Sloan closed one of the cell doors behind Burle. He snapped the padlock shut and pocketed the key that had been in it. He returned to the office.
The carpenters had begun to clean up. The older one said, “Dryden promised to get some furniture in here first thing in the morning.”
Sloan nodded. He stepped out on the walk, fished for a cigar, bit off the end, and lit it. Downstreet he could see the last of the crowd pouring from the Cowman’s Pride. He could see the place begin to grow dark as someone went around blowing out the lamps. For the first time he began to realize what a monstrous job he had undertaken. He began to comprehend the extent to which opposition would develop. Burle might be a two-bit saloonkeeper, but he could muster considerable support among the other saloonkeepers. Next time their play wouldn’t be a joke.
Down in the cattle pens a cow bawled for her calf, and out on the plain a pack of coyotes yammered and yipped. A warm breeze blew in from the south, bringing its wild, free smell, bringing, too, the smells of the town, of manure in the loading pens, of horses in the corrals behind the livery barn, of hides and bones at the hide warehouse. It brought the smell of locomotive smoke and, a few moments later, the lost, eerie sound of the locomotive’s whistle as it pulled out going east.
Sound on the walk made Sloan whirl nervously, his hand streaking toward his gun. A bit sheepishly, he let it fall away as he recognized Merline Morris coming toward him.
If she noticed his nervous reflexive action, she didn’t comment on it. She said simply, “Good evening, Marshal.”
He nodded.
She came up close to him and stood looking up into his face. There was a fresh, faint fragrance about her he found vaguely stirring. She said, “I see you took the job. I wish you luck.”
“Thanks.”
“What made you change your mind? Debbie?”
“Partly, I suppose.”
“You knew her mother before, didn’t you?”
He stifled the irritation that touched him and stared down into her steady eyes. He weighed the tone her voice had possessed, and his mouth twisted in a small, wry grin. He said, “I knew her. We were going to be married after the war, but when I got mustered out, she had gone away.”
Merline’s eyes were large now, troubled. Sloan knew she was wondering—about Debbie—wondering if Sloan had been her father. Her glance lowered and a faint flush stained her cheeks. She said, “I’m sorry.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand. “Don’t apologize. Your curiosity is natural enough.”
She changed the subject. “I saw you bring Jeff Burle to jail.” He didn’t reply, and after a moment she looked up and met his eyes again. “Be careful, Sloan. And watch Jeff Burle. He’s a dangerous man. He’ll kill you if he can.
Sloan said, “I’ll watch him.”
Merline murmured something and turned away. He watched her until she disappeared into the darkness of the street.
VII
He stood there in the shadows idly, staring down Texas Street at the trail hands clogging the lower end of it. Faintly he heard the cries of the barkers, and sometimes the tinkle of a piano, or a woman’s singing voice. The air blew softly in off the prairie, and, after a few moments, Sloan saw Sid Wessell come from the hotel and turn toward him.
Behind him, the carpenters finished cleaning up and came out, carrying their tools. “Good night, Marshal.”
“Good night.”
Sid stepped up beside him, and Sloan said, “I’ve got Jeff Burle, one of the saloonkeepers, in a cell. Stick around here and keep an eye on things.”
“Sure.” Sid hesitated, packing a stubby pipe. He lit it, puffed a few moments, and then said, “That was a joke down there in the Cowman’s Pride, Sloan.” He stopped, and the silence grew awkward between them.
Sloan glanced at Sid wryly. “And you don’t think I should have used my gun?”
“Well …”
Sloan felt a touch of bitterness. It had begun already. He felt a compulsion to justify what he had done down in the Cowman’s Pride, opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut angrily. He said, “I’ve got to go. Look after things.”
He stepped to the rail, untied the black, and swung astride. He reined the horse down toward the lower end of Texas Street, riding in the exact center of the street, riding straight in the saddle, and holding the nervous horse to a steady walk. He wanted the town to see him now—see him plainly, conspicuously, and often. He intended to set up a route through town, rounds that he would make several times every night. Doing so would make him a target, and he fully realized this. It would also announce that he was not afraid of them, that he intended to keep the peace, that he was on the job.
Coming out of the darkness here at the upper end of the street and into the light of the lower end, he saw the way they turned to stare at him, saw, too, the hostility in their faces. He knew these Texas men, these Southerners. He’d met them often enough during the war. He understood their pride and knew how recklessly they would defend it if they thought it had been challenged. This time he passed along the street unchallenged, and he rode beyond to the cattle pens, to the railroad depot, which he circled, still at a steady walk. Then he went west past the hide warehouse, in which a faint light burned, threaded his way between the piled-up bones and bales of hides to the street west of Texas Street, which was lined with cribs. Most of these were dark and relatively quiet, for the hour was early. In the shadows before each one, the crib girls stood talking, some clad in low-cut dresses, some in wrappers. Their perfume was strong and tangible even out in the middle of the street. A few of them spoke to him, and he touched the brim of his hat by way of reply, but most of them were silent, watching, wondering what he intended to do about them, wondering whether he would tolerate them or run them out of town.
He reached the intersection of Fourth, the street on which both the hotel and the bank fronted, and turned east here, continuing until he reached Texas Street and Fourth. He rode over to the jail and stared down at Sid standing in the shadows. His anger having mellowed, he said, “That was not a joke down at the Cowman’s Pride. It was a deliberate attempt to make a laughingstock of the law. If I’d allowed it …” He let the sentence dangle, having gone as far as he ever would to explain himself. And now, looking inward, he was mildly amazed at the position in which he found himself. He had not wanted the marshal’s job. He had wanted it least of all the things that had passed through his mind in the last few days. The money meant nothing, and he had never been a man to whom authority was important. Nor did the welfare of a town that had allowed lawlessness to get out of hand concern him.
Sid said, “I … hell, Sloan, I didn’t think, I guess. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” For some reason he felt better as he turned away to begin another round of the noisy town. The opinions of others were important to him. He had never thought they were before, but he had been wrong. And this realization brought a rueful twist to his mouth. Hell of a job for a man who cared what others thought. Because everything he did in the next few days would be bitterly denounced, at both ends of Texas Street, out on the plain, and even in the respectable residences at the upper end of town.
In front of the Cowman’s Pride, he stopped, as half a dozen riders whirled from the rail to halt, fighting their plunging horses, in the street before him. He let his gaze rest steadily on them, but the nerves in his body grew tight. One of the riders was a tall, middle-aged man with a sweeping, cavalry-style mustache and a Confederate officer’s hat, from which the insignia had been removed. The man said intemperately, “Hold on there, Marshal. That was one of my men you killed awhile ago.”
“Too bad.”
“Too bad? Why, God damn you, suh, you’ll have to do better than that. They was funnin’ you an’ …”
Sloan’s lips firmed out. He stared at the cowman with icy eyes. “When a man draws a gun on me, mister, it is
n’t fun. What’s your name?”
The cowman sputtered a moment, then said, “Towner. Jeb Towner.”
“The one they call Maverick?”
“The same. And I’m goin’ to kill you, suh.”
Anger stirred in Sloan. He said evenly, “Are you, Mister Towner? All by yourself? Or is it going to be you and your five helpers?”
“You Yankee pup!”
Sloan eased his horse closer. “You brought the war into this, Mister Towner, not me. But, now that you have, I’ll tell you something. You’re a type. You’re arrogant as hell, but you’re a goddamn bag of wind. I’ve seen …” He was close to the man now, close enough. As Towner’s hand streaked toward his holstered gun, Sloan snatched his hat from his head and batted Towner’s horse squarely between the eyes. As he did, he dug heels into his own nervous mount and uttered a howling yell.
The Texan’s horse shied, reared, and swapped ends before Towner could get off a shot. Sloan’s black thundered past him, then whirled as Sloan hauled back savagely on the reins and dug a heel into one of the horse’s sides. As Towner’s horse came down, Sloan was there, and ready. His gun slammed against Towner’s forearm with sufficient force to snap the bone. Before the cowman’s gun struck the ground, he had holstered his own.
Now he seized Towner furiously with both hands, yanked him from the saddle, and dumped him on the ground. His right side was toward Towner’s companions, so he swung off to the left. A shot blasted, then another, from the milling group in the center of the street. Both missed cleanly. Sloan reached Towner and yanked him to his feet. He was raging now, as furious as he had ever been in his life. His voice was a whip. “Damn you, call ’em off!”
Towner bawled, “Hold it!”
The shooting stopped.
Sloan yelled, “Dismount! All of you!”
They got off sullenly. Sloan could sense, rather than see, the crowd gathering behind him. He said sharply, authoritatively, “Shuck your belts!” They hesitated. He repeated, “Shuck ’em! Now!” One by one the holstered guns and belts thudded to the ground. Sloan gave Towner a push toward them. He ordered harshly, “Take him over to Doc and have his arm set.”
Towner staggered toward the five, recovered, and whirled, his face twisted with pain and rage, “You bastard! You dirty bastard, I’ll kill you for this!”
Sloan heard someone coming at a run and turned his head to see Sid approaching down the middle of the street, gun in hand. Sid hauled up, out of breath, and positioned himself on Sloan’s left side. Sloan said, “Pick up their guns and take ’em back to the office.” He stared coldly at the five. “Be out of town in an hour or go to jail. And don’t ever let me see any one of you carrying a gun in town again.”
He swung to his saddle deliberately, turned his back, and rode away, holding the black to a walk. He could hear the indistinguishable muttering in the crowd and grinned humorlessly to himself. He was doing fine, but he hoped his luck held out. All the challenges had been made openly so far—Burle’s and Towner’s both. But when open challenges repeatedly failed, either to discredit him or result in his death, other means would be brought into play. Bullets would come without warning from dark places. There would be other, more devious attempts to discredit him.
He threaded his way between the stock pens, past the railroad depot, through the stinking, cluttered yard of the hide warehouse, noting that the light in the office had gone out, wondering now as he had wondered before if Ike Solomon had had anything to do with his being beaten and robbed. Oddly, he discovered that he was enjoying one part of this job, enjoying the feel of danger, of walking along the edge of a yawning precipice.
He rode up the crib street, staying in the center of it, but halted as one of the girls called, “Marshal!”
He waited, and after several moments one of the girls detached herself from the others and came toward him. His horse fidgeted nervously at her approach, but Sloan held him still with an implacable hand. The girl stood looking up at him for a moment, her face a blur of white, and when she spoke there was something of defiance in her throaty voice. “What are you going to do about us?”
“Nothing. As long as you’re orderly.”
In this dim light she made a strangely appealing figure standing alone there in the middle of the dusty street. Sloan wondered briefly what pressures forced girls into this way of life. He touched the brim of his hat and said, “Good night, ma’am,” and rode on up the street, leaving her there, staring after him.
He rode up to Fourth, then right to Texas Street, across it to the jail, where he dismounted, and went inside. It was a bare place, without furniture, with the smell of fresh-sawed pine heavy in the air. Sid was sitting uncomfortably on a box.
Sloan asked, “Burle all right?”
“Sure. Quiet, anyhow.”
Sloan took a cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. There was a peculiar excitement in him as he thought of his next round through the town, because he knew that the next time there would be a serious, organized attempt to get him. He’d taunted the town, and slapped it down ruthlessly both times it had risen to the taunts. He’d drawn the line between himself and Texas Street. Unless they killed him, the quarrel would not be decided tonight, perhaps not for many nights to come. But the quarrel would continue to one of two inevitable conclusions—with Sloan dead or with the town subdued.
VIII
With the cigar clamped in his teeth, Sloan crossed to the door and stepped outside into the cool night air. His horse fidgeted at the tie rail, occasionally lifting his head, nostrils flared, to smell the breeze blowing in off the prairie. Sloan grinned, his mind drawing a comparison between himself and the horse. The difference was that Sloan was listening only to sounds in the town, alert for those that meant danger to himself.
Down there at the lower end of Texas Street, the racket of revelry went on as the evening progressed. Innocuous enough. Yet it seemed to Sloan that there was an undercurrent of menace flowing in the air tonight. The lion was at bay, teeth bared wickedly in a snarl, muscles gathered for a slashing leap. He puffed luxuriously on the cigar and watched the bluish smoke lift in the faint breeze and drift lazily up the street. Out on the plain there had been no cigars, no small comforts, and he was enjoying those to be found in town to the fullest. He finished it and threw it regretfully into the street, watching the shower of sparks as it struck. Then he walked to the rail, untied the black, and swung to the saddle.
Tension grew in him as he turned toward the lower end of the street. They would have his route marked now and would know all the dark, safe places for laying an ambush. He supposed the most likely of them would be between the foot of Texas Street and the hide warehouse, but perhaps for this very reason it would not be used. Down Texas Street he rode, in the exact center of the street, his alertness as sharp as the honed edged of a skinning knife. Tall in the saddle, riding straight, as a cavalryman learns to ride, right hand hanging loose and easy with the thumb touching the saddle skirt.
It was not only the saloonkeepers, the lawless element that was out to nail his hide to the wall. He had affronted the Texas cattlemen and trail drivers when he killed one of their number, again when he braced Jeb Towner and broke his arm. He had pricked their pride, and they would now be able to persuade themselves that killing him was not an act of murder but an act of vengeance for a wrong. The star gleamed dully in the lamplight shining from the windows of the saloons. Barkers stopped in midcry to watch him pass. Silence followed him along the street like a current pushing a leaf down a tumbling mountain stream.
In front of the Bullshead, he saw Dryden step from the boardwalk and moved to intercept him. He tugged the black to a halt.
Dryden looked up. His voice was soft, but it was touched with shocked amazement. “Man, do you want to be killed? You’re a target for every drunk with an itchy trigger finger and a yen for fame.”
Sloan grinned sourly. �
�Do you want your marshal skulking along in alleys? Or do you want him hiding in his office?”
“We want him alive.”
“And I want to stay alive, believe me.” Sloan paused, and then he said, “An ambusher is a coward, Mister Dryden, or he wouldn’t be an ambusher. It’s easier for a coward to kill a man who’s afraid than one who is not. I don’t intend to make it easy, that’s all.”
Dryden studied his face in the faint light. Then, shaking his head, he retraced his steps to the walk. Sloan moved on, down the length of Texas Street, with a spot in the middle of his back aching in expectation of a bullet striking it. His ears were tuned to the sounds of the street, waiting for one that would mean someone was about to strike.
He rode around the depot and through the dark alleys between the cattle pens, thence back to cross Texas Street and start along the tracks. As he rode, a peculiar certainty grew in him. There would be an attempt made to kill him before he reached the jail again. Yet he was equally sure that if this attempt failed, there would be no more tonight. They had tried to discredit him by making him a laughingstock. They had tried to get him openly through Maverick Towner and his men, who, Sloan had no doubt, had been stirred up by inflammatory talk on the part of the saloonkeepers. Now they would try the third way, by ambush, by cold-blooded murder. That spot in his back began to ache again. He passed the place he had been attacked and robbed, and his nervousness increased. He was like an animal now. Danger seemed to have sharpened his senses. A man who knew horses, who knew how much sharper than man’s were their senses of smell and hearing, he watched his horse’s head, the animal’s sensitive ears. He realized, as he had not consciously realized before, that there had been another reason why he chose to make his rounds on horseback.
Lawless Town Page 12
