by John Benteen
Boyd frowned. Something was out of kilter here.
Jordan caught the frown. Then he laughed softly. “You’re one of those that got a letter from Isaac Gault. You’ve been talkin’ to pore old drunk Ike before you came to see me. He’s told you all kinds of stories about what I’m doin’ to this town — right?”
“I’ve heard some things that didn’t square with what I expected,” Boyd said.
“You’ve heard a lot of crap,” Jordan said, and his smile vanished. “Ike drank himself out of the mayor’s office and his job as railroad agent, and you know how drunks are — he tries to put the blame on everybody but himself.” Jordan turned away, then, went to a cabinet, took down a glass, put it on the table, where a bottle of prime bourbon already sat. He poured two ounces. “Have a drink and rest a spell, Kilpatrick. How many beeves you bringin’ in? Four thousand?”
Boyd dropped into the chair. He shot a glance at Trask, who, still silent, was fingering his mustache and eyeing Boyd appraisingly. “Yeah,” he said. Then, to Trask: “You’re the marshal?”
“Big as life and twice as natural!” Jordan laughed. “You may not have heard of Wayne Trask before now, Kilpatrick, but you’ll be hearing a lot about him from now on! If Gunsight grows the way we figure, he’ll be as famous as any lawman in the West!”
“Maybe,” Boyd said. “I saw him kill a man today.”
“Bud Kane. Yeah. A troublemaker.” Trask went on fingering his mustache. “He resisted arrest for bein’ drunk and disorderly.”
“In a town like this? If that’s a crime in Gunsight, me and my men are in trouble.”
Jordan laughed. “Yeah, Texas cowboys. They don’t count, Kilpatrick. Way this town’s set up, they can do any damn thing they want to, long as they don’t rape anybody on the railroad tracks at high noon. Not if there’s a train comin’, anyhow.” He chuckled. “Gunsight’s wide open for trail herders. It’s the permanent residents we keep an eye on. Kane was always bullin’ around lookin’ for trouble. Wayne finally cut him down to keep him from killin’ other, decent folks.” He shoved the glass toward Boyd, who sipped the whiskey. It was incomparably excellent Kentucky bourbon. “Our internal problems don’t matter, though. What I want to know is all about your herd.”
“It’s a syndicate operation; I brought it up here as a professional trail boss. I got people back in Val Verde County, Texas, lookin’ to me for the high dollar per cow. I thought Gunsight would be a good bet on account of Ike Gault’s letter and some other checking I did. My beef’s prime, and it’ll be on the bed ground beyond the creek tonight. I want to get the buyers out to look at it tomorrow.”
“The buyers,” Jordan said. “Well, that’s a little problem we haven’t solved yet. The buyers still insist on going to Dodge; they don’t believe Gunsight will be a market. After all, we’re new. But, like I said, Kilpatrick, you’ll get a price as high as any being paid in Kansas, and you can check the Dodge papers if you don’t believe me. I’ll guarantee that myself. Until we get more buying action, I’m taking whatever beef comes in to Gunsight myself.”
Boyd sipped his drink. “Well, Jordan,” he said, “that sounds good. Only one thing: I figured that there’d be more competition here in Gunsight, a little bidding. On top of which, my critters will outweigh anything delivered to Dodge by ten, fifteen pounds apiece. I don’t want the best price that’s being paid in Kansas. I want a premium price — I figure that ought to run twenty thousand more, minimum, than I’d get in Dodge.”
Jordan’s smile thinned; he frowned. “Well, I’ve got to see the herd ...”
“Sure,” said Boyd coolly. “You come out to the bed ground across the creek. We’ll hold ’em there until we can come to terms. Tomorrow mornin’ ought to be fine.”
“I’ll be there,” Jordan said. “I— ” Then he broke off as his office door slammed open.
All three men turned. Then, at the sight of the man in the doorway, Boyd Kilpatrick jumped to his feet. It was Rio Fanning, and his holsters were full.
Jordan came up quickly. “What the hell’s this?”
Fanning’s hands were close to his gun butts. He looked at Boyd with blazing eyes. “I want my rifle.”
Slowly, easily, Wayne Trask got to his feet. “Listen, young feller — ” His voice was cold, harsh, yet somehow eager.
Rio’s eyes flickered to him, then back to Boyd. “I saw your horse outside. I found the saddlebags, got my Colts outa ’em. The bartender told me you were in here. Now I want my rifle.” His gaze went to the weapon on the table. “Give it here.”
“What’s this all about?” Jordan snapped.
Boyd sucked in a deep breath. “The boy thinks he’s a gunslick,” he said, almost wearily. “I had to take his irons away from on the trail and fire him. I was planning to turn them over to the town law.”
“Since I’m the town law,” Trask said, “I’ll handle this.” He stepped forward, hands dangling at his sides, elbows shoving back the black frock coat. “Young feller, you’re bustin’ in on a private conference.”
“I don’t give a damn!” Rio snapped. “I want my rifle.”
“You’ll git your gun when I’m ready to give it to you,” Trask said. “Don’t go tellin’ me what to do. I’m the marshal of Gunsight.”
Rio turned slightly. He smiled a little. “I don’t care if you’re Jesus God Almighty, bushface,” he said. “That Springfield on the table belongs to me. Hand it here, stock first. Then I’ll be on my way.”
Trask laughed softly. “Boy, you talk mighty big. You don’t know who you’re up against, do you? You ever hear of Wayne Trask?”
“No,” said Fanning. “You ever hear of Rio Fanning?”
“No,” Trask said easily, “and unless you get your ass out of here in about three seconds, nobody else will, either, unless it’s the gravediggers.”
“Trask,” Boyd began. He started to reach for the rifle. “Lay off the kid. Since he’s already got his Colts — ”
“Hush, Kilpatrick.” Trask took another step forward, shoulders slumping a little. “If the kid wants to make himself a rep, don’t deprive him of the opportunity. Boy, your gun’s in town custody. You want it, you come and get it.”
Fanning’s handsome, almost girlish face went red. “I might just do that.” And his hands were at his hips.
“Goddamn it, Jordan,” Boyd began.
“Be still,” Jordan said. “Let Wayne handle this.”
“But I don’t want to see the kid killed!”
Without taking his eyes from Trask, Rio said, “Don’t worry about the kid. Give me my gun, bushface.”
“I’ll give you some guns,” Trask said easily. Then, with no warning at all, he drew.
Jordan and Boyd each dived aside. Even so, Boyd saw the fantastic speed with which Rio’s guns came up. Trask, lining his Colts, was almost as fast — but not quite. Fire and white smoke plumed from each of Rio’s pistols. Two .45 slugs caught Trask in the chest and literally picked him up and threw him backwards against the wall.
He hit it hard, slumped down, long-barreled revolvers slipping unfired from his hands. He stared at Rio for one frozen second in which his life departed. “Jesus,” he managed to say; and then he died.
Suddenly the room, stinking of powdersmoke, was very silent. Jordan came out of one corner, Boyd Kilpatrick out of the other. With fantastic speed and dexterity, Rio holstered his left-hand gun, stepped forward and reached for the rifle. “Anybody else?” His eyes skewered Boyd. “You want it? I owe you a lot.”
Kilpatrick read the excitement in those eyes. Not counting Comanches, the first kill. He knew that it would take less than nothing to make Rio trigger another shot. He said, keeping his hands well away from his gun, “All right, Fanning. Take your rifle.”
“I aim to.” Rio snatched up the weapon, tucked it under his arm. Then he looked at Jordan. “They tell me you’re the big dog in this town.”
“That’s right,” Jordan said. Impressed by what had happened, he also kept his hands
high.
“Then I’ll warn you now. Your copper’s dead. It wasn’t my fault; he reached first. Anybody you send after me had better be faster than him.” He backed toward the door. “And you, Kilpatrick. I’m willing to let it all be finished right now. As long as we don’t get crossways of one another again ... But you stay out of my way, you hear? You seen what Trask got. You stay out of my way.” Then, before Boyd could answer, he had turned, was gone.
Jordan stared down at the body of Trask. “Hell,” he whispered. “He’s fast. I thought nobody could beat Wayne, but I’ve never seen anybody that fast not Earp or Masterson or nobody.”
“It was a fair fight,” Boyd said “Trask wasn’t trying to arrest him. Trask drew without warning.”
“The boy provoked him,” Jordan said.
“Then what do you aim to do?” Boyd looked toward the door through which Rio had vanished.
Jordan touched Trask’s corpse thoughtfully with the toe of his boot. “Nothing,” he said, “until I find me another marshal.”
“That means that for now there’s no law in Gunsight?”
“There will be. I’ll find another man.” Jordan looked at Boyd. “The kid’s not a member of your outfit any longer. You leave him to me. I’ll tend to him.”
Boyd sucked in his breath. “If you send somebody else after him, you’ll get somebody else killed. I said, the fight was fair. Stay off the kid, maybe he’ll leave town.”
“I said I’d tend to him!” Jordan flared. “You forget him, stay clear of him, leave him to me!”
Boyd looked at him narrowly. Suddenly any liking he had felt for Jordan vanished. “All right,” he said harshly. “There’s nothing else I can do. The kid’s crossed a dividing line, and he’ll have to take the consequences, whatever they are.” He turned away. “The herd will be coming in soon, now; I’ve got to ride. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jordan.”
“Yeah,” Jordan said. He was still staring down at the body of Trask. “Yeah, I’ll see you then. Jesus,” he was saying thoughtfully as Kilpatrick went out. “Jesus, that boy was fast...”
Chapter Four
It was just before sundown when the herd topped the rise, and the noise it made preceded it. The bawling of cattle; the sound of sixteen thousand hooves; the high-pitched yells of the drovers: all that was audible before the vanguard of that great column of heavy-bodied beef came in sight.
People had come out of Gunsight and were watching. On horseback, in rigs, traps, and buggies, half the population of the town had turned out to witness the coming of the first herd. Men, women, and wide-eyed children, they stared at that mighty stream of cattle pouring across the swell in the prairie, bellowing and bawling at the scent of water.
Boyd Kilpatrick put the roan at a high lope toward the point, where Jess Ford and the other point man, Clell Samuels, wrestled with the swift-moving mass of cattle, led by an old, wise steer Boyd had used on several drives, bringing him up the trail, then taking him back to Texas. That lead steer, Big Ugly, was worth a half-dozen cowhands; he knew his responsibilities and carried them out, fighting his sharp-horned way to dominance in every herd Boyd drove.
As Big Ugly rushed by him, Boyd pulled up his horse. “Jess!” he yelled. “Swing ’em across the water to the far side, we’ll bed ’em there!”
“Right!” Ford reined in. “No problem; the sun’s behind ’em. How’s things in Gunsight, boss?”
“We’ll talk about that later! Your job now’s to handle cattle!”
“Sure.” Jess grinned. His eyes lanced toward the row of buggies and surreys in the forefront of the crowd. That was where the whores had gathered, and their shrill cries rang out through the twilight: “Hello, cowboy! Hi, there, handsome — you on the claybank! When you git to Gunsight, don’t forgit to ask for Kitty!”
“Looks like Gunsight’s some town,” Jess laughed.
“Git those goddamned cattle across the creek!” Boyd flared.
Jess stared at him. Then he nodded. “Sure, Boyd.” He turned. “Hi, Big Ugly! We’ll bed down on the far side!”
Boyd kept the roan hauled in tight as the herd swung. Big Ugly seemed to understand English; he didn’t even pause to drink. He wallowed down a cut in the bank, loped on through the shallow, muddy water, scrambled up the other side. Shoved by the drovers, the herd followed. It would have been rougher, Boyd realized instinctively, if the sun hadn’t been in the right position; it was almost impossible to get cattle to cross a stream with light in their eyes. But now, a giant, swinging snake of multicolored steers, great horns clacking, hooves pounding and rattling, they made the creek readily enough, as if they understood they had come to bed ground. And perhaps they did; the drive halted every night about this time, and they had become accustomed to that. They realized that they would have their chance at the water and then they could fill their bellies on the fine spring grass on the flats.
Panhandle Smith at the chuck wagon lines, followed by the bed wagon, had already crossed, and so had the remuda. Even now, as the cattle flowed onto the bed ground, Panhandle had dismounted, was opening the back of the wagon. The horse jingler swung the saddle stock wide of the herd, and the cook’s louse, who drove the second wagon, took out an ax to use for cutting firewood. Despite the problems of the day, Boyd felt satisfaction, even a kind of exaltation, at watching the scene before him. These men were professionals, and it was good to see them in action.
He sat motionless on the roan as the herd forded the shallow stream, his whole being intent on the crossing. The voice at his elbow jerked him out of that bemusement; in the noise and thunder of four thousand cattle, he had not even heard the horse come up alongside.
“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” the girl said at his elbow.
Kilpatrick turned in the saddle.
Stewart Gault sat there on a pinto pony. She wore a white silk blouse that the evening breeze modeled against large breasts, a divided leather riding skirt. A tan sombrero hung down on its throatlatch behind her mass of copper-colored hair. Her teeth, between red lips, were very white as she smiled at Boyd. “I thought I’d come out to see the show, too. After all, when you come right down to it, my father is responsible for this.” Those emerald eyes shuttled back to the herd. “It’s quite a spectacle, isn’t it? What a job, to drive all those cattle all this distance.”
“It’s rough,” Kilpatrick said.
“A job for men.” She looked at him, lids half-closing those magnificent eyes. “When you get them bedded down, will you be coming into Gunsight?”
“No. Not tonight. Why?”
She looked disappointed. “My father invited you to supper. I got to thinking about it, and I thought maybe I would invite you, too.”
Boyd’s eyes went back to the herd, now fully across the creek, milling and settling on the grassy flats. “There are a lot of problems in Gunsight,” he said. “More than maybe you know. Your marshal got killed today.”
“Trask.” Her lips curled. “Good. He was a ... bastard.”
Her use of the word startled Boyd. She saw that and her eyes glinted. “You’re surprised by the way I talk? Don’t be. After all, I’ve grown up in trail towns. My father has always followed the herds. Wichita, Ellsworth, Abilene, Dodge, I’ve lived in all of them.”
“A rough life for a woman,” Boyd said.
“It depends on the woman,” said Stewart. “If it doesn’t do anything else for her, it gives her some idea of what a real man is. I wouldn’t trade my life for the life of some penned-up female back in Philadelphia or New York or Chicago, prissing around like a spayed heifer and fainting at the least excuse.”
“You talk rough,” Boyd said.
“No. Cattle talk. I’ve lived around cattlemen all my life, know ’em, respect ’em. Are you sure you won’t come to dinner tonight?” She put out a hand and, to his surprise, touched his chap-clad leg. “I’d like it if you would — and maybe you might learn a few things about Gunsight that my daddy didn’t tell you today.”
Boyd lo
oked at her. Their eyes met, and again he felt that curious electricity. He let out a long breath. “Maybe I do have some business in town tonight.”
“We live at the head of the street, north of the tracks. The last house on your right, the only one that’s painted.”
Boyd cocked an eye at the sun. “It’s six now. It’ll be eight before I can get there.”
Stewart smiled. “No hurry. Dad will be drunk, anyhow. I’ll hold supper until you come.” Then, practicedly, she reined the pinto around, touched it with a spur.
Kilpatrick looked at her as she galloped across the prairie, riding straight up and proudly before the line of whores clustered in their surreys and buggies. She was a marvelous rider.
When she had gone, he lifted rein and put the roan down the slope toward the creek. It splashed through the churned shallows, laboring because all the bottom had been worked out of the sand by cloven hooves. Then it struggled up the other side, and Kilpatrick reined in and dismounted by the fire that Panhandle had just started.
The cook looked at him with inquiring eyes. “Everything all right in Gunsight, boss?”
Kilpatrick nodded. “Why, of course, Panhandle,” he said. “Everything’s just fine.”
~*~
They had seen the whores. They were like a troop of bulls on the track of cows in heat — all twenty of them.
For three months, they had wrestled these longhorns up the trail. Their last binge had been in Fort Worth, the cowboy capital, and that was so long before that none of them could really remember what they had done there. For countless nights, over countless campfires, they had talked about women, past and future, and, as they neared the end of the trail, their conversation had taken on a tone of urgency. Trail driving was a young man’s game, and, except for Panhandle, who was forty, there was not a man in the crew under the age of thirty-five and most of them were far younger than that. They had had enough of cow-stink and short rations and muddy water; they wanted liquor and they wanted women.
And so, as if he were a captain handling the crew of a ship that had been a long time at sea, Kilpatrick had to deal with them. There was plenty of wood, and the cook’s louse built the fire up high. Kilpatrick faced those of his men not on nightguard across it.
