“All right. That one shouldn’t be very hard to find. And that one will talk until his guts run out.” The terror was now like ice in Sloan’s belly. He said, “Hold on, damn you! I’ll get Doc.”
“No. Stay. I don’t want to die alone.”
“You’re not going to die.”
Sid found his hand and gripped it hard. He murmured, “So this is what dying’s like. I’ve wondered.”
Sloan’s throat felt tight. But he didn’t argue now.
Sid’s voice was very faint. “It’s like standing on a cliff at night, looking out over the edge. You don’t see anything. You feel it. How big it is. How empty. How cold.” His hand tightened on Sloan’s. Now Sloan had to strain his ears to hear. “You know you’re going to step off in a minute but you don’t want to … and float out there like a soaring bird …”
His voice trailed off. For the briefest instant his hand gripped Sloan’s almost frantically. Then it relaxed and was limp. Sloan’s throat closed tight. Scalding tears flooded his eyes and brimmed over onto his cheeks. God damn this town! God damn this stinking, dirty town!
He got up, walked to Merline’s mare and picked up the reins. He led the animal back to where Sid lay. Cursing softly, savagely under his breath, he knelt and slid his arms under Sid’s gaunt, long body. He lifted him, angrily ignoring the pain in his leg the added weight brought. He almost fell as he stepped toward the mare. Like most mares, the smell of blood didn’t bother her at all, and she stood like a rock while he laid Sid’s body over the saddle, boosted it up, and hooked Sid’s belt over the saddle horn. Then, limping heavily, he led the mare out of the cattle pens, across the lit depot platform, and out onto Texas Street.
Let them look. Let them look long and well at the marshal they had crippled, at the deputy they had killed. Because, damn them, they were going to pay. They were going to pay for Sid as they’d never paid for anything in their lives before. They’d better shoot now and shoot to kill. They’d never get a better chance.
XIV
He carried Sid into the marshal’s office, laid him gently down on the couch, then crossed the room and lit the lamp. By the time he had that done, a small crowd had collected out in front. He went to the door and let his eyes drift over them coldly. “Get the undertaker.”
A man detached himself from the group and hurried across the street.
Sloan said, “Somebody find Dryden.”
He turned and went back into the office. He stared around cynically. This office was, he thought, symbolic of the brawling town’s desire for respectability, and just as transient. The cells wouldn’t hold an angry bear, and in a day’s time it could be converted back to what it had been before—an empty store.
After fifteen minutes or so the undertaker arrived, driving his shiny hearse with four black horses hitched ahead. He and his helper put Sid on a stretcher, covered him, and carried him out. The black coach drove away.
Sloan’s face was bleak. He’d accepted the fact that Sid was dead, but the mere removal of his body seemed to leave an aching void.
The crowd began to disperse outside. Dryden came walking in shortly after the hearse had left. His face showed Sloan genuine regret. “I’m sorry about …”
Sloan cut him short. “Never mind that. Someone brought him a phony message to get him down there to the cattle pens where they could kill him without any risk. A man that slouches … whiskers … red eyes, a drunk that catches coins when they’re flipped at him. Who is he?”
Dryden frowned. “Rafferty, maybe. Sounds like him. But I doubt if he even knew what was going on. You can’t …”
Sloan stared at him coldly. “I can make him talk.”
Dryden seemed relieved. There was fear in his eyes as he looked at Sloan’s rigid face, at the icy set of his mouth.
Sloan said coldly, “Was Sid’s murder part of the deal you made with Burle?”
Dryden turned red. His eyes flared angrily, and then the fire of anger died in them, to be replaced by a look of shame. He stared straight into Sloan’s furious eyes and said, “No. There was actually no deal made, although I don’t suppose you’ll believe it. Burle called the meeting and most of us attended. He offered us a cleaner town if we’d get rid of you. He promised that the saloonkeepers would keep their own houses clean.”
“Like hell they would.”
Dryden said, “We told him you’d refused to quit, that you were going to wait out the boycott.”
“But you didn’t tell him I had your support, did you?”
Dryden colored again. His forehead was damp. “We told him we’d withdrawn our support. If that’s …”
“An invitation to murder? What else do you think it is? God damn you, Dryden, get out of here!”
Dryden, taking a hasty look at his face, backed toward the door. He said, “Don’t …” but never finished. Sloan’s eyes blazed at him, and he whirled and hurried away.
Sloan walked over and blew out the lamp. He stepped out on the walk and closed the door. He paused there a moment to let his fury cool, to let his hands grow steady again. Maybe they’d have killed Sid anyway. Maybe Dryden’s public withdrawal of support hadn’t brought it on at all. He didn’t see how the support of a wishy-washy bunch like Dryden and his friends could have much effect one way or another. Yet he knew it had. Dryden spoke for the town, and while those behind him at first were few, eventually the way the town jumped would be the way Dryden jumped now. The saloon crowd knew they could buck Sloan and Sid. They knew they could buck a few of the town’s respectable businessmen. But they also realized that they couldn’t buck the town. Not for very long. Hell, the saloonkeepers knew that the trail drivers would be back. They were aware, as Sloan was, that a thousand Maverick Towners couldn’t keep them away for long. Knowing this, they’d had to move fast—before the trail drivers returned, before Sloan regained the town’s support. Ah, hell, a complicated business, but Sloan intended to simplify it just as rapidly as he could.
He walked down Texas Street and began the rounds of the saloons. His body was tense, his eyes hard, his disposition as edgy as that of a tormented snake. The attitudes of those he saw indicated they knew how dangerous he was. They glanced at him, then rapidly glanced away for fear he would read something into their glances and act on it. He’d never seen a guiltier-looking bunch of men in his life. Every one of them looked like a churchgoer caught with his hands in the collection plate. He didn’t ask after Rafferty, and he hoped Dryden would have sense enough to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want anyone to know that Sid had talked to him before he died. If those who had sent Rafferty knew Sloan was looking for him, Rafferty would simply turn up dead before he had a chance to talk.
He spotted a man shambling drunkenly down Texas Street near its lower end and knew immediately that this was the man Sid had described to him. He followed, aware that he was being watched by everyone on Texas Street. He caught his man where the street was dark, a few doors above the depot. He called, “Rafferty!” and saw the man turn drunkenly to peer at him. He flipped a fifty-cent piece, said, “Catch,” and Rafferty caught the coin.
Sloan stepped up close, grabbed the drunk by the front of his greasy shirt, and shook him savagely. “I’m just going to ask you once,” he said between clenched teeth. “Just once. Who sent you to the marshal’s office with that message tonight?”
The drunk was mumbling, as though to himself, “… said it was a joke. Joke on the marshal, damn son-a-bitch. Joke …”
Sloan shook him again. “Who said that?”
“Burle. Jeff Burle.”
Sloan said harshly, “It wasn’t a joke.”
Rafferty’s naming of Burle came as no surprise. Sloan had expected it, and would have been surprised if Rafferty had named anyone else. He released the drunk. Rafferty staggered over against the wall and slid down it to the walk. He went on mumbling to himself. Sloan turned away disgustedl
y, and behind him he heard Rafferty begin to sniffle as though he were going to cry.
Sloan had forgotten his wounded leg, had forgotten who he was and what job he held. He could only think of one thing—of Burle, sitting up there at the Cowman’s Pride like a fat, hairy spider spreading his evil like a web over the town. He could only think that tonight he was going to kill Jeff Burle and that, when he did, he was going to enjoy it.
He limped, but as he walked up Texas Street no one noticed the limp. All they could see was the rigid, cold set of his face and the unholy light in his slitted eyes. Rose had died for helping him. Sid had died because he was close to Sloan. Sloan knew that if Burle wasn’t stopped, Merline Morris was going to be next.
* * * * *
Jeff Burle stood behind the bar at the Cowman’s Pride, his hand on a shotgun laid on a shelf below the bar. The place was nearly empty. What townsmen had been here earlier had left when Sloan brought the body of Sid Wessell up the street. Now, all that remained were Burle’s employees—and the girls. Even so, he felt reasonably secure. Sloan might know who had engineered Sid’s murder, but he could hardly prove it. There would be doubt enough in his mind to keep him from doing anything rash. And, if the doubt weren’t enough, the shotgun would be. Jeff didn’t intend to get more than a yard away from it until the showdown with Sloan was over with. Alone, hounded and threatened from every side, without even the support of those who had hired him, Sloan would probably quit tonight. He’d ride out, and things could go back to normal again.
Thinking it was Sloan, Burle started when Len Davenport came bursting through the doors. He realized that he had seized the shotgun and had raised it partway. A stunt like that would get him killed when Sloan came in. He was getting jumpy. He was giving Sloan credit for being something more than a mortal man.
Davenport hurried to the bar. He said in a low, urgent tone, “He found Rafferty. He talked to him. And now he’s coming here.”
“Rafferty? How the hell could he know Rafferty was …?”
“Maybe the deputy wasn’t dead. Maybe he lived long enough to talk to Hewitt.”
Burle glanced around him. There wasn’t time. He didn’t have enough good men around him right now to be sure. Sloan Hewitt was hell with that gun of his. He’d killed the three who had robbed him less than a week ago and hadn’t been scratched doing it. No. This wasn’t the time for a showdown with Sloan. Because he’d be first to die when Sloan came in. The marshal would be out of his mind with rage. He’d be sure and not in doubt. It made Burle furious to think of running, but there was nothing else to do. He grabbed the shotgun and trotted heavily toward the back door. He went out through the kitchen and into the alley, and here glanced cautiously up and down.
Seeing no one, he crossed the vacant lot to the crib street, then stopped in the shadows to think. He was panting softly and not in the least sure that he’d done the right thing. He’d let Sloan run him out of his own saloon, and that would play hell with his prestige. He’d admitted more or less publicly that he was afraid of Sloan, even when he had the odds in his favor. The truth of the matter was, he was afraid of Sloan. He’d tried to have Sloan killed, and it hadn’t worked. Five men, good men, hadn’t been able to kill him. Sloan must have the devil’s luck with him. But he was only one man. The marshal could die like any other man. If he could just figure some way of keeping Sloan off his back until the cowmen came to town, they’d take care of him once and for all. Sloan wouldn’t have a chance against them, no matter how tough or lucky he was.
Some way of keeping Hewitt off his back, some way of …? Sylvia? Hell no. Whatever had been between them was over, at least as far as Sloan was concerned. He hadn’t been to see her except that one time. But Merline Morris—that was something else again. If Hewitt thought she was in danger, it would cool him off plenty fast. The way those two looked at each other … He still owned that little homestead shack along Squaw Creek that he’d won in a poker game. It would be an ideal place to take Merline, because Sloan wouldn’t think of looking for either Burle or her outside of town. A couple of days, that was about all it would take the trail drivers to learn their boycott hadn’t worked. Then they’d be coming to town in force.
Burle worked his way down toward the lower end of town and slouched across Texas Street near the depot, after carefully searching the shadows before he did. He reached the livery barn from the rear, climbed the corral fence, and plowed through the dusty, powdered manure to the rear doors. Apparently the stableman was asleep in the tack room, for Burle was able to hitch up a buggy without bringing him to the door. He got up and drove out, turned immediately off Texas Street, and then headed by a circuitous route for the Morris house.
He drove the buggy into the weeds beside the house when he reached it and hooked the weight to the bridle to hold the horse still. Then he went to the door.
Merline answered it. Burle opened the screen and forced his way inside. “Get what you need. You’re going with me. Kick up any fuss and I’ll have to knock you around. Come quietly and you’ll be all right.”
He thought for a moment that she’d fight, but she turned and ran instead. He reached her in a couple of leaps, swung an arm like a club, and knocked her sprawling. He was angry now, where he had only been nervous before. He said between his teeth, “God damn you, do as I say.”
She got up numbly, her frightened eyes on his face. She said, “Sloan …”
He finished it for her. “Won’t do a damned thing, when he knows I’ll kill you if he does.”
“How …?”
He said, “I’ll leave him a note, that’s how. Now move.”
He followed her into the bedroom and stood in the doorway while she packed a small valise. When she had finished, he demanded paper and pencil, which she got for him without protest. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wouldn’t hesitate if she resisted him. Apparently she understood this thoroughly. He scrawled a note for Sloan.
He held Merline’s arm tightly as he stuck the note between the screen door and the jamb. He held onto her all the way to the buggy. He was still holding her as he unhooked the weight from the bridle. Then he boosted her to the seat ahead of him. He picked up the reins and drove straight across the prairie toward the shack on Squaw Creek.
XV
When Sloan stalked into the Cowman’s Pride, there was evidence that, in spite of the fact that it was only 10:00 p.m., it was closing for the night. The girls were trooping toward the stairway. A barman was straightening out bottles and glasses behind the bar. One swamper was sweeping, and another was emptying spittoons.
Sloan had a sense of being balked the instant he walked in. He briefly considered the possibility that this was window dressing for a trap, but discarded the idea immediately. It was too real. He said harshly, “Where’s Burle?”
Nobody answered. Sloan walked to the sweeper and whirled him around. “I asked a question.”
“He went out the back door a few minutes ago. When he heard you’d found …” The man stopped, shooting a fearful glance at the barman.
Sloan said softly, “Rafferty?”
The swamper averted his glance. “I got work to do, Marshal.” But Sloan had his answer. Burle knew he’d found Rafferty and knew Rafferty had talked. He whirled, nearly falling as he again forgot the wounded leg, and hurried out. He snatched the reins of a horse tied at the rail and swung astride. He reined around savagely and pounded up Texas Street toward Fourth. Burle was out in the open now. He had bought Sid’s murder, and Rafferty was proof that he had. There were now but two courses open to him. One was to find and kill Rafferty, thus ensuring that Rafferty could not testify against him in court. Sloan didn’t think he’d do it. In the first place, silencing Rafferty wouldn’t help him except in court, and Burle must know this would never go to court. He knew Sloan would force a gunfight and kill him first. If Sloan’s judgment was correct, if Burle wouldn’t bother with Rafferty, th
en it left him but one other alternative—that of using Merline Morris as a hostage, to keep Sloan inactive until the cowmen took care of him.
He swung into Fourth at a hard gallop and pounded along it as fast as he could make the horse go. He stared ahead through the darkness, looking for lights in her windows. He saw nothing. The house was a dark shadow, blending with the blackness of the plain beyond. Worry stabbed him. Then he calmed himself with the thought that the hour was late—that the absence of lights in the house didn’t necessarily mean anything. Perhaps she had gone to bed.
He swung off the horse at her gate, remembering the leg this time and favoring it. He couldn’t afford a fall now. He couldn’t afford any waste of time. But he knew even before he found the note. The thoughts he’d had that she might have gone to bed, that nothing could be wrong, had been empty reassurances to soothe his tortured mind. He saw the scrap of paper stuck in the screen door and snatched it out.
It was too dark to read. He opened the door with enforced caution, for it was still possible that Burle was waiting for him inside the house. He waited a few moments after he had stepped in, although the note was burning his hand. He waited, listened, and, at last when he heard nothing, fished a match from his pocket and thumbed it alight. He raised the lamp chimney and touched the match to its wick. He lowered the chimney, and then laid the note flat on the table and read:
Hewitt: Don’t look for me or I’ll kill her.
The note wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. Sloan looked around the room. There was a straight-backed chair overturned near the kitchen door. He went to it and knelt. There was a single, bright red spot on the floor and near it a bloody smudge where a hand had touched another drop. He’d hurt her, the son-of-a-bitch! That was why she hadn’t fought—that and knowing that he was cornered and as dangerous as a man could be. Probably she’d tried to run for the kitchen door. Probably he’d caught her and knocked her down.
Lawless Town Page 17
