Lawless Town

by Lewis B. Patten

  Standing there, with his weight equally on the good leg and the wounded one, Sloan felt sick and angry and irritable. He needed support for the fight that was coming up. He couldn’t face both the saloonkeepers and the cowmen without it. Yet now he knew that was exactly what he was going to have to do. Dryden’s support was gone. So was that of Dryden’s friends. The town had never given its support at all.

  He turned and hobbled to the door. His hands were clenched. He knew if he stayed another minute, said another word, he’d yank the badge from his shirt and throw it on the floor.

  XI

  Walking from the bank to the marshal’s office next door without limping required the greatest power of will Sloan had ever exerted, but he managed it, even though it soaked his body from forehead to shins with sweat. He was thoroughly infuriated, more so than he had ever been in his life before, but he was also sick inside. When the cowmen and the saloon crowd learned that he had no support from the town …? Scowling, he stepped into the marshal’s office. He looked at Merline, and then at Sid, and snapped, “Burle sent someone over to try and make a big deposit to my account. A fool could see through it, but Dryden couldn’t.”

  Sid said, “You can quit. All you got to do is take off the badge and walk outside. Nobody’ll blame you. Hell, anybody’d be scared of a setup like this one.”

  For some reason, Sid’s tone and words only added more fury to that already seething in Sloan’s brain. “Like hell I will. They’ve beat me and shot me and made me sore outside and in, and that’s an end to it. Now I’m going to give them back some of what they’ve given me.”

  “You already have. The three that beat you are pushing up daisies, and so are two of the five that put the hole in your leg. Don’t be a fool, Sloan. Quit while you’re ahead. This town doesn’t mean a tinker’s damn to you.”

  Sloan sat down and began to eat from the tray Merline had brought. He glanced up at her. Sid was wrong. This town meant a lot to him. It meant a place to stop and stay. It meant a home, if the things he had read in Merline’s eyes were true. It meant an end to the aching loneliness that had been a part of him ever since he returned from the war and found that Sylvia had run away. Something of his thoughts, his need, must have shown in his face and eyes, for Merline took an involuntary step toward him. Then she stopped and said almost angrily, “You look like hell, Marshal. Lie down and get some sleep. Do what Doc said to do or you’ll never make it through the day.”

  He nodded. For now the fight was gone from him. His thoughts were sluggish, and his body felt like lead. He stumbled to the cot and flopped down on it. He had only to close his heavy-lidded eyes and he was asleep.

  The afternoon passed while the marshal slept. On the streets, little groups formed and talked worriedly, broke up and formed again. Down at the lower end of Texas Street the saloons were open, but they had had only a few customers throughout the day. Not a single rider arrived from the held herds out on the vast, wide plain.

  At 4:00 a group arrived and rode up Texas Street at a steady, purposeful trot. They drew rein before the bank and waited, while one of their number got down and went inside.

  Sid watched from the marshal’s office, and knew without being told why they were here. They carried a demand, he guessed, that the town get rid of its marshal or else. Or else what, he couldn’t know. There could be a number of alternatives, all of them equally distasteful. They could refuse to patronize the town. They could attack en masse, kill the marshal, and tree the town. Whatever they threatened they could do. There were a dozen herds out there on the plain, and each had from ten to twenty-five men with it. Which added up to well over a hundred men.

  Sid left the window and walked over to the cot. Sloan laid on his back, snoring heavily, his face drawn and covered with reddish whiskers. He touched Sloan’s shoulder and shook him gently. Sloan opened his eyes instantly, and before he moved a muscle. They were red and fogged with sleep, yet they had a clarity about them that instantly comprehended his surroundings and his deputy standing over him. His voice was harsh when he spoke. “What is it?”

  “Mebbe nothing. But I figured you’d want to be awake.”

  Sloan sat up stiffly, favoring the wounded leg as he swung it over the side of the cot. “What’re you talking about?”

  “The town’s been quiet ever since you went to sleep. Too quiet. Until five minutes ago not a single man from the herds had ridden into town.”

  “And they’re all here now?” Alarm showed in Sloan’s eyes. He rubbed them and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Not all of them. About a dozen is all. They’re sitting their horses in front of the bank next door, and one of ’em is inside.”

  Sloan got up and limped heavily to the door. Then he turned and walked to the makeshift washstand. He poured the basin full and slopped water into his face and over his rumpled hair. He dried hastily and thoroughly, then ran a broken piece of comb through his hair. “Glad you woke me. I’m ready for them now.”

  “You think they’re coming here?”

  Sloan’s mouth twisted wryly. “Not the cowmen. Dryden and his friends.”

  “What do you figure the cowmen want?”

  “Hell, you know what they want … my hide, nailed to the barn door. They’ve given Dryden some kind of ultimatum. Get rid of me or else.”

  Pressure was building up—steadily, relentlessly. Whole, unhurt, he’d have met it head on, beat it back, and defeated it. But he was hurt. However much he hated admitting it, that clean, round hole in his thigh had sapped his strength. It would be weeks before he was as strong as he had been before. The worst of it was, he didn’t have that much time. This fight would be decided—would be won or lost—in the next few days.

  Moodily he limped to the window and stared outside. He saw one of the cowmen come from the bank and walk to his horse. The man, elderly, grizzled, stocky, and tough, mounted and sat his saddle like a rock while he stared at the marshal’s office next door to the bank. His ice-blue eyes met Sloan’s, flared with triumph, then looked away. He raised an arm, and the group whirled their horses and thundered away down Texas Street, staying exactly in its center until they were out of view. Still watching, Sloan saw Dryden come out. The man glanced at the marshal’s office worriedly, without seeing Sloan. Then he hurried down the street.

  Sloan turned away from the window. He looked wryly at Sid. “I don’t know what I’m beefing about. I called it the way it would happen before I ever took the job. I knew they’d be more anxious to get rid of me before it was over than they were to hire me in the first place. I knew I’d end up being the biggest bastard in town.”

  “Then why’d you take it on?”

  Sloan frowned. “I’m beginning to wonder. The funny thing is, I’d do the exact same thing again.”

  “Then tell ’em to go to hell. Ram yourself down their throats until they choke on you.”

  Sloan grinned. “That’s exactly what I’ve got in mind.”

  He sat down, favoring the leg and letting it lie, stiff and straight, before him. Sid asked, “Hungry?”

  “No, but I suppose I’d better eat. Go order me a steak, will you? A thick one, rare in the middle.”

  “Sure you don’t want it raw? Raw meat might be what you need.”

  Sloan grinned at him. “Get it.”

  Sid went out and crossed the street, gangly and awkward-looking. It occurred to Sloan that Sid hadn’t had much more sleep in the past few days than he had himself, but Sid showed no evidence of being tired.

  Dryden arrived shortly after Sid had gone into the hotel, accompanied by Lake and Graham and, this time, by Ike Solomon, still wearing his leather apron, black with blood and grease.

  Dryden cleared his throat and spoke before Sloan could. “We’re going to take you up on your offer to quit, Mister Hewitt. We’re willing to give you a month’s salary and expenses. I’ll deposit it to your acc
ount at the bank.”

  Sloan said dryly, “Don’t bother.” Dryden appeared relieved. His face slacked as Sloan added, “Wait until I’ve earned it. Wait until the month is up.”

  “You mean you refuse to quit?”

  “I mean exactly that. I’ve got a contract, Mister Dryden. Or have you forgotten?” Sloan added implacably, “You promised to put some furniture in here today. It’s late afternoon, and it isn’t here. I want it. Now.”

  Solomon said hastily, “Now wait a minute …”

  Sloan stared at him. “You wait. What’re you doing here anyhow, Mister Solomon? You weren’t one of the group that hired me. Getting scared?” Solomon’s face lost color. He started to bluster, but stopped as Sloan turned his gaze to Dryden again. “How many buffalo hunters have been beaten and robbed in the past few months?”

  “I don’t know what that’s got to do with this.”

  “How many?”

  Dryden glanced at Solomon. So did Graham and Lake. Sloan knew the answer to his question by watching them. They didn’t have to speak.

  Sloan said, “I’ll get you, Mister Solomon. It may take some time, but I’ll get you before I’m through.”

  The whole group was shaken now. Dryden fought himself a moment, and then he said almost frantically, “You’ve got to quit, Mister Hewitt. You’ve got to! The cowmen have served notice that they’re boycotting the town until you leave. There won’t be a one of ’em in all day and not tomorrow, either, unless you quit and leave.”

  Sloan stared at them imperviously. “That’s the price of the law you said you wanted.”

  “But we’re geared to having the trail drivers’ trade. The whole town is geared to having them come in. If they don’t … Lord Almighty, Mister Hewitt, in the course of a year, those men spend upwards of a hundred thousand dollars here. Without them … well, the town would die, that’s all.”

  “And you think they’ll really stay away? They won’t, Mister Dryden. They can’t. A thousand Maverick Towners couldn’t keep those men away from your liquor and women for very long. They’ve got three months of hell behind them and a pocket full of money. Towner can keep them out today and maybe tomorrow, but the day after that they’ll all be back.”

  Dryden looked at him doubtfully. “I hope you’re right. I just hope to God you’re right.”

  Solomon broke in, “He’s not right, and you know it. Next year the rails will be going west. There’ll be a new town at the end of track. If they haven’t liked it here, they’ll drive to the new town.”

  Sloan said, “Sure. They’ll do that no matter what happens here. Because it’s closer. A town fifty miles west of here will mean a shorter drive. Nothing we do or don’t do is going to have any effect on it.”

  “Then why not give this up for now? Why …?”

  Dryden didn’t finish because Sloan broke in. “Why? Because the town will stay lawless whether the drovers come or not. Your crib street will stay and so will your saloons. Only, instead of preying on the drovers, they’ll prey on you.” He watched them and saw the indecision in them, the helpless confusion. He pitied them briefly, but he was weary of all the discussion and argument. He said harshly, “Get that furniture over here.”

  They filed out, waiting until they were out of hearing before they began to argue among themselves.

  Sloan sank down stiffly on the cot. His nerves were edgy and tight. It went against his grain to hoard his strength when there were so many things he wanted to do. But he had no choice. He would need it all in the days to come. Towner’s pride had been outraged, and his cause had become the cause of every drover on the plain. They would not be satisfied with a boycott long. When it failed, they would be coming to town in force. And Sloan must meet them and turn them back.

  XII

  Sloan had to force himself to eat the steak that Sid brought back, but he worked at it doggedly and was pleasantly surprised at how much better it made him feel. After he had finished, he took two stiff drinks from the bottle Sid had brought with the meal, then lit up a cigar.

  A wagonload of furniture arrived as he was finishing the cigar, and he went outside while Sid supervised the placing of it. There were two rolltop desks with swivel chairs, an old couch, several benches, and a cot for each of the cells.

  The sun sank rapidly in the western sky, and a breeze came up, blowing hot and dry off the wide, dusty prairie and bringing in the strong, rank smell of the bedded herds. Passersby in the street stared hard and resentfully at Sloan, looked away when he met their eyes. No one spoke to him. It was an unpleasant experience for him. Already they hated him, already they feared him—and this was the way they showed it.

  The two men who had brought the furniture finished carrying it in, got up on their wagon, and drove away. Sid brought a bench outside and placed it against the wall, and he and Sloan sat down. Sloan lit another cigar.

  No need for patrols tonight. Texas Street was as quiet as a tomb. But Sloan knew, if the town did not, that the quiet was only temporary. The drovers wouldn’t stay away. They’d try this—their boycott ultimatum—but if it didn’t work, they would have to try something else. As though his thoughts had been running in the same channel as Sloan’s, Sid asked, “What do you think the trail hands will do when they find out their boycott didn’t work?”

  Sloan shrugged fatalistically. “There’s only one thing they can do. Come in and tree the town. Kill me and you when we try to stop them.”

  “Figured out what you’re going to do?”

  Sloan grinned. “Stop them without getting killed.”

  “And how the hell do you think you’re going to manage that?”

  “Haven’t figured that far.”

  Sid stared at him helplessly.

  Sloan said, “It can’t be done without backing from the town. But maybe they’ll come though.”

  “Like hell they will.”

  “Maybe we can make them help.”

  He hadn’t the slightest idea how he would accomplish that, and yet he had staunch faith, both in himself and in others. When the chips were all on the table, most men displayed characteristics not evident in them when things were going well. He figured the townsmen would come through—enough of them, perhaps, to turn the tide. And he could count on Sid.

  The sun went down, and a soft, hot dusk hung over the dusty prairie town. Smoke lifted from the tin chimneys of houses, and Sloan smelled cooking food in the breeze that stirred past him from the upper end of town. Saloonkeepers came from the doors of their saloons at the lower end of Texas Street and stared resentfully at Sloan and Sid, sitting comfortably in front of the marshal’s office.

  Something made Sloan turn his head. He saw Sylvia Flint coming toward him from the upper end of town. Sid saw her, too, and got up. “Maybe I can straighten up inside.”

  He went in, and a few moments later Sylvia reached Sloan, who stood up as she did. He tried to do so without giving away the fact that he was hurt, but apparently failed because Sylvia said, “For heaven’s sake, sit down. Your leg is hurt.”

  He sat down, and she sat on the bench beside him. For several moments there was awkward silence between them. His eyes searched her face, and he tried to recapture some of the old fire that had characterized his feelings for her. He failed, because the fire was dead.

  With startling perception, she said, “It’s gone, isn’t it, Sloan?”

  He started to protest, but the protest died on his lips. He said slowly, “There was a time when I grieved for you and a time when I cursed you for going away. I loved you, but I never admired you more than I do right now.”

  She smiled, and the smile was only partly forced. “Thank you, Sloan.”

  He said, “I’m going to get Burle, Sylvia. I’m going to either kill him or run him out of town.”

  “I know.”

  “What will you do?”

  She
sat in silence for a long, long time. Then she said softly, “I think I will go back home. I do not think I am very well suited to living out here.”

  Her face was soft, softer than he had seen it. He said hesitantly, “It’s an awkward subject, but if you need any money, you’re welcome to whatever I have.”

  “No, Sloan. No.”

  He said, “Between friends money is only paper.”

  She changed the subject. “What will you do, Sloan?”

  He stared at her closely in the failing light. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “It’s Merline, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t hurt you as I did. I wish you luck in all you do.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a long time there was silence between them, still touched with awkwardness but more comfortable than it had been before. One thing remained between them, one thing—and when that was gone, there would be no more awkwardness ever again. But Sloan wouldn’t bring it up.

  Sylvia looked at him at last and smiled. “You’d never ask, would you?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “No. I’d never ask.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. Debbie wasn’t yours. She could have been, but she wasn’t. If she had been yours, I’d have stayed and married you when you came home.”

  Sloan murmured, “I have wondered.”

  Now her voice was touched with bitterness and self-blame. “And I let you wonder. I hated this town, Sloan. I wanted it tamed so that what happened to Debbie could never happen to another child.”

  “No one could blame you for that.”

  “I blame myself. Because it may cost you your life. Don’t underestimate Jeff Burle, Sloan. He’s as ruthless as a man can be. He’ll get what he wants no matter what it costs. He’ll do anything to win.”

  “I figured him that way.”