The marshal walked along the street of false-fronted, weather-beaten buildings. Squalid and dismal as they might seem to a stranger they were the center of the world for those who lived in the country around. Here where mountains and desert met, the town was changing. It was growing with the hopes of its citizens and with the changing of times and needs. This spring, for example^ flowers had been planted in the yard of a house near the church, and trees had been trimmed in another.
From a haphazard collection of buildings catering to the needs of a transient people, the town of Sentinel was acquiring a sense of belonging, a consciousness of the future. The days of cattle drives were soon to be gone and where they had walked men would build and plant and harvest
Fitz Moore turned into the empty alley between the Emporium and the general store. Thoughts of his problem returned. With the marshal dead the town would be helpless until men could gather, choose a leader, and act. For the moment the town would he helpless.
But how did they plan to kill him? That it had been planned he was sure, but it must be done soon and quickly, for the marshal would be the focal point of resistance.
The loft of the abandoned barn commanded a view of the street. The outlaws would come into town riding toward the barn and somewhere along that street the marshal of Sentinel would be walking, covered by a hidden rifleman.
He climbed up the stairs to the barn loft. The dust on the steps had been disturbed. At the top a board creaked under his boot. A rat scurried away. The loft was wide and empty, only dust and wisps of hay, a few cobwebs.
From that wide door the raid might be stopped, but this was not the place for him. His place was down there in that hot, dusty street where his presence would count. Much remained to be done and there was but little time.
Returning to his quarters, Fitz Moore thrust an extra gun into his pocket and belted on a third. Then he put two shotguns into a wool sack. Nobody would be surprised to see him carrying the sack, for he used it to bring firewood from the pile back of Card's.
Jack Thomas was seated in a chair in front of the livery stable. Barney Card came from the saloon, glanced at the marshal as if to assure himself of his presence, then went back inside. Fitz Moore paused, relighting his dead cigar, surveying the street over the match and under the brim of his hat.
The topic of what might happen here if the Henry gang attempted to raid was not a new one. There had been much speculation. Several men aside from Thomas had brought up the subject, trying to feel him out, to discover what he thought, what he might plan to do.
Jack Thomas turned his head to watch the marshal. He was a big, easygoing man with a ready smile. He had been one of the first to offer his services.
Johnny Haven, seated on the steps of the saloon's porch looked up at the marshal, grinning. "How's the town clown?" he asked.
Moore paused beside him, drawing deep on the cigar and permitting himself a glance toward the loft door, almost sixty yards away and across the street. Deliberately, he had placed himself in line with the best shooting position.
"Johnny," he said, "if anything happens to me, I want you to have this job. If nothing happens to me I want you for my deputy."
Young Haven could not have been more astonished, but he was also deeply moved. He lookedup at the marshal as if he thought. his mind had been affected by the heat. Aside from the words the very fact that the marshal had ventured a personal remark was astonishing.
"You're twenty-six, Johnny, and it's time you grew up. You've played at being the town roughneck long enough. I've looked the town over, and I've decided you're the man for the job."
Johnny . . . Tom. He tried to avoid thinking of them together but there was a connection. Tom had been a good man, too. Now he was a good man gone. Johnny was a good one, no question about it. He had heard many stories of how dependable he was out on the range, but Johnny was walking the hairline of the law. A step too far and he could become an outlaw.
Johnny Haven was profoundly impressed. To say that he both respected and admired this tall, composed man was no more than the truth. After Moore arrested him the first time Johnny had been furious enough to kill him, but each time he came into town he found himself neatly boxed and helpless.
Nor had Moore ever taken unfair advantage, never striking one blow more than essential, never keeping the cowhand in jail an hour longer than necessary. And Johnny Haven was honest enough to realize he could never have handled the situation as well.
Anger had dissolved into reluctant admiration. Only stubbornness and the pride of youth had prevented him from giving up the struggle.
"Why pick on me?" He spoke roughly to cover his emotion. "You won't be quitting."
There was a faint suggestion of movement from the loft. The marshal glanced at his watch. Two minutes to ten.
"Johnny--?" The sudden change of tone brought Johnny's head up sharply. "When the shooting starts there are two shotguns in this sack.
Get behind the water trough and use one of them. Shoot from under the trough, it's safer."
Two riders walked their horses into the upper end of the street, almost a block away. Two men on powerful horses, much better horses than were usually found on any cow ranch.
Three more riders emerged from the space between the buildings, coming from the direction of Peterson's corral. One of them was riding a gray horse. They were within twenty yards when Barney Card came from his saloon carrying two canvas bags. He was starring for the bank, and one of the riders reined his horse around to come between Card and his goal.
"Shotgun in the sack, Card." The marshal's tone was conversational.
Then, sunlight glinted on a rifle barrel in the loft door. Fitz Moore took one step forward and drew. The thunder of the rifle merged a little late with the bark of his own gun. The rifle clattered, falling, and an arm fell loosely from the loft door.
The marshal's turn was abrupt, yet smooth. "All right, Henry!" His voice like the blare of a trumpet in the narrow street. "You've asked for it! Now take it!"
There was no request for surrender. The rope awaited these men, death rode their hands and their guns.
As one man they went for their guns. The marshal leaped into the street, landing flatfooted and firing. The instant of surprise was his, and they were mounted on nervous horses. His first shot had killed the man in the loft, the second killed Fred Henry.
Behind and to his right a shotgun's deep roar blasted the sun-filled morning. The man on the gray horse died f ailing, his gun throwing a useless shot into the hot, still air.
A rider leaped his horse at the marshal but Fitz Moore stood his ground and fired. The rider's faceseemed to disintegrate under the impact of the bullet.
And then there was silence. The roaring of guns was gone and only the faint smells lingered, the acrid tang of gunpowder, of blood in the dust, the brighter crimson of blood on a saddle.
Johnny Haven got up slowly from behind the horse trough. Barney Gard stared around as if just awakened, the canvas bags at his feet, his hands gripping the shotgun Johnny had thrown him.
There was a babble of sound then and people running into the street, and a girl with gray eyes watching. Those eyes seemed to reach across the street and into the heart of the marshal.
"Only one shot!" Barney Gard exclaimed. "I got off only one shot and missed that one!"
"The Henry gang wiped out!" yelled an excited citizen. "Wait until Thomas hears that!"
"He won't be listenin'," somebody said. "They got him."
Fitz Moore turned like a duelist. "I got him," he said flatly. "He was their man. He tried all morning to find out what I'd do if they showed up. Besides, he was hostler at the livery stable at the time of the holdup at the Springs."
An hour later Johnny Haven followed the marshal into the street. Four men were dead, two were in jail.
"How did you know, Marshal?"
"You learn, Johnny. You learn or you die. That's your lesson for today. Learn to be in the right place at the right
time and keep your own council You'll be getting my job." His cigar was gone. He bit the end from another and continued.
"Jack Thomas was the only man the rider of the gray horse could have visited without crossing the street. No outlaw would have left the horse he would need for a quick getaway on the wrong side of the street."
When he returned to the eating house Julia Heath was at her table again. She was white and shaken.
"I am sorry, Julia, but now you know how little time there is when guns are drawn. These men came to steal the money honest men worked to earn, and they would have killed again as they have killed before. Such men know only the law of the gun." He placed his hands on the table. "I should have recognized you at once, Julia, but I never imagined, after what happened, that you would come. I had forgotten about Tom's ranch. He was proud of you, Julia, and he was my best friend."
"But you killed him."
Marshal Moore gestured toward the street. "It was like that. Guns exploding, a man dying almost at my feet, then someone rushing up behind me in a town where I had no friends. I fired at a man who was shooting at me, turned and fired at one running up "behind me. I killed my best friend, your brother."
She knew now how it must have been for this man, and she was silent.
"And now?" she asked finally.
"My job goes to Johnny Haven, but I shall stay here and try to help the town grow. This fight should end it for a while. In the meantime the town can mature, settle down, and become a place to live in instead of just a place to camp for the night"
"I--I guess it's worth doing."
"It is." He put down his unlighted cigar. "You will be driving over to settle Tom's estate. When you come back you might feel like stopping off again. If you do, I'll be waiting to see you."
She looked at him, looking beyond the coldness, the stillness, seeing the man her brother must have known. "I think I shall I think I will stop . . . when I come back,"
Out in the street a man was raking dust over the blood. Back of the barn an old hen cackled, and somewhere a pump began to complain rustily, drawing clear water from a deep, cold well.
*
BLUFF CREEK STATION
The stage was two hours late into Bluff Creek and the station hostler had recovered his pain-wracked consciousness three times. After two futile attempts to move himself he had given up and lay sprawled on the rough boards of the floor with a broken back and an ugly hole in his side.
He was a man of middle years, his jaw un-shaved and his hair rumpled and streaked with gray. His soiled shirt and homespun jeans were dark with blood. There was one unlaced boot on his left foot. The other boot lay near a fireplace gray with ancient ashes.
There were two benches and a few scattered tools, some odd bits of harness, an overturned chair, and a table on which were some unwashed dishes. Near the hostler's right hand lay a Spencer rifle, and beyond it a double-barreled shotgun. Chi the floor nearby, within easy reach, a double row of neatly spaced shotgun and rifle shells. Scattered about were a number of used shells from both weapons, mute mementos of his four-hour battle with attacking Indians.
Now, for slightly more than two hours there had been no attack, yet he knew they were out there, awaiting the arrival of the stage, and it was for this he lived, to fire a warning shot before the stage could stop at the station. The last shot they fired, from a Sharps .50, had wrecked his spine. The bloody wound in his side had come earlier in the battle, and he had stuffed it with cotton torn from an old mattress.
Outside, gray clouds hung low, threatening rain, and occasional gusts of wind rattled the dried leaves on the trees, or stirred them along the hard ground.
The stage station squatted in dwarfish discomfort at the foot of a bluff, the station was constructed of blocks picked from the slide-rock at the foot of the bluff, and it was roofed with split cedar logs covered with earth. Two small windows stared in mute wonderment at the empty road and at the ragged brush before it where the Indians waited.
Three Indians, he believed, had died in the battle, and probably he had wounded as many more, but he distrusted counting Indian casualties, for all too often they were overestimated. And the Indians always carried away their dead.
The Indians wanted the stage, the horses that drew it, and the weapons of the people inside. There was no way to warn the driver or passengers unless he could do it. The hostler lay on his back staring up at the ceiling.
He had no family, and he was glad of that now. Ruby had run off with a tinhorn from Alta some years back, and there had been no word from her, nor had he wished for it. Occasionally, he thought of her, but without animosity. He was not, he reminded himself, an easy man with whom to live, nor was he much of a person. He had been a simple, hardworking man, inclined to drink too much, and often quarrelsome when drinking.
He had no illusions. He knew he was finished. The heavy lead slug that had smashed the base of his spine had killed him. Only an iron will had kept life in his body, and he doubted his ability to keep it there much longer. His legs were already dead and there was a coldness in his fingers that frightened him. He would need those fingers to fire the warning shot.
Slowly, carefully, he reached for the shotgun and loaded it with fumbling, clumsy fingers. Then he wedged the shotgun into place hi the underpinning of his bunk. It was aimed at nothing, but all he needed was the shot, the dull boom it would make, a warning to those who rode the stage that something was amiss.
He managed to knot a string to the trigger so it could be pulled even if he could not reach the trigger. His extremities would go first and then even if his fingers were useless he could pull the trigger with his teeth.
Exhausted by his efforts he lay back and stared up at the darkening ceiling, without bitterness, waiting for the high, piercing yell of the stage driver and the rumble and rattle of the stage's wheels as it approached the station.
-Five miles east, the heavily loaded stage rolled along the dusty trail accompanied by its following plume of dust. The humped-up clouds hung low over the serrated ridges. Up on the box, Kickapoo Jackson handled "the lines and beside him Hank Wells was riding shotgun. Wells was deadheading it home as there was nothing to guard coming west. He had his revolving shotgun and a rifle with him from force of habit. The third man who rode the top, lying between some sacks of mail, was Marshal Brad Delaney, a former buffalo hunter and Indian fighter.
Inside the stage a stocky, handsome boy with brown hair sat beside a pretty girl in rumpled finery. Both looked tired and were, but the fact that they were recently married was written all over them. Half the way from Kansas City they had talked of their hopes and dreams, and their excitement had been infectious. They had enlisted the advice and sympathy of those atop the coach as well as those who rode inside.
The tall man of forty with hair already gray at the temples was Dr. Dave Moody, heading for the mining camps of Nevada to begin a new practice after several years of successful work in New England. Major Glen Faraday sat beside him atthe window. Faraday was a West Point man, now discharged from the army and en route west to build a flume for an irrigation project.
Ma Harrigan, who ran a boardinghouse in Austin and was reputed to make the best pies west of the Rockies, sat beside Johnny Ryan, headed west to the father he had never seen.
Kickapoo Jackson swung the Concord around a bend and headed into a narrow draw. "Never liked this place!" he shouted. "Too handy for injuns!"
"Seen any around?" Delaney asked.
"Nope! But the hostler at Bluff Creek had him a brush with them awhile back. He driv'em off, though! That's a good man, yonder!"
"That's his kid down below," Wells said. "Does he know the kid's comin' west?"
"Know?" Kickapoo spat. "Ryan don't even know he's got a kid! His wife run off with a no-account gambler a few years back! When the gambler found she was carryin' another man's child he just up and left her. She hadn't known about the kid when she left Ryan."
"She never went back?"
"Too proud, I reckon. She waited tables in Kansas City awhile, then got sickly. Reckon she died. The folks the boy lived with asked me to bring him back to his dad. Ol' Ryan will sure be surprised!"
The grade steepened and Jackson slowed the stage for the long climb. Brad Delaney sat up and surveyed the sage-covered hills with a wary eye, cradling his Winchester on his knees. No chance of surprising them here despite their slow pace. Here the Indians would be in the open which would mean suicide for them. Hank Wells was a seasoned fighting man and there wasn't a better man with the ribbons than old Kickapoo.
Down inside they had Doc, who had fought in the War Between the States, and the major, who was a veteran soldier. The newly married kidhandled a rifle like he knew what it was meant for, and unless they were completely surprised, any batch of raiders would run into trouble with this stage.
At Bluff Creek all was quiet. Dud Ryan stared up into the gathering darkness and waited. From time to time he could put an eye to a crack and study the road and the area beyond it They were there... waiting.
Delaney and Wells would be riding the stage this trip, and they were canny men. Yet they would not be expecting trouble at the stage station. When they rolled into sight of it there would be a letdown, an easing-off, and the Indians would get off a volley before the men on the stage knew what hit them.
With Brad and Hank out of the picture, and possibly Kickapoo Jackson, the passengers could be slaughtered like so many mice. Caught inside the suddenly stalled stage, with only its flimsy sides to protect them, they would have no chance.
Only one thing remained. He must somehow remain alive to warn them. A warning shot would have them instantly alert, and Hank Wells would whip up his team and they would go through and past the station at a dead run. To warn them he must be alive.
Alive?
Well, he knew he was dying. He had known from the moment he took that large caliber bullet in the spine. Without rancor he turned the idea over in his mind. Life hadn't given him much, after all. Yet dying wouldn't be so bad if he felt that his dying would do any good.
the Strong Shall Live (Ss) (1980) Page 14
