the Empty Land (1969)

by L'amour, Louis

  Chapter 15

  Dick Felton hesitated. He must have sensed a trap, for these men were known to him as troublemakers, yet all they were doing was just standing there.

  The swinging doors moved again, and two more men came out. They stopped right behind Felton.

  Matt was on the edge of the street now, but he was still hidden in the shadow, close against a building.

  One of them spoke. "Howdy, Mr. Marshal." That was Peg Gorman. "You bringin' the law to Confusion?"

  "I am." Felton's voice was calm. "And it's about time." "I like that. A public-spirited citizen. We boys know how to appreciate a public-spirited citizen, don't we, boys?"

  "Sure do," came from one of the men behind Felton. "What's why we brung a bottle along. Seems to us a public-spirited citizen should be almighty dry right now. Spirits to the spirited, ain't that what we say, boys?" "A drink," Gorman said. "Well all have a drink. You'll drink with us, won't you, Marshal?"

  "You boys have the drink. I'll wait until I'm off duty." "We take that unkindly, Mr. Marshal. You figure you're too good to drink with us boys? Course, we ain't big tall lawmen, and we don't own any fancy minin' claims, but were good boys and we figured you'd have a drink with us. After all, what's one little snort?"

  Matt Coburn could understand the hesitation in Felton's mind. Should he, or shouldn't he? Were they really out to make trouble, or could he by this small gesture win their cooperation?

  "Sorry." Felton even made his voice sound as if he meant it. "Not while I'm on duty. You boys come up and see me tomorrow, and I'll break out a bottle. Now I've got to get along."

  "Wait"

  Felton looked at Gorman. Across the street Parsons stepped off the walk. Felton heard Kid Curtis stirring behind him.

  Matt knew Felton was thinking: What should I do? But it was already too late for thinking; he should be moving.

  "Now, you wouldn't walk out on us, would you, Marshal?" Gorman's tone was sly, teasing. "Ain't often we get your comp'ny down here. I figure we should make the most of it."

  "I think he should drink with us," Curtis said flatly. "I think that's only fair." He put his hand on Felton's shoulder, and Felton turned sharply to push it off.

  "Kind of touchy, ain't you, Marshal? You too good for us boys?"

  "This has gone far enough," Felton spoke sternly. 'Back off now. Somebody laughed. Then Curtis said. "He's right Peg," and he pushed Peggoty back on his heels. "Leave him alone. This here town needs a good marshal."

  "You leave me alone!" Gorman retorted, and he shoved Curtis back, but somehow he shoved him against Felton, and Felton staggered, falling against the two men behind him. One grabbed his right arm and belt, the other his gun. Then they shoved him away and the others backed off, forming a circle around him.

  Disarmed and trapped, Felton stood in their midst, and he knew they were going to destroy him.

  At that instant, Dan Cohan appeared in the street. He held his shotgun, and he spoke loud and clear. "All right, boys, back off from him now or I'll kill your A gunshot rolled a smashing reverberation against the walls, and Cohan fell. So that was where Medley was ... on the roof.

  Immediately other men began to appear from doom, edging toward the street "Come on, boys!" Curtis yelled. "We got us a marshal! Let's see how he'd look in tar an' feathers!"

  Matt Coburn was still in the shadow, but suddenly his voice sounded, sharp and clear to all. "Peg Gorman! This is Matt Coburn! Drop your gunbelt, and get back against the building . . . Gorman, you've got thirty seconds to get rid of that belt!"

  A split second of hesitation, and Gorman stripped the belt and dropped it. "You too, Curtis! Fast! The rest of you get off the street!"

  They couldn't see him. They knew about where he was, but there was no clear target, and everybody knew about Matt Coburn ... he would kill.

  The crowd that had been gathering began disappearing. Curtis gingerly unfastened his gunbelt and let it drop.

  "Medley! Get off that roof!" Matt called. "Don't make me come up there after you! And throw down your gun!"

  Parsons alone had not moved. He was staring hard into the shadows. "Coburn, you ain't got me bluff " Coburn's gun stabbed flame and the man staggered back and went down. Parsons made a feeble effort to rise, but he fell back.

  Medley was down in the street now. Kill you for that, Coburn!" he shouted.

  All right, Med! Pick up your gun. You can have your chance right now. Go ahead ... pick it up!"

  "I'll be damned if-I"

  "Pick it up, Med! Pick it up, or I'll shoot you where you stand!"

  Medley hesitated, then he dived for his gun. There was no shot He grasped the gun, got slowly to his feet. Coolly, Matt Coburn stepped into view. "All right, Med. If you want to kill me, here I am. You've got your chance."

  Unbelievingly, Medley stared at him. He held the gun half raised. Matt Coburn also held his. Medley began to sweat. Here it was, his chance to kill Coburn. "Go ahead, Medley. You asked for it Shoot, or drop that gun. But if you drop it, you ride out of town before sunrise, or I'll shoot you on sight"

  Medley started to lift the gun, looking across at Coburn, who stood waiting, his own gun half lifted, an almost amused smile on his face. Abruptly, Medley dropped his gun and, turning on his heel, walked from the street "Felton, get your gun from that man," Matt said, "and go over and check on Dan."

  Moving carefully so as to keep out of Coburn's line of fire, Felton retrieved his gun, and went to Dan.

  Matt Coburn waved the others together with his pistol.

  I'm not going to give any orders," he said quietly, "but from now on I'm running this town. If any of you have any doubts about what that means, ask Mr. Parsons yonder.

  "If you boys want to work, you file claims or get jobs. Otherwise . . . move. Mr. Felton and the council want a clean town and I'm going to give it to them. Now, scatter out and drift ... if I see any of you on the street tonight you'd better see me first I won't give any warnings."

  Slowly, they filed from the street During all of this, Matt had moved with care so as to offer no chance to a hidden marksman, and when the men had gone he simply stepped back into the shadows and worked his way along the street, noting whoever was visible in the saloons as he passed them.

  Half an hour later he was back in the stage office at the head of the street "All right," he said. "I didn't want the job, but Felton was too good a man to have that happen to him. If you want me to wear the badge I'll do it ... until your town has been cleaned up."

  "You'd better have some deputies," Clyde said.

  "No, I'll handle it alone."

  He took the badge, and listened to them telling him that Dan Cohan was not badly hurt. The bullet had been slightly deflected by a button on his shirt and had skidded upward, ripping, a long gash in his chest and shoulder and knocking him down. For a moment he had been stunned, unable to move.

  Matt Coburn awoke before daylight with a bad taste in his mouth. Swinging his feet to the floor, he got up and padded across the room the storekeeper Gage had offered him. He stared into the mirror without pleasure, and then dressed and shaved.

  As he shaved, he listened to the sounds of the town. They told him all was normal. He had heard a screen door open and close, a windlass squeaking and groaning. Occasionally a rooster crowed.

  When he was dressed he looked around the room until he found a tablet that Gage had been using to total orders, and sitting down he began to write. When he had filled two pages, he got up, found some tacks and a hammer, and went outside.

  The street was empty. The gray of early morning hung over it, while here and there up on the hillside a lamp or lantern still burned. Back of Buckwalter's he found some scrap lumber and some nails. He tacked a board to a post, and carried it right into the middle of the street in front of the Bon-Ton, and there he drove the sharpened end of the post into the ground. When it was up, he tacked on the two sheets on which he had written.

  In the Bon-Ton Newt Clyde was already at breakfast,
and when Matt came in he gestured toward the post outside. "What's that?"

  "You tell Wayne he's going to have to put on a couple of extra stages for a few days. If he hasn't got the stages, tell him to use freight wagons anything."

  Clyde looked at him curiously. "Heard you pulled Dick out of a hole last night. I thought you two didn't like each other."

  "He doesn't like me," Matt said. "I've nothing against him. I figure he's a pretty good man ... too good to lose to that bunch."

  "Did you have to kill Parsons?"

  "If I hadn't killed him I'd have had to kill Medley, and maybe some others. Parsons has been buckin for it for years."

  When Newt Clyde finished his coffee he got up and went out to read the sign. Several others were already there.

  NOTICE

  To Thieves, Murderers, and Short-card Artists; You are no longer welcome in Confusion. Those listed below can get out or shoot it out, and start any time they are ready.

  There followed a list of seventy names. The name signed to the notice was simply: MATT.

  Newt Clyde whistled softly. A man behind him said to his companion, "Come on, let's get loaded up."

  "What's the matter?" the other man sneered. "You scared?"

  "Mister, have you ever seen the way Matt Coburn cleans up a town?"

  Matt came out of the Bon-Ton, glanced up and down the street, then crossed over, walking quickly, eyes alert, ears taking in every sound. He stopped before the Nugget, where Big Bate was standing. "How are you going to run it, Beer "It's your town, Matt. I'll run it clean."

  "Thanks, Bate. If you have any trouble, call on me."

  "If I have any trouble" Bate put her big fists on her hips "I'll handle it myself."

  At the next door down the street, he paused again. This was Rocking-Chair Emma's, and the woman came out. She had once been slim and attractive; now she was slat-thin and nail-hard. "Em, we understand each other. You give cause for one complaint, and you get out."

  "There's men around wouldn't want to see me go," she said with a sneer. "What would you do about that?" "You've been told, Em. And you'll find their names out there" he indicated the sign "so they know what they can do."

  "Thompson will kill you, Matt. Big Thompson will wipe the earth with you?"

  He grinned at her. "Em, the one thing we know about life is that we'll never get out of it alive. Thompson's name is on the list"

  Slanting Annie heard the talk and came to the door. "What is it, Matt?"

  "The town's on notice, Annie. You've always run a straight place. Stay on as long as you like.*

  He went from place to place. At the Bucket of Blood, he stepped inside and looked around. Kid Curtis was there, and behind the bar was Tobe Burnside, a Barbary Coast bully. "Check the list," he told them. "Your names are posted."

  Burnside smiled and leaned his ponderous forearms on the bar. "I'm going to wait, Coburn. I'm going to wait until Thompson gets through with you."

  "You do that, Tobe. But when I'm through with Thompson you'd better hit the street running. If you wait that long you won't be taking anything with you but a little hide ... and not much of that."

  Matt started up the street to where Wayne Simmons, Clyde, and Zeller were waiting. Suddenly a voice sounded behind him. It was Nathan Bly.

  Matt turned slowly. Bly was standing in the center of the walk, staring at him. All along the street, people had stopped to watch.

  Bly indicated the sign with a jerk of his head. "My name's not on the list. Why?" His pale blue eyes staring into Mates he waited.

  'Because you're a gentleman, Nate. You're a damned good man with cards, but you have your proper pride. You've never cheated anybody in your life."

  Nathan Bly's face showed nothing, but when he spoke there was a faint surprise in his tone. "You called me a gentleman, Matt.*

  "Well, aren't you? Nate, I've seen you around for six or seven years. I never knew you to be anything else. You go ahead and run your place, but don't shoot anybody unless you have to." Abruptly, he turned and walked back up the street toward the waiting men.

  Nathan Bly went back to his gambling tent and stepped inside. The gamblers were waiting, watching him. "You boys heard that," he said harshly, "so you know what to do. Any man who tries any fancy stuff will answer to me, d'you hear? We run it straight, we run it honest"

  Dan Cort got up from behind his table. "I quit," he said coldly. "I'll start my own house. Right here in town.'

  "You do that," Nathan replied shortly.

  "As for Matt Coburn: Cort said, "I've never seen any of his graveyards.'

  Nathan Bly smiled. "You will, Cort. You will!"

  Dan Cort hitched his gun into place, then slipped on his coat "You watch this!" he said. "Just watch!"

  He stepped out on the street, Matt Coburn was standing talking to Clyde and Simmons. Cort stepped into the middle of the street. " Matt Coburn turned as the men he'd been talking to broke for shelter. As he turned, Dan Cort drew and fired. It was a blazingly fast draw, and Cort fired instantly.

  The bullet kicked up dirt six feet in front of Coburn, and the second bullet scattered splinters from the boardwalk near Mates knee.

  Matt had drawn easily, almost casually. Now he fired.

  Dan Cort took a slow step forward, his lames buckled and he fell.

  Inside the gambling tent Nathan Bly looked over at his swamper. "Mister, get somebody to help you and dig Dan a grave, will you? Put a marker on it that reads: He drew against Matt Coburn."

  Clyde came out of his office, his face pale. 'That was closer he said.

  Coburn shrugged. "He was too anxious to get his gun out. The fast draw is only part of it. You have to make the first shot count."

  "Now what?" Clyde asked.

  Matt smiled. "I'm going to get Big Thompson," he said quietly. "I want him to read that sign. And give me that shotgun, will you? I don't want him to try to draw on me until I'm through saying what I've got to say."

  Taking the shotgun, Matt went between two buildings and around another, approaching Thompson's cabin from the corner on the side where there was no window. He walked up to the door, drew back his foot, and kicked hard at the lock. The flimsy door flew open and Matt stepped in quickly, double-barreled shotgun in his right hand.

  Peggoty Gorman was sitting up in bed, blinking. Big Thompson rolled up to one elbow, astonished and unbelieving.

  "All right, Thompson! Roll out and put on your pants!"

  "What is this?" Big Thompson's eyes found the badge on Coburn's shirt. "Come to that, has it? I been waitin' for it."

  Matt Coburn moved suddenly, holding the sawed-off shotgun in his right hand. He grabbed the flimsy cot with his left hand, and with one powerful jerk upward he dumped Thompson on the floor.

  The big man scrambled for an instant, and lunged to his feet. Matt took a step back, the shotgun fixed on Thompson's belly. 'That's better. Glad you sleep in your socks, Thompson, come on."

  "Where to?"

  "Just down in the street. You, too, Peggoty. And if you boys want to get funny, just try it and I'll cut you in two."

  Thompson stared at him. "You give me an even break, an' I'll cut you down."

  "That's what Dan Cort thought. He got his break." "Cort?" Cort was a known friend of Thompson's. They bad been in Silver Reef together.

  "He's dead," Matt said.

  "It's like I tried to tell you, Big," Gorman said. "You were too drunk to listen. He killed Parsons last night." Thompson walked out of the door, and Gorman followed. As two dozen people watched, Matt Coburn marched them to the center of the street. There at least fifty men had already collected, staring at the sign.

  "Back up, boys," Coburn said to them pleasantly. "I want these two chickens to read the notice. Then we'll let them hunt a new roost."

  Clyde was there, and Simmons, Buckwalter, and Zeller, and now Dick Felton. Three of them had rifles, two were armed with shotguns.

  Big Thompson stared at the list, then looked around at Matt Coburn. "
Get out or shoot it out, eh? An' me without a gun?"

  Matt Coburn unbuckled his belt, removed the gun from his waistband, and handed them to Felton. "You boys see that we're not interrupted, will you? Thompson's brag is that he can break any man with his hands. Maybe he's right."

  "You bet I am "

  Matt feinted a right and stabbed a quick left to Big Thompson's mouth. It was unexpected and jarring. Big shook his head and put the back of a hand to his mouth, to find blood on it. He leaped at Matt, wanting to get his hands on him, and expecting him to move away. Instead, Matt stepped inside one of the huge arms and smashed short, wicked punches to the belly.

  They caught Thompson coming in, and he grunted with the impact of the blows. Then Matt whipped a right uppercut to the chin that snapped Thompson's head back, hard.

  But Thompson was old in the rough game of fighting. He had taken punches before. He pulled his head down and rolled his huge weight against Coburn. Matt hooked hard to the belly, caught a jarring blow to the jaw that staggered him, and a back-hand blow to the cheek-bone that sent him reeling against the water trough.

  Thompson rushed to get close, punching hard with both hands. Matt swung a left to the belly as the big man came in, but he caught two more high hard ones to the head. He ducked, smashed upward with the top of his head against Thompson's chin, then stamped on his instep.

  The big man howled with pain and backed off. For a moment they circled.

  `Pm going to kill you, Coburn! I'm goin to wreck you good."

  Thompson was wary now, but he was a powerful man, and he knew what he could do. He had killed a man with his fists before this.

  Chapter 16

  Matt Coburn was aware that the crowd had increased. He was aware that the sun was higher, and that it had grown warmer. All this he knew, but in a secondary way. The one fact that stood out now was that he had underestimated Big Thompson.

  He had known that he was strong. He had expected him to be a tough fighter, but he had not expected such a brute of strength and fury as now faced him.

  They circled each other warily. Matt was a big man himself, although sixty pounds lighter than Thompson. He had done his share of fighting and brawling, and he had learned long since that in most cases the very big man, having been large even as a boy, had never had to fight as much as a smaller man had, and so had never developed the fighting skill or ferocity a smaller man must need to develop to survive. But this was not true of Thompson. The big man was not only big, not only strong he was also a real fighter.