by Jake Logan
“It’s real big of you to warn me,” Slocum said.
“I want to avoid any unnecessary trouble.”
“Then take your ‘boys’ back out to your ranch and let this trial go on the way it’s supposed to.”
“I would, Slocum. I would, but I can’t let Sammy hang.”
Slocum downed the rest of his drink and put the glass back on the table. Then he stood up.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said, and he turned and walked out of the saloon. He walked to the hotel and went up to his room. He wanted to be alone to have the peace to think. He wanted to think about the mess he had gotten himself into. It was a pretty bad deal wearing a badge. He was ashamed of himself. But he had taken a job, and he had never before taken a job and not seen it through. He was stuck. He had to finish the job. He tried telling himself that it couldn’t be all that bad. All he had to do was stick with it until the trial was over and done with and Hyde was hanged. Somehow he had to make sure that a range war was not started over Hyde’s fate. If the men started a range war, then the job would become more complicated. He would have to hang around until the range war was ended and the community was peaceable.
When the hanging was over with and the range war was either prevented or concluded, he would have to stay until he was sure he had cleaned up the town. But that was it. That would be the end of the job. At that point, he could get the hell out and hope that he would be leaving the horrible incident behind him.
Then he thought of Terri Sue. She was just fine, but even she was not worth what he was doing to his self-respect. Maybe he would give her another tumble or two. Maybe not. She did help to pass the wretched time in this wretched place. Of course, when the romp was over with, he still had the mess to deal with.
There was Sammy Hyde, guilty as sin, no question about it, sitting in jail waiting for his trial on Monday, just around the corner. There was his boss, Oates, and his large crew, hanging around town, having meant to break Hyde out of jail but having been prevented from doing so when Bartlet and his crew, all friends of the murdered man, had come to town to aid the marshal in keeping Hyde in jail until the trial.
Chances were that a large-scale range war would develop out of this mess. Even if Hyde were to make it to trial, it was almost certain that Oates and his crew would resort to violence to prevent the hanging. In the meantime, there was Slocum, embarrassingly the town marshal, sitting in the middle of these two factions that were nearly at war with one another. There he was—
But he did have a deputy, and he had the help of the Bartlet ranch hands. So Tommy Howard and two of the ranch hands were watching over Hyde in the jailhouse. Why the hell had Slocum not thought more about that? That meant that he could stay in his room. Or he could stay in a saloon and drink. Hell, he could stay drunk. Tommy could handle everything with his shotgun and the voluntary help of the Bartlet ranch hands. Slocum decided that he would get drunk.
He got up and walked downstairs and outside and then over to the Fat Back saloon. Bartlet and some of his men were sitting around drinking whiskey. Slocum nodded at them, but he walked straight to the bar and ordered a bottle and a glass. Instead of opening the bottle, he took it by the neck and took up the glass and walked back outside.
“Slocum,” Bartlet called out.
“Whatever it is,” Slocum said over his shoulder, “see Tommy about it.”
“But—”
“He can handle it.”
Slocum kept walking. He went back to the hotel and upstairs to his room. He shut the door, put down the bottle and glass, hung his hat on a peg, took off his gunbelt and slung it across the back of a chair, sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots, pulled his shirt off, popped the cork off the bottle, and poured a glass full of whiskey. Then he flung himself onto the bed and started sipping the whiskey.
For the first two glasses, his thoughts did not change much from where they had been. After two more glasses, he had a new idea. He drank some more, thinking about this new idea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. It made good sense. It would solve everything. Well, perhaps it would not solve everything, but it would certainly ease the situation for a while. Or maybe it really would solve everything.
He could not predict what kind of response he would get from either Bartlet or Oates, but any way they responded to his proposal would be an improvement over how the situation stood currently. By God, he would do it. He would put the plan into action. He would—
He started to get up off the bed but did not make it. He fell back again onto the pillow. He tried again, using all his energy, making a supreme effort. He moved more slowly and carefully and managed to get up to a sitting position. His head was swimming. He had to go out into the street and set off the plan, so he stood up, but his legs were wobbly. He stood there for a moment.
At last he could stand upright, so he made a step toward the chair where his gunbelt was hanging. He reached out for the gunbelt. He lost his balance and fell over flat on his back on the floor.
“Shit. Goddamn it,” he said.
He rolled over onto his stomach and managed to get up to his hands and knees. He reached up and put a hand on the back of the chair, but instead of pulling himself up, he pulled the chair over. He just did not have the strength to try again. He rolled over onto his back again. He decided that he would stay there and sleep it off. He hoped that no one would start anything until he was better the next morning. The next morning should be time enough to set the plan into motion. He hoped that when he had sobered up, he would still remember it.
10
“Hey, Deputy,” said Sammy Hyde.
Tommy was sitting behind the desk, fondling the shotgun he had grown so fond of. “What do you want, Hyde?” he said.
“I want a drink of whiskey. You got some in your desk. I know it.”
“We don’t serve drinks to prisoners,” Tommy said.
“Come on,” said Sammy. “What’ll it hurt? Huh?”
“What do you think, boys?” Tommy said to the two Bartlet hands who were sitting in the office with him.
One of them shrugged. The other one said, “I don’t think it would matter a damn if he was to get drunk. In another couple of days, he’s going to hang.”
“Well, all right,” Tommy said. He put the shotgun down on the desktop and opened a desk drawer, taking out a bottle and a glass. He stood up and poured the glass full, then carried it to the cell.
Sammy Hyde reached through the bars for it. He drank about half of it in one gulp. “That’s more like it,” he said. Tommy turned to go back to the desk, but Hyde stopped him. “Tommy,” he said, “wait a minute.”
Tommy turned back to the cell. “What is it now?” he said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Well?”
“Come here. Come closer.”
“Don’t you try anything.”
“What? With those two Bartlet hands in here? I just don’t want them to hear what I have to say.”
Tommy stepped up close to the bars. “Well, go on then,” he said.
“Why don’t you turn me loose?”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Tommy said, starting to leave.
Sammy grabbed his arm through the bars. “Wait. Listen. Keeping me in here will just start a big fight. Everyone knows that. If you let me out of here, I’ll ride away from these parts. The range war won’t happen. At least, not account of me, it won’t.”
“That makes good sense,” said Tommy. “There’s only one problem with it.”
“What? What problem?”
“I’d lose my job, and I like my job. Tell you what I’ll do, though.”
“What’ll you do?”
“I’ll pour you another drink.”
“Aw, come on, Tommy.”
“You get drunk enough, you won’t give a damn about getting out of here.”
“Oates and them will kill you when they finally bust me out of here.”
“They might try.
”
Tommy walked back to the desk for the bottle, but just as he stepped behind it, the front door opened and two Oates hands appeared. “We want to see—”
Tommy grabbed the shotgun and blasted twice. The two men flew back into the street.
“Goddamn,” said one of the Bartlet hands.
Tommy reloaded the shotgun quickly. Both Bartlet men had jerked their six-guns out and run into the street. Tommy snapped the gun back in place and looked over at Sammy Hyde.
“Who’s going to get killed when they come to bust you out?” he said. His eyes were opened wide, and he was smiling. One of the Bartlet men stepped back into the room.
“They’re both dead,” he said.
“Go wake up Gool,” said Tommy. “Tell him he’s got another job to do.”
“Okay, Tommy.”
The gunshots did not wake up the town. No one came running to find out what had happened. Slocum was out cold on his hotel room floor. Except for the two dead Oates hands and the two on-duty Bartlet hands, everyone else was sleeping. If anyone heard the shots, no one thought much about them or gave a damn. It was well after sunup before anyone came around, and then it was Slocum checking in at the office. Everything seemed normal.
“Go on and get some sleep, Tommy,” Slocum said.
“I got to tell you something first,” Tommy said, glancing at the two Bartlet hands. “Two of Oates’s men came around last night. They were going to try to bust Sammy out. I killed them.”
“Both of them?”
“Yeah. Both of them.”
“All right,” Slocum said. “Go on now.”
In another few minutes two more Bartlet hands came in to relieve the ones who had been on duty. Somehow they had already heard the news.
“It’s a safe bet Oates and his bunch know about it by now,” said Slocum.
“They’ll be coming, won’t they?” said one of the hands.
“Maybe,” said Slocum.
“Come on, Slocum. You know they will.”
“They will unless something happens first to stop them,” Slocum said.
“Your deputy just blasted two of Oates’s boys with a fucking shotgun,” said one of the hands.
“Oates won’t like it, but he won’t do anything about it. His boys were trying to break Hyde out of jail.”
“Slocum,” said the taller and slimmer of the two ranch hands, “that ain’t the way we heard it.”
“What?”
“Well, you know, we had two hands in here last night when the shooting took place.”
“I know that.”
“They said them two fellows just opened the door. One of them said two words, but they wasn’t enough to tell what they wanted. Neither one of them went for a gun. Hell, Slocum, they wasn’t even wearing guns. Tommy just grabbed the shotgun and blasted away before anyone could’ve known what the hell they was up to.”
“He never give them a chance,” said the other one.
Slocum leaned forward. “Are you sure about that?”
“That’s what our boys told us, and they wouldn’t have no reason to lie about it. Hell, they was on the other side.”
“Does Oates know this?” Slocum asked.
“I don’t see how he could know it. Our boys never told him. No one else seen it.”
“All right,” Slocum said. “Keep it quiet. It might’ve been better if you hadn’t told me.”
He stood up and stomped out of the office, walking straight to Tommy Howard’s room. Arriving at the front door, he kicked it open and tromped into the room. Tommy was asleep on a narrow cot, and at the noise, he sat up straight in bed. Slocum slapped him across the face.
“You dumb son of a bitch,” he said. “What the hell did you do it for? Are you getting trigger happy or what?”
“You talking about them two I shot last night?”
“Who the hell else?”
“I told you about it. They came for Hyde.”
“Did they say that?”
“No.”
“Did they have guns in their hands?”
“Well, no, but they was going for them.”
“You saw their hands going for their guns?”
“Well, hell, Slocum, there wasn’t time.”
“They were unarmed, you silly shit. Could it be they just wanted to talk to him? Maybe bring him some whiskey?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t see how—”
“Goddamn it, Tommy, I ought to fire you. Hell, I ought to lock you up in jail. But then folks would want to know why, and I can’t tell them. If Oates finds out how it really happened, he’ll start the shooting war for sure.”
“He might start it anyhow, mightn’t he?”
“Yeah. He might.”
Tommy sat up and reached for his trousers.
“What the hell are you doing?” said Slocum. “Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep now, Slocum. I might just as well get up and go back to the office.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Damn,” Tommy said. “There ought to be some way to hold them off.”
Then it came back to Slocum. It came from the depths of a woozy brain, from out of the mists of a groggy reality, from something like a foggy dream that had been lost but was just coming back, in and out, not quite clear. He looked around the room and found a chair, which he sat down on. Tommy was pulling on his boots.
“Something wrong, Slocum?” he said.
“Shut up, Tommy. Let me think.”
By the time Tommy was dressed, Slocum’s idea from the night before had come back clear. He knew what he wanted to do. He stood up, impatient.
“Come on, Tommy,” he said. Tommy followed Slocum out of the house. They were walking in the general direction of the marshal’s office. Slocum said, “Tommy, I want you to go see Bartlet. Tell him to have his whole damned outfit in the street in front of my office at one o’clock this afternoon.”
“What for?”
“Just tell him what I told you. That’s all.”
As Tommy turned off toward the Fat Back saloon, Slocum headed on toward the office. Along the way, he met one of the Oates hands and stopped him there on the sidewalk.
“What you want, Marshal?” the man said.
“I want you to tell your boss,” Slocum said, “to have all of you boys out in the street in front of my office at one o’clock this afternoon.”
“How come?” said the hand.
“Just tell him what I told you,” said Slocum. “That’s all.”
“I don’t know if he’ll do it without some reason for it,” the man said.
“Tell him what I said. That’s all.”
The cowboy scratched his head all the way back to the Fancy Pants saloon. When he went in, Oates was there with three other hands. Oates looked up as the hand approached him.
“Morning, Beck,” he said.
“Boss,” said Beck, “I just run into the marshal out on the street. He told me to tell you to be out on the street in front of his office at one o’clock this afternoon with all of us.”
Oates wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. “How come?” he said.
“I asked him that, and he wouldn’t say. Just said, ‘Tell him what I said.’”
“That was it?”
“Yes, sir.”
At just about that time, Tommy walked into the Fat Back. There were a couple of Bartlet’s men in there, but there was no sign of Bartlet. “Good morning, Deputy,” said one of the men. Tommy crossed the room to sit with the man and his two companions.
“Morning,” he said. “I’m looking for Mr. Bartlet.”
“He ain’t showed up yet this morning, but I reckon he’ll be along pretty soon.”
“I’m supposed to give him a message from Slocum.”
“Have a cup of coffee with us while you wait.”
“Well, sure. Can’t be no harm in that,” Tommy said.
“We heard you nailed a couple of the Oates boys last night,” said one of the Bartle
t hands.
“Well, yeah. I did.”
“They was trying to break out ole Hyde?”
“That’s what it looked like to me.”
“Good for you,” said the cowboy. “That’s two less for us to worry about.”
“Hey,” said another one, “here comes the boss.”
Tommy looked over his shoulder to see Bartlet coming. He stood up to meet the man. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning, Deputy.”
“Mr. Bartlet, Slocum sent me over here with a message for you.”
“All right. What is it?”
“Slocum would like for you and all of your boys to be on the street in front of the jail at one o’clock this afternoon.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, all right. Tell him that we’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bartlet,” said Tommy, and he turned and left the saloon.
One of the cowboys looked up at Bartlet.
“What do you suppose that’s all about, boss?” he asked.
Bartlet shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You want some coffee, boss?”
“Yes, I do,” said Bartlet, pulling out a chair to sit in.
11
At twelve thirty, Slocum went into the Fat Back saloon and told the barkeep to gather up all of the guns that had been checked and haul them to the jail. He walked on to the Fancy Pants and gave the same instructions there. Then he walked back to his office. Tommy was there with the two Bartlet hands. Hyde was sulking in his cell. The two bartenders were there, loaded down with guns. A few minutes before one o’clock, Bartlet and his hands started gathering in the street. In another minute, Oates and his boys showed up. They stood facing each other, the dividing line being Slocum’s office. Slocum said to the two Bartlet hands in the office, “Get out there in the street with your boss.”
“What’s up, Marshal?” one of them asked.
“Just get on out there.” The two hands went outside, and Slocum stood up. He walked over to Charlie, the barkeep from the Fancy Pants. “Go out there now and pass those guns out to their owners,” he said.
“What?” Charlie said.
