Sloan thumbed back the hammer for another shot, pivoting as he did. But Burle was gone, swallowed up in darkness, and there were only the sounds of his galloping horse’s hoofs to mark the direction in which he had gone.
Sloan felt empty—sick. He roared, “Sylvia!”
She did not reply. He limped toward the corral. He heard it then—a faint, small sound that struck terror to his heart. Heavily he began to run.
XVIII
He found her lying in the dry manure just inside the corral. As he knelt, he knew that here in this dark, abandoned place, he would lose all that remained of his earlier life. He started to slide his arms under her and pick her up, but she cried out sharply with pain. “No, Sloan … no! Don’t move me.”
He cradled her head in his arms, remembering now the other times he had held her, the delightful intimacy he had known with her. He was thinking, too, that she had run from him rather than deceive him. He was thinking that her only fault was that she was too generous and filled with too much love.
He asked softly, “Where are you hit?”
“Chest. I’m sorry, Sloan. I wanted to … kill him. I thought he’d …” she paused, breathing heavily, “… killed you.”
He waited, full of terror and knowing there was nothing he could do. Her voice, when it came again, was very soft; he could scarcely hear it. “I love you, Sloan. I love you very much.”
“And I love you.” It was no lie to make her going easier. He did love her and perhaps always would even after she was gone. She held a place in his heart that would not interfere with the place he had reserved for Merline.
“Thank you, Sloan.”
He thought, Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she is wrong. Maybe the wound is not as bad … He said, “I’ll get some light and …”
“No. Stay with me. Hold me very close. I’m frightened now, Sloan. I’m scared.”
He held her tightly against his chest. His throat closed until he could scarcely breathe. He felt his eyes burning with unshed tears. Her going was quiet, undramatic, almost unperceived in the vast, empty silence around her. One instant she was breathing and full of pain, the next she was still, relaxed, untroubled, and at peace.
Sloan brushed at his eyes, then picked her up and carried her toward the shack, limp as a sleeping child in his arms. He laid her down in the clean grass outside the door, then went inside and struck a match. There was a lamp, its chimney smoked and unwashed, which he lit before the match went out. He pulled out his pocket knife and cut Merline free at once, then rubbed her rope-chafed ankles and wrists to restore circulation.
“What is it, Sloan? You look …”
“Sylvia. Burle shot her.”
“Is she … gone?”
He nodded.
A look of compassion touched Merline’s face. She reached out and pulled his face against her breasts. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”
He became conscious that there was grayish light in the room and pulled suddenly away. He glanced at the door, which faced the east, and saw a spreading line of gray out there, delineating the horizon.
Time, perhaps, to reach town. He got up and limped out the door. Merline followed. He walked swiftly to where he and Sylvia had left their horses. Mounting his own, he led the other back to the shack. Working swiftly, he unsaddled the horse Sylvia had ridden, then harnessed the animal and hitched him between the buggy shafts. He went over and picked Sylvia up gently. He carried her body to the buggy and laid it carefully inside.
He stared at Merline. “Would you mind … ?”
“Of course not. Are you going on ahead?”
He nodded. “I may be late but I’ve got to try.”
“Jeff Burle …”
“Won’t bother you now. He’s gone to join the trail hands. He’ll be with them when they ride into town.”
He boosted her to the buggy seat and handed her the reins. He wanted to hold her in his arms, but, if he did, leaving would be that much harder for him. He said, “I’ll come to your house as soon as it’s over.”
She didn’t speak and he knew she was thinking that he’d come if he were still alive. She’d be praying for him, but the odds …
He swung to his horse, reined around, and rode away, digging his spurless heels savagely into the horse’s sides. The line of gray had spread over the eastern sky until objects were visible at half a mile.
The horse was heavily lathered by the time Sloan reached town, for he had run him all the way. And the eastern sky was turning faintly pink. Dryden and five others were waiting at the marshal’s office. Their faces were not particularly enthusiastic when they saw him coming. They obviously had been hoping that he wouldn’t come at all.
He rode to them, dismounted, and limped inside. He got a shotgun and a box of shells, then limped out and mounted again. He said, “Come on.”
He led the way down Texas Street, across the tracks, and out onto the wide, flat plain. He reached the spot where he had planted the powder without catching sight of the men he had to meet and stop. He led them into the wash and along it until he reached a place where the high bank would conceal the horses. He said curtly, “All right, gentlemen. Get down and leave your horses.”
They dismounted, and he led them back to the road. He faced them, feeling his head beginning to reel, feeling more like sleeping than fighting. “Here’s the plan. I’ve got black powder planted on both sides of the road. I’ve timed the fuses, and I’ve timed the ride from that mound out there.”
“What good is an explosion going to do?” Dryden asked doubtfully.
Sloan grinned crookedly. ‘“I was in the cavalry at the beginning of the war. Untrained horses … those that have never heard an explosion before … go wild when they hear their first. They rear and buck, and a good many of them bolt. When that powder goes off, there won’t be a man in the bunch who won’t be busy with his horse. That’ll give you men a chance to climb out of the wash and put your shotguns on them. That’ll reduce the chance of some damned fool snatching out a gun and getting off a shot.”
The townsmen were silent, their faces doubtful. Sloan said, “Any questions?” Nobody replied. He said, “All right then. You stay hidden, and don’t make a damned sound until that powder goes off. Understand? No matter what may happen to me.”
Dryden nodded, and the others followed suit reluctantly.
Sloan stationed them along the wash where they could be hidden but where they would be instantly and strategically available. He returned up the wash and got his horse, thinking that seeing him alone and without a horse might make the drovers suspicious. Then he hunkered beside the road to wait. There was a crushed cigar in his pocket, and he got it out, repaired it painstakingly, and bit off the end. He lit it and puffed luxuriously. As he did, the sun poked its flaming rim above the plain.
He saw their dust a long time before he saw either men or horses. A big cloud of dust denoting a large group of men. His stomach muscles tightened, and he could feel the nerves in his arms and legs beginning to jump. Familiar symptoms that he’d known many times during the war. But when the action started he would be steady enough. He always had been before.
An eternity passed while he waited for them to pass the mound. He thought of Sylvia and of her daughter, both of whom were dead. He thought of Merline and of Sid and Rose. Merline was the only one left of those who had helped him or been close to him.
The group of horsemen reached the mound, but Sloan didn’t stir. He waited a full two minutes before he got up and crossed the road to the first short length of exposed fuse. Kneeling, he lit a match and touched it to the fuse.
Several moments passed before it caught, but immediately after it did, he hurried across the road to the other fuse and lit it as well.
The fuses gave off a little smoke. Regretfully Sloan took a last puff on the dilapidated cigar and then tossed it deliberately in
to the middle of the road. The assumption upon seeing it there would be that both the others were also cigar butts, and he hoped no one would be quick enough to realize that he couldn’t have smoked three that fast. Standing in plain sight, he waited with seeming equanimity, with apparently endless patience and no concern. But inside he was seething. He may have waited too long after the horsemen passed the mound to light the fuses. Maybe he couldn’t stall them long enough. Maybe one of them would smell the peculiar odor of the burning fuses and realize … That was something he hadn’t thought of, something he hadn’t checked. Hastily he glanced at the smoke rising from the cigar in the road. He heaved an almost breathless sigh of relief. The smoke was drifting toward him—away from the approaching horsemen.
He checked his position and took a backward step. He wanted the charges between himself and the drovers. He wanted to be far enough back so that he wouldn’t be blinded by flying dirt and dust, or stunned by concussion.
They came on at a steady, purposeful trot, neither stepping up the pace nor slowing it when they saw him standing in the road. Maverick Towner was easily recognizable because of his arrogant bearing and the sling supporting his arm. Beside Towner rode Jeff Burle, and to either side and behind Burle rode the three who had beaten Rose to death with their fists.
Three hundred yards. Two. Sloan glanced to right and left, noted that the fuses no longer were smoking. He knew they could be burning without smoke beneath the road, also knew they might have been snuffed out when the fire got below the level of the ground. The fortunes of war, he thought wryly. If his charges failed to blow, he didn’t have a chance. Nor did the men with him if they showed themselves.
The group came on, at the same measured trot, like approaching doom. Sloan had never felt more alone; he knew he had never been closer to death before.
Three hundred yards. Two hundred. A hundred. He could see Jeff Burle’s face very plainly now and felt a surge of implacable hatred and renewed determination at the expression it wore. Triumphant. Sneering.
They were now less than fifty feet away. But until they were less than twenty-five, Sloan kept his silence. Then he stepped sideways into the exact center of the road and said, “That’s far enough.”
Burle turned his head and roared, “Ride him down!” But Towner raised an arm, and the horsemen stopped.
Towner’s face wore a look of reluctant admiration. He said, “You’ve got our terms, Marshal. Get out of the way or take the consequences.”
Sloan thought of the two minutes he had delayed after they passed the mound. He knew he could be farther off than that. He said, “Don’t do anything you’re going to be sorry for, Mister Towner. You’re welcome in town … we want you there. Just check your guns with me and ride on in.”
“No.” The man was inflexible now, and whatever had shown from his eyes before was gone. “We’re going in, all right, but on our own terms. When we ride past this place, you’re going to be dead, Marshal, and we’re going to tear your town to hell.”
Sloan’s voice was very soft. “You won’t ride in Mister Towner. You’ll be here in the dust with me. You’re going to be the very first to die. You have my word for that. All the guns you’ve got won’t keep me from getting off that shot.”
How much time had passed since this group pulled to a halt before him? It seemed an eternity. But it could be less than a minute. Somehow, some way he had to prolong the delay. He said, “Know who you’re riding with, Towner? A yellow skunk that hires men to beat women to death with their fists. A man that paid to have my deputy ambushed and shot in the back. A man that kidnaps decent women to guarantee his own safety. I thought you damned Southerners had some pride.”
Towner’s face flushed with anger. But his eyes switched sideways and glowered at Burle beside him.
Burle sneered, “He’s a liar, Towner, and you know he is.”
Sloan murmured softly, “Step down off your horse and call me that, Burle. Step down if you’re not too yellow.”
And it hung there in the still morning air, that challenge—hung there and gave Sloan the time he had to have.
XIX
Seconds ticked away, and a strange silence fell upon the whole group as they waited. Eyes were on Burle, but a few were watching Sloan. He knew that if Burle took up the challenge, his own men would back him. He saw Burle swing his head and stare at them one by one, and saw the unspoken message that passed back and forth. When Burle turned again, it was with more confidence than before. He grinned tightly at Sloan and moved to dismount.
Sloan’s muscles tightened. He shifted his weight off the bad leg, using that leg now for balance and nothing more. His eyes narrowed and took on a strangely savage gleam. The time was here. He would have his revenge at last—for Sid, for Rose, for Sylvia, too. Die he might, but not until he had killed Jeff Burle. Now Sloan was hoping there would be time enough before the blasts went off to do this one last thing.
Never in his life had Burle met a challenge head on if it could be avoided, and he did not do so now. Swinging off his horse, shielded momentarily by the animal’s body, he drew his gun, dived beneath the horse’s neck, and fired as he hit the ground. He missed, but the shot triggered the actions of Burle’s three men. Instantly they snatched guns from their holsters.
Sloan stood like a rock. Burle would be no menace until he stopped rolling, so he took the man on Burle’s right first. His bullet caught the man in the throat, and blood instantly soaked the front of his shirt. He stayed upright in the saddle briefly, began to choke, and put both hands to his throat, releasing the gun as though it were hot. Then, still choking, he toppled sideways.
Sloan didn’t see him because his eyes were on the second man, who had been immediately behind Burle’s horse. This one had his gun up, and it fired as Sloan’s did. The bullet seared the side of Sloan’s neck but his own struck the horseman squarely in the chest.
Maverick Towner took the third, bringing his horse crowding sideways to jostle the other and upset his aim. And Sloan switched his attention back to Burle. The man was steady now, flat on his belly on the ground. His weight was on both elbows, and he held his gun with both hands, sighting it, steadying it.
Sloan stared into the gaping bore, waiting for it to burst with flame and smoke, but swinging his own cocked gun as he did. Burle’s nerve broke. Sloan could see that in his eyes. It broke, even though Burle had his bead on Sloan and was ready to squeeze the trigger. But it broke too late, for Sloan could not stop the movement of his trigger finger in the small part of a second his mind willed it to stop. And perhaps he would not have stopped it even if he could. This was a thing he would never know. His gun bucked solidly against his palm. The bullet entered Burle’s neck and coursed downward through his body. He glowered unbelievingly at Sloan for an instant before his eyes began to glaze.
No time to savor victory or revenge. No time. The powder on the left side of the road blew, followed closely by the blast on the right. Dirt and rock showered Sloan and the hundred horsemen, as well as Burle and his two men on the ground. It obscured them from Sloan’s eyes, and then he was flung back as though by a giant hand. He landed on his back with an impact that drove the breath from him. His mind screamed at him to get up, that there wasn’t time for being stunned. He and those with him who had been hiding in the wash must have the group under their guns before they recovered enough to realize what was going on.
Rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of one hand, Sloan got to his feet. He felt, rather than saw, the six townsmen leaping up out of the wash. But he heard the plainly audible, metallic sounds that were the cocking of their guns. And he heard the shrill screaming of the drovers’ terrified horses, heard their plunging hoofs, the squeak of straining girth and stirrup leathers, the muffled thud of bodies striking the ground, the surprised, startled, angry cursing of the men.
Standing at last, he bawled, “Hold it! Don’t a damned one of you draw a gun!”<
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Some of their horses bolted across the plain. Some bucked a circle around the group. Others were fought to a halt. Towner, his face gray with the pain of the horse’s jolting his broken arm, screamed hysterically, “Yankee yellowbelly! You ain’t got the guts to fight in the open like a man. You got to use a dirty Yankee trick!”
Sloan’s voice was coldly vicious. “A hundred to one! Are those the odds a Southern gentleman has to have?”
The gray disappeared from Towner’s face. It turned a shade that could only have been called purple. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Yet in spite of his monumental fury, there was something like guilt in his eyes, something that said he knew Sloan’s accusation was true. Because it was true, his fury was greater. He found his voice at last and cursed Sloan bitterly, steadily. “You dirty Yankee coward, I’ll show you what odds we need!” He flung himself from his horse, stumbled and nearly fell as he hit the ground. He rushed to Sloan and struck him solidly, with the flat of his hand, on the cheek. There was force in the blow, force enough to snap Sloan’s head sideways with a crack that threatened to break his neck.
Towner roared, “There, suh! The choice of weapons is yours! I’ll show you the kind of odds we need!”
Rage leaped momentarily in Sloan, rage that he almost instantly controlled. Because he knew that he had succeeded, thus far at least. He had reduced this quarrel to its simplest form—that of man against man—instead of the way it had been, drovers against the town. On the point of speaking, he hesitated. Towner’s arm was broken; he was in pain; he was twenty or thirty years older than Sloan. If Sloan fought with him and killed him, the Texas crowd was going to be hard to restrain. There had to be another way …
He stared beyond Towner now at the others, still fighting their nervous mounts. He yelled, “I’ll take that on! But I won’t fight Towner!”
Lawless Town Page 20
