harshly, “Then where the hell is Burle?”
The doctor tossed his head in the direction of the lower end of Texas Street. “Down there, I suppose. He never liked the little girl much. Thought she was in the way.”
“How long before Sylvia will wake up?”
“Two or three hours, I suppose.”
Sloan nodded. He took a last, long look at the still
face of the little girl, realizing that he didn’t even know her name. He felt his throat constrict and his eyes begin to burn. He went angrily out into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He strode down the outside stairs into the noisy street, across the street, and into the hushed hotel lobby, then up the stairs to his room.
Sid Wessell was washing noisily at the washstand. He turned his head as Sloan came in. He was a bit white and shaky, but otherwise appeared all right. It was hard for Sloan to believe that so much had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours, while Sid stayed here in the room getting drunk and sleeping off the subsequent hangover. He said, “You look better. Maybe you’re going to live.”
“I feel like I might, now. For a while there I didn’t even care.”
Sloan asked abruptly, “Want a job?”
“What kind of job?”
“Marshal’s deputy.”
“Who’s the marshal?”
“I am. Or at least I think I will be.”
“Are you crazy? In this town a star will just make a damn good target.”
Sid was tall, stringy as a bean. There was surprising strength in him, however, and Sloan had never seen him tired. Sid’s face was heavily freckled, his eyes blue, his whiskers spotty and thin. His nose was always sunburned and peeling, and when he was out in the sun too much, it sometimes got raw and scabbed.
Sloan said, “Maybe so.” And waited.
Sid peered at him while he dried his face. “How many men are you going to hire?”
“Just you.”
Sid stared. “Why the hell are you taking the job, anyway? You don’t need the money. This town doesn’t mean anything to you.”
Sloan didn’t reply because he hadn’t yet answered that question to his own satisfaction.
“You won’t last three days.”
“Maybe not.”
He heard the heavy tread of many feet on the stairs, heard them approach along the hall. At the first knock, he opened the door.
Lawless Town Page 10
