He caught her in three long strides. She had shortened hers, just a little. He was at a loss for words but finally he said, "I've come back."
"So you have," she replied coolly.
"We can be married by the preacher, and start for home in the morning. It's a long ride."
"Do you think I'm such a fool?" she burst out. "You told Giddings I should start a trousseau !"
"Was that foolish of me? Ruth, I loved you the moment I saw you and knew that for me there could be no other. Ruth, will you marry me?"
"You told him to tell me to start my trousseau !" she repeated. "Did you think me such a fool?"
"Why, I just thought--"
"You're the fool," she said, "I started it the morning after meeting you in the street."
" 'Women,' " Cherry started to quote, " 'are--'"
"For you," Ruth said sweetly, "the word has now become singular... so do not say 'women'!"
*
THE MARSHAL OF SENTINEL
At eight o'clock Marshal Fitz Moore left his house and walked one block west to Card's Saloon. It was already open and Fitz glimpsed Card's swamper sweeping debris from the previous night. Crossing the street the marshal paused at the edge of the boardwalk to rub out his cigar on the top of the hitching rail. As he did so he turned his eyes but not his head, glancing swiftly up the narrow street alongside the saloon. The gray horse was gone.
Fitz Moore hesitated, considering this, estimating time and probabilities. Only then did he turn and enter the restaurant just ahead of him.
The Fred Henry gang of outlaws had been operating in this corner of the territory for more than two years, but the town of Sentinel had thus far escaped their attention. Fitz Moore, who had been marshal of Sentinel for more than half that time, had taken care to study the methods ,of Henry and his men. In recent raids the marshal had been slain within minutes before the raid began, or just at the moment the gang arrived.
A persistent pattern of operation had been established and invariably the raids had been timed to coincide with the availability of large sums of money. Such a time had come to Sentinel, as Fitz Moore had reason to know.
So, unless all his reasoning had failed, the town was marked for a raid within the next two hours. And he was marked for death.
Fitz Moore was a tall, spare man with a dark, narrow face and carefully trimmed mustache. Normally his face was still and cold, only his eyes seeming alive and aware.
As he entered the restaurant he removed his black, flat-crowned hat. His frock coat was unbuttoned offering easy access to the Smith & Wesson Russian .44. The gun was belted high and firmly on his left side just in front of his hipbone, butt to the right, holster at a slight angle.
Three men and two women sat at a long community table but only one murmured a greeting. Jack Thomas glanced up and said, "Good morning, Marshal," his tone low and friendly.
Acknowledging the greeting, the marshal seated himself at the far end of the table and accepted the cup of coffee poured by the Chinese cook.
With his mind closed to the drift of conversation from the far end of the table, he considered the situation that faced him. His days began in the same identical manner, with a survey of the town from each of the six windows of his house. This morning he had seen the gray horse tied behind Peterson's unused corral, where it would not be seen by a casual glance.
With field glasses the marshal examined the horse. It was streaked with the salt of dried sweat, evidence of hard riding. There were still some dark, damp spots indicating the horse had been ridden not long before, and the fact that it was still bridled and saddled indicated it would be ridden soon again. The brand was a Rocking R, not a local brand.
When Fitz Moore had returned to his living room he had seated himself and for an hour he read, occasionally glancing out of the window. The gray horse had not been moved in that time.
At eight when he left for breakfast the horse was still there, but by the time he had walked a block it was gone. And there lingered in the air a faint smell of dust.
Where was the horse?
Down the arroyo, of course, as it gave easy access to the forest and the mountain canyons where there was concealment and water. Taking into consideration the cool night, the sweat-streaked horse . . . not less than six miles to the point of rendezvous.
The rider of the gray had obviously been making a final check with a local source of information. To return to the rendezvous, discuss the situation and return, gave him roughly two hours, perhaps a bit more. He would deal in minimums.
The marshal lighted a cigar, accepted a fresh cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair. He was a man of simple tastes and many appreciations. He knew little of cattle and less of mining, but two things he did know. He knew guns and he knew men.
He was aware of the cool gray eyes of the young woman, the only person present whom he did not know by sight. There was about her a haunting familiarity that disturbed him. He tasted his coffee and glanced out the window. Reason warned him he should be suspicious of any stranger in town at such a time, yet every instinct told him he need not be suspicious of her.
The Emporium Bank would be open in about an hour. A few minutes later Barney Card would leave his saloon and cross the street with the receipts from Saturday and Sunday. It could be a considerable sum.
The Emporium safe would be unlocked by that time and, as they had been accepting money from ranchers and dust from miners, there would be plenty of cash on hand. In approximately one hour there would be no less than twenty thousand dollars in spendable cash within easy reach of grasping fingers and ready guns.
The Henry gang would, of course, know this. By now they were in the saddle, leaving their camp.
He did not know the name of the stranger whoplayed poker with the Catfish Kid, but he had known the face. It had been the face of a man he had seen in Tascosa with Fred Henry, the bandit leader, some two years ago. Tied to this was the fact that the Rocking R was a brand registered to one Harvey Danuser, alias Dick Mawson, the fastest gunhand in the Henry outfit.
He was suddenly aware that a question had been directed to him. "What would you do, Marshal," Jack Thomas was asking, "if the Henry gang raided Sentinel?"
Fitz Moore glanced at the end of his cigar, then lifted his eyes to those of Jack Thomas. "I think," he said mildly, "I should have to take steps."
The marshal was not a precipitate man. Reputed to be both fast and accurate with a gun, he had yet to be proved locally. Once, not so long ago, he had killed the wrong man. He hoped never to make such a mistake again.
So far he had enforced the peace in Sentinel by shrewd judgment of character, appreciation of developing situations, and tactical moves that invariably left him in command. Authorized to employ an assistant, he had not done so. He preferred to work as he lived... alone.
He was, he acknowledged, but only to himself, a. lonely man. If he possessed any capacity for affection or friendship it had not been obvious to the people of Sentinel. Yet this was an added strength. No one presumed to take him lightly or expect favoritism.
Long ago he had been considered a brilliant conversationalist and, in a time when a cowboy's saddlebags might carry a volume of the classics as often as Ned Buntline, he was known as a widely read man. He had been a captain in the cavalry of the United States, a colonel in a Mexican revolution, a shotgun messenger for Wells Fargo, and a division superintendent for the Butterfield Stage Line.
Naturally, he knew of the Henry gang. They hadbeen operating for several years but only of late had they shown a tendency to shoot first and talk later. This seemed to indicate that at least one of the gang had become a ruthless killer.
Three marshals had been killed recently, each one shot in the back, an indication that a modus operandi had been established. First kill the marshal, then rob the town. With the marshal out of action it was unlikely resistance could be organized before the outlaws had escaped.
Fitz Moore dusted the ash from his cigar. He thought
the gray horse had been standing long enough to let the sweat dry, which meant the horse had been ridden into town before daybreak. At that hour everything was closed and he had seen nobody on the street, and that seemed to indicate the rider had gone in somewhere. And that meant he not only knew where to go at that hour but that he would be welcomed.
So the Henry gang had an accomplice in Sentinel. When the rider of the gray horse left town that accomplice had undoubtedly been awake. With a raid imminent it was unlikely he would risk going back to sleep. What more likely place for him to be than right in this cafe? Here he could not only see who was around but would have a chance to judge the temper of the marshal.
Had anyone entered before he arrived? Fitz Moore knew everyone in the room except the girl with the gray eyes. She was watching him now.
Each of the others had a reason to be here at this hour. Barney Card had opened his saloon and left it to the ministrations of his swamper. Jack Thomas directed the destinies of the livery stable. Johnny Haven, when he wasn't getting drunk and trying to tree the town, was a hardworking young cowhand and thoroughly trustworthy.
The older of the two women present was Mary Jameson, a plump and gossipy widow, the town's milliner, dressmaker, and Niagara of conversation.
When she finished her breakfast she would walk three doors down the street and open her shop.
But what of the girl with the gray eyes? Her face was both delicate and strong, her hair dark and lovely, and she had an air of being to the manor born. Perhaps it was because she did possess that air, like someone from the marshal's own past, that she seemed familiar. And also, he thought reluctantly, she was just the sort of girl--
It was too late now, and there was no use thinking of it. He was not fool enough to believe there could be any such girl for him now. Not after all these years.
There was an antagonism in her eyes that he could not account for. He was accustomed to the attention of women but not antagonistic attention.
The marshal glanced thoughtfully at Johnny Haven. The young cowboy was staring sourly at his plate or devoting his attention to his coffee. Over his right temple was a swelling and a cut. This, coupled with a hangover, had left Johnny in a disgruntled mood. Last night had been the end of his monthly spree, and the swelling and the cut were evidences of the marshal's attention.
Johnny caught the marshal's glance and scowled. "You sure leave a man with a headache, Marshal. Did you have to slug me with a gun barrel?"
Fitz Moore dusted the ash from his cigar. "I didn't have an ax handle and nothing else would have been suitable for the job." He added casually, "Of course, I could have shot you."
Johnny was perfectly aware of the fact and some marshals would have done exactly that. Coming from Fitz Moore it was almost an apology.
"Is it so easy to kill men?" It was the girl with the gray eyes who spoke, her tone low and modulated but shaded with contempt.
"That depends," Fitz Moore replied with dignity, "on who is doing the shooting and the circumstances."
"I think"--and there was a flash of anger in her eyes--"that you would find it easy to kill. You might even enjoy killing. If you were capable of feeling anything at all."
The depth of f eeling in her words was so obvious that, surprised, Johnny turned to look at her. Her face had gone pale, her eyes large.
The marshal's expression did not change. He knew Johnny understood, as any westerner would. Johnny Haven had himself given cause for shooting on more than one occasion. He also knew that what Marshal Fitz Moore had just said to him was more of an explanation than he had given any man. Fitz Moore had arrested Johnny Haven six times in as many months, for after every payday Johnny came to town hunting trouble. Yet Fitz Moore knew that Johnny Haven was simply a wild youngster with a lot of good stuff in him, one who simply needed taming and a sense of responsibility.
The girl's tone carried an animosity for which none of them could account, and it left them uneasy.
Barney Card got to his feet and dropped a dollar on the table. Johnny Haven followed him out, and then the milliner. Jack Thomas loitered over his coffee.
"That Henry outfit has me worried, Marshal,'' he said. "You want me to get down the old scatter-gun, just in case?"
Fitz Moore watched Barney Card through the window. The saloon keeper had paused on the walk to talk to Johnny Haven. Under the stubble of beard Johnny's face looked clean and strong, reminding the marshal, as it had before, of the face of another young man, scarcely older.
"It won't be necessary," Fitz Moore replied. "Ill handle them in my own way, in my own time. It's my job, you know."
"Isn't that a bit foolish? To refuse help?"
The contempt in her voice stirred him, but he revealed nothing. He nodded gravely. "I suppose it might be, ma'am, but I was hired to do the job and take the risks."
"Figured I'd offer," Thomas said, unwilling to let the matter drop. "You tell me what you figure to do, and I'll be glad to help."
"Another time." The marshal tasted his coffee again and looked directly at the girl. "You are new in Sentinel. Will you be staying long?"
"No."
"Do you have relatives here?"
"No."
He waited, but no explanation was offered. Fitz Moore was puzzled and he studied her from the corners of his eyes. There was no sound in the room but the ticking of the big, old-fashioned clock.
The girl sat very still, the delicate line of her profile bringing to him a faint, lost feeling, a nostalgia from his boyhood when such women as she rode to hounds, when there was perfume on the air, blue grass, picket fences ...
And then he remembered.
Thomas got to his feet. He was a big, swarthy man, always untidy, a bulge of fat pushing his wide belt. "You need any help, Marshal, you just call on me."
Fitz Moore permitted himself one of his rare smiles. "If there is any trouble, Jack," he said gently, "you will be the first to know."
The clock ticked off the seconds after the door closed, and then the marshal broke the silence.
"Why have you come here? What can you do in this place?"
"All I have is here. Just a little west of here. I left the stage to hire a rig, and then I heard your name and I wanted to see what manner of man it would be who would kill his best friend."
He got to his feet. At that moment he knew better than ever what loneliness could mean.
"You judge too quickly. Each man must be judged against the canvas of his own time, his own world."
"There is only one way to judge a killer."
"Wait. Wait just a little while and you will see what I mean. And please . . .stay off the street today. If you need a rig I will see you get a responsible man." He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. "He used to tell me about you. We talked often of you, and I came to feel I knew you. I had hoped, before it happened, that someday we would meet. But in a different world than this.
"What will happen today I want you to see. I do not believe you lack the courage to watch what happens nor to revise your opinion if you feel you have been mistaken. Your brother, as you were advised in my letter, was killed by accident."
"But you shot him I You were in a great hurry to kill."
"I was in the midst of a gun battle. He ran up behind me."
"To help you."
"I believed him to be a hundred miles away, and in the town where we were I had no friends. It was quick. At such a time, one acts."
"Kill first," she said bitterly, "look afterward."
His features were stiff. "I am afraid mat is what often happens. I am sorry."
He lifted the latch. "When you see what happens today, try to imagine how else it might be handled. If you cannot see this as I do, men before night comes you will think me even more cruel man you do now. But you may understand, and where there is understanding there is no hate."
Outside the door he paused and surveyed the street with care. Not much longer now.
Across from him wa
s Card's Saloon. One block down was his office and across the street from this small home. Just a little beyond was an abandoned barn. He studied it thoughtfully, glancing again at Card's with the bank diagonally across the street from the saloon, right past the milliner's shop.
It would happen here, upon this dusty street, between these buildings. Here men would die, and it was has mission to see that good men lived and had their peace, and the bad were kept from crime. As for himself, he was expendable . . . but which was he, the good or the bad?
Fitz Moore knew every alley, every door, every corner in this heat-baked, alkali-stamped cluster of life that would soon become an arena. His eyes turned again to the barn. It projected several feet beyond the otherwise carefully lined buildings. The big door through which hay had once been hoisted gaped wide.
So little time I
He knew what they said about him. "Ain't got a friend in town," he had overheard Mrs. Jameson say. "Lives to hisself in that old house. Got it full of books, folks say. But kill you quick as a wink, he would. He's cold ... mighty cold."
Was he?
When first he came to the town he found it a shambles, wrecked by a passing trail-herd crew. It had been terrorized by two dozen gamblers and gunmen, citizens robbed by cardsharps and thieves. Robbery had been the order of the day and murder all too frequent. Now it had been six months since the last murder. Did that count for nothing?
He took out a fresh cigar and bit off the end. What was the matter with him today? He had not felt like this in years. Was it what they say happens to a drowning man and his whole life was passing before his eyes, just before the end? Or was it simply that he had seen Julia Heath, the sum and total of all he had ever wanted in a girl? And realizing who she was, realized also how impossible it had become?
They had talked of it, he and Tom Heath, and Tom had written to Julia, suggesting she come west because he had found the man for her. And two weeks later Tom was dead with his, with Fitz Moore's, bullet in his heart.
the Strong Shall Live (Ss) (1980) Page 13
