Matt paused for a moment, and went on. "You're a brave man, Felton, but you're a stubborn one. You will go down there tonight and get somebody killed. The only rule those men understand is force, or the threat of force.. . . Well, there . . . I've talked too much."
Felton was silent. Despite his stubbornness, he had the feeling that what Matt Coburn had said was the truth. He frowned ... he did not want to die, and he did not want anyone else to die because of his actions. But he made up his mind.
He stood up. "I'm going down there and talk to them," he said. "I'm going to tell them what kind of a town we want what kind of a town well have if they will cooperate."
Matt smiled at him. "Felton, that's like asking a tiger to take up grazing with the sheep. It's against their nature. But you can try it."
"I won't wear a gun," Felton said. He unbuckled his belt. go down there and reason with them."
Leaving his gunbelt on the table, he strode to the door and went out. Matt drank the last of his coffee. He sat there for a few minutes more, watching the sunlight as it fell through the door.
He suddenly found himself thinking of Laurie Shannon, and how the sunlight had fallen through the flowered curtains at her windows; he remembered the smell of coffee and the quiet, pleasant room. She had a gift, that one, for realizing comfort, a feeling of security and rest.
He got up, hitched his gunbelt into place, and walked to the door. He stared down at the town, and at the bleak hills, so recently untouched by man but now ripped and torn by the feverish search for gold.
There was no beauty in the town. There was no tree, no flower, no shrub except for the gray-green drouth resistant plants of the desert. Only two of the buildings had been painted, most were of new lumber. Only a few had boardwalks in front of them.
He did not want this town for his own. He did not want to know it better, and he did not want to remain here. The amateurs were trying to do a Job that needed a professional. He knew that some of Felton's dislike for him had abated, and he felt that the young man was perhaps half convinced by what he had said, but he had little hope for him or for the town. He knew what he himself could do with a bit of luck but he had no desire to do it He found himself liking Felton. The man was an idealist, but he was a solid young man with a future if he survived Confusion.
He went outside, saddled his horse, and led it across to the stage station.
Dick Felton was walking down the street alone. Madge Healy was standing in the door, watching him go. She looked at Matt "Are you going to help him, Matt "
"No."
"You helped me."
"That was different. You're a woman, and alone. No, Felton wants no help. He's got his own ideas, and he has to go his own way."
"They'll kill him, Matt. Or maybe worse ... they'll break him."
He stood beside her, thinking that she probably had seen even more of such towns than he had. For all the years since she was a small child she had been dancing and singing in the boom towns, in lonely camps ... everywhere.
"What's going to happen, Matt?' she asked.
He shrugged. "We've got two things going here: anarchy in the camp, and an organization working against you. They'll feed on each other. Once the town starts to come apart at the seams, Kingsbury and Fletcher will move against you.*
He considered for a moment. "If I were you, I'd keep Pike at the claim, and whatever power you have. Whatever happens will start tonight."
He saw that Felton had gone into the Main Chance Saloon.
Chapter 14
"Matt, what about your Madge looked searchingly into his eyes. "When this is over, what are you going to? "I'm getting a ranch. I'm going to settle down and stay put."
She smiled. "Do you think you can? Do you think they will let you? Or that you will let yourself? We're two of a kind, Matt, and we've both been as homeless as a pair of tumbleweeds. That's why I was so easy to convince when Scollard started talking to me about a home and lace curtains. I was lonely, Matt, lonely as only you could understand. I don't think that way down deep I believed him for a minute, but I believed in what he was telling me because I wanted to so desperately." Their eyes were on the door of the Main Chance. Dick Felton had not come out yet, but a moment later he did emerge and walked on down the street, stopping in stores, saloons, restaurants, and the gambling tents. In each place he stayed only a few minutes. When he had visited every public place, he walked back up the hill to Discovery and went into the stone building.
It was Sturdevant Fife who came up the hill to explain. Wayne Simmons, Clyde, Cohan, and Zeller were there to listen. "He's quite a speaker, that boy. Eve? place he went, he gave them a spiel on what a fine town this was going to be; about the schools, the churches, and all, and the need for teamwork to make it that away. rd say he made him a good talk."
"What kind of response did he get?" Simmons asked skeptically.
Fife shrugged. "Well," he said, "it reminded me of some politicians I've knowed, time to time. Those who were goin' to vote for them anyway needed no convincing. You might say their response was downright enthusiastic. Then there was the other lot who wouldn't vote for him a-tall, and they just listened. rd say he put hisself on record, and he made a good try."
There was silence in the room, and then Cohan said, "We'd better help him. We'd better go down there armed and ready."
"You'd be wasting your time, Dan," Simmons said, "and you know it. This town has gone too far without the law. They'd see us coming and there'd be an ambush." Simmons sat down behind his desk "Dick wants to play this hand alone, and as far as I'm concerned, he can play it.'
Zeller shifted his heavy body, and his chair creaked. "Vat aboudt Coburn? Su'bose ve hire him our ownselfs?" "He won't take it." Fife said flatly. "Only if you give him a free hand. And he'll run it with a gun."
"I think dere iss no udder vay," Zeller said calmly.
Tucker Dolan rode into the yard at the Rafter LS and swung down from his horse. He had been punching cows for Laurie Shannon for several days, and he liked it.
Laurie stepped to the door. "Come in, Tucker. Your supper will get cold."
"Ma'am," Dolan hesitated, then went on, "I ain't been with you long, but I'd admire to have a couple of days off."
"What is it?"
"Well, ma'am, it's Matt Coburn. Mates goin' to be wearin' the badge over at Confusion by daylight tomorrow. I've got a feelin' he may need help."
'He's been saying he would never wear a badge again, not for anybody."
"It's Felton, ma'am. That young feller who owns part of Discovery. I run into a traveler today, a man headed for Hamilton, Nevada. He told me that Felton's going to wear the badge tonight. That means he ain't goin' to wear it long, and when he goes down the whole town of Confusion is goin' to go with him. The only man who could stop it is Matt, so he'll step in. No matter what he says, he's a man who rises to trouble. An' ma'am, he's a-goin to need all the help he can get."
Laurie turned and spoke over her shoulder. "Did you hear that, Joss?"
"I heerd, an' I reckon he's right. You mind if I ride along, too?"
"We'll all go.' Laurie spoke quietly. "I can handle a rifle as well as most men, better than some. I will just ride along."
"Now see here, ma'am " Joss started to protest.
"Don't waste our time. I am going, too. Joss, will you saddle some horses while Tucker eats?"
Confusion came slowly to life on this night. There were no random shots, fired in careless exuberance by some drunken miner, and the street was less crowded than on recent nights.
A piano in the Main Chance began to play, followed by a music box in one of the gambling tents. A drifting cowboy, travel-stained and weary, rode in at sundown. He swung down, eased the girth on his saddle, and tied his horse.
Pausing on the street, he rolled and lit a cigarette, looking uneasily around. Another music box, in the Bucket of Blood, began to jangle. The cowboy looked down the street, then he went back to his horse and tightened the cinch, hesit
ated, and went into a counter lunch just off the street A few men were gathering at the Main Chance, a few more at the Bucket.
Madge Healy had gone to her claim for a last check before nightfall She had rented a cabin from a miner who had squatted on the hillside not far back of the stage office, and she would go back there to sleep. But when she returned from the claim she prepared a small meal for herself, and sat down to wait When she poured her coffee the brush of evening was painting the eastern hills with mauve and shadow, with here and there a streak of vivid light along the crests of the ridges.
But Madge Healy was not thinking of the sunset, nor of the events in the hours to come. She was thinking of Matt Coburn. Her common sense told her he was a man going nowhere but to his death in some dusty street; yet from the first time she had seen him, when she was only a child and he had not known who she was, she had felt strangely drawn to him. He would not remember that meeting, with a child whom he touched for a moment on the shoulder, and to whom he had spoken gently.
She had seen him several times since then, and never without excitement That he was going nowhere meant nothing to her; she herself had done well in these past few years, better than anyone knew or was likely to know. That was one thing her aunt had done for her: she had taught her to think for herself and plan for herself, but now she had it and here she was, fighting a man's fight against men, when all she wanted was a home and a man ... Matt Coburn.
He was the only man she had ever known who made her feel protected. He made her feel safe, secure. And the feeling was strange to her.
From her window she could see the house on Discovery, so she saw Dick Felton when he came out into the street He always dressed well, and he was dressed with exceptional care tonight And he wore a gun.
'I hope they don't make you use it,' she said aloud. How many such towns had she seen? From the Mother Lode country of California to the Comstock in Nevada, and to Montana, Utah, Idaho, Colorado, and Arizona. She had been performing for six years before she ever saw the inside of a theatre. She was not the only one, of course. Lotta Crabtree had begun the same way, dancing on stumps or barrel-tops, on planks or boxes anywhere at all. Most of the homesick men hadn't seen a child in so long they would have paid just to see her, even if she had not performed ... and at first she must have been pretty bad.
Lights came on in the town now as she sat there, and the sounds picked up, yet they seemed somehow muted, for the town was waiting, crouching like a beast in its lair.
Dick Felton started down the street There was no sign of Matt Coburn.
Dan Cohan walked outside the stage station with Simmons and Clyde. He carried a shotgun in the hollow of his arm.
"Don't do it, Dan," Simmons warned. "There's no use you both getting killed. Felton might just swing it"
"You know he won't. As for me. I came west with him. We went partners in this deal, and I'm a partner all the way."
"They know you, Dan. They'll expect you, be sure of that. Whatever it is they've planned for tonight, they'll be ready for you too."
Madge Healy came up and stopped in the street close to Dan Cohan. "Where's Matt?" she asked.
"I haven't seen him."
Newt Clyde pointed toward the back of Jim Cage's place. His wagon was drawn up there, half loaded with goods. "He's pullin' out," Clyde said. "Well, there it is, boys. I never knew Gage to miss. When he leaves, the town is finished."
"Not this town." Cohan was adamant "He's goin' to be wrong this time."
Simmons stood by the door. "I wonder where Matt is. I'm going to lock up. If the place starts to bum, this office might escape the fire, being off by itself the way it Sturdevant Fife nodded toward the street. "Ain't one of Fletchets killers in sight He's pulled 'em all off the street."
Tucker Dolan, still several miles out of town, bad called it right. Matt Coburn could not stay out of it When a town was in bad trouble, he was like an old fire horse. He bad to be there. Despite the fact that there had been antagonism between Felton and himself, he respected the man too much to let him go alone into the hell that lay before him. Also, during their last talk Felton had been less assertive, more willing to listen. Matt Coburn bad a feeling that Felton would have liked to back up, but simply did not know how. He had stated his case, and was going to follow through if it killed him and it probably would. So Matt Coburn had quietly disappeared.
This was an old trick, and one he had learned long ago. It was a handy thing to do sometimes, for there was much a good officer of the law should not notice. Many little difficulties settled themselves if ignored, but if pushed they explode into real trouble. Matt had learned to disappear when such things developed.
He studied a town like a chessboard. He knew where every alley led, where back fences might get in the way, whether back doors were locked or unlocked. He had never entered a town in the past seven or eight years without mentally scouting it Within a few hours after his arrival he could tell you what doom and windows covered what particular portions of the street He knew every possible firing point, every bit of cover, every means of getting quickly from one place in the town to another. He knew every point where he might be subjected to a cross-fire. And now he had an idea of what would happen when Felton went down into the town.
At first, all would be quiet, to lull him into a feeling of security. Then there would be a disturbance, a fight faked for his benefit, or something requiring his attention. When Felton arrived, they would crowd around, pushing closer and closer until he could no longer move, or even draw a gun. Then they would have his guns, and would begin to bait him, pushing, shoving, getting more and more violent until it ended in a killing or maiming.
Or they might choose to fake a shooting in the street, and when he came to stop it, they would open fire from concealment and simply kill him. That would be Ike Fletcher's way. Big Thompson, a rowdy at heart, would incline toward the other, rowdy way of doing things.
There were dozens of ways of killing a man or of breaking him down to size, and Matt Coburn knew them all. And so it was that a few hours before darkness settled, Matt had quietly dropped from sight.
Behind the Bon-Ton Restaurant the hillside curved away from the narrow gulch started by that long-dead coyote and merged with the wash that lay at the foot of the slope. Scattered on the hillside were slabs of rock, and higher up were a few cabins, dugouts, and tents. Among the rock slabs Matt had noticed one place that offered shelter from observation.
He had eaten a meal of beef and chili and enjoyed several cups of coffee, and after that he had walked out back and seated himself on a rock in the sun. After a while he stood up, idly checked a few chunks of float picked up from the hillside, and then he disappeared into his chosen place of concealment. One moment he had been idling along the hillside, the next he was gone. He felt that he had not been seen, and he settled back to rest.
Dusk had come, and the town awakened slowly and cautiously to its night life. In the darkness on the hillside, Matt Coburn came out of hiding. He hitched his guns into place, one in its holster, the other in his waistband. Then he went down to the back of the Bon-Ton and walked along the dark alleyway that led to the street. He paused there, still in the darkness, watching the street. He knew at that moment that he wanted to go away. He wanted to turn around, go back up the hill to his horse, saddle up, and ride away he did not care where.
But in the back of his mind there was the memory of a ranch house with curtained windows and the sunlight falling across the floor, the memory of the smell of coffee and the sense of quiet Was it really that he wanted? Or was he, like Madge Healy, just trying to escape from what he was and what he had been? Was it the warmth and comfort of a home he wanted, or was it the cool stillness of the high, pine-covered plateaus? And would he be willing to remain where there was peace, or would he return always to these new towns peopled by tough, brawling men who could build towns, but who carried within themselves their own destruction? Perhaps wherever he was, he would have to be the lawman, th
e preserver of the peace.
He shook himself. He was thinking too much. This was no time for thinking. That came before, or it came after; now was a time for feeling, for sensing and for action, if need be.
He could hear footsteps, and knew it was Dick Felton. Outside the Bucket of Blood a man struck a match to light a cigarette ... or was it a signal? At the Main Chance a man strolled through the swinging doors and stopped on the edge of the walk . . . a momentary glimpse as he passed through the doors showed that it was Kid Curtis.
A moment later Matt realized that the man who had lighted the cigarette was Parsons, who had been at the stage station with Tucker Dolan. Matt Coburn eased himself further toward the street, but he was still in the shadows. Dick Felton had gone into the Bon-Ton. Another man came out and leaned against the awning post. It was Peggoty Gorman.
This was it, then. The thing Matt did not know was their plan of action. He had an idea there would be a fake shooting, and when Felton came to interfere they would kill him with a "stray" bullet If it happened that way there could be no repercussions from Felton's partners or friends.
These men were the lawless, rowdy element that centered around Thompson, not the more cool-headed hired gunmen Ike Fletcher would have. Fletcher would be planning to move when trouble started in town. With everybody busy there, he could strike quick and hard against Madge Healy's claims.
Medley, the gunman who worked partners with Parsons, was nowhere in sight, but he would be involved if Parsons was, so he must be around somewhere, in concealment.
Suddenly, the saloon doors were pushed open and Dick Felton stepped out on the boardwalk. Matt Coburn took a careful step closer to the street, and slipped the thong from his gun.
Nobody moved. The street, lighted from nearby doors and windows, was quiet. Kid Curtis lounged nearby. Peggoty Gorman leaned against the awning post near Felton. Parsons was across the street.
A man was on each side of Felton, a man across the street, but nobody moving, not a word being spoken.
the Empty Land (1969) Page 12
