Reprisal

by William W. Johnstone

  “The gangs just might be after Conrad too.”

  “Have you seen those bodyguards of his?”

  “Two of them.”

  “He has four. Big bruisers.”

  “But they’re not Western men.”

  The marshal gave that a few seconds’ thought. “No, they’re not. I see what you mean.”

  “They’re not going to react the same.”

  “No. Probably not. Damn! I’ll have to keep an eye on young Browning’s girlfriend too.”

  “Conrad has a girlfriend?”

  “Yes. She came to town a few days ago on the stage. From back East somewhere. The two young people seemed to hit it right off . . . even though personally I think Conrad is a stuck-up, fancy-pants little turd. She’s a real pretty little thing. Colleen something or another.”

  * * *

  “Well, it certainly didn’t take her long to find herself a beau,” Jeff remarked after Frank broke the news to him.

  “Conrad has a good eye for the ladies,” Frank said.

  Jeff sighed as the two men prepared for sleep on the hay in the loft of the livery. “Colleen is sure a pretty girl.”

  “Go to sleep, Jeff. She isn’t the only fish in the ocean. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “I suppose so. Have you ever seen the ocean, Frank?”

  “What?”

  “The ocean. Have you ever seen it?”

  “I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean a couple of times. It was beautiful.”

  Dog padded softly through the thick hay, and lay down between the two men and curled up. Frank reached out and petted the animal. Dog licked his hand and moved closer to him.

  “She sure is a pretty girl,” Jeff repeated.

  Frank smiled in the darkness. “She’ll be just as pretty in the morning, Jeff. After we get a good night’s sleep.”

  Jeff didn’t take the hint. “You’ve told me about your wife, Frank. Now tell me this, if you will ...”

  Frank waited. And waited. Finally he asked, “What it is, Jeff?”

  “Was there ever another lady you cared for?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been in love just the one time?”

  “I reckon so, Jeff. There have been other women, yes. But they were just passing interests.”

  “Ships that pass in the night.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Longfellow.”

  “Oh. Go to sleep, Jeff. Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.”

  “Yes. Of course. We have to find us a place to live and I have to stake out some sort of claim, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll put Colleen out of my mind.”

  “I sure hope so. If you don’t, it’s going to be a damn long night.”

  Thirteen

  Both men were awakened abruptly by the banging of a bass drum and blowing of a bugle.

  “What in the hell!” Frank said, sitting straight up on the hay, throwing his blankets to one side, and grabbing for his pistol.

  “Is it the end of the world?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s horrible!” a citizen shouted from just outside the livery.

  “What is it?” another shouted.

  “Paulette Tremaine’s done got religion and shut down her house.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “All the whores done quit too. They’ve all joined the church and the Temperance Movement.”

  “You don’t mean it?”

  “I do. It’s all the fault of that buffalo-butted woman from back East, that damned Martha Hornblower.”

  “Hornblower?”

  “Something like that. It’s all her fault. She’s leadin’ a torchlight parade down Main Street and there’s gonna be a big meetin’ right afterward.”

  “Martha Overhouser,” Jeff said.

  “The one and only,” Frank said, lying back down and pulling the blankets over him.

  “You don’t want to go see?”

  “Hell, no! Someone’s liable to take a shot at Martha.”

  Jeff chuckled in the darkness of the loft.

  “What’s so funny?” Frank asked.

  “If she was bent over, even I could hit her.”

  “She is mighty ample in the rear end, for a fact.”

  The drum-beating and horn-tooting became louder, and the reflection of dozens of torches could be seen through the open loft door.

  “Whole bunch of ladies out there,” Jeff said, crawling to the loft door and looking out. “And some men too.”

  “In the parade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Local ministers, I bet.”

  “And there’s Martha, leading the pack.”

  “Can you see Colleen?”

  “Colleen? Why ... she wouldn’t be involved in something this silly.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “I think I’ll go down and take a look.”

  “You go right ahead. Me and Dog will stay here. You can tell me all about it in the morning.”

  “This is important, Frank.” Jeff pulled on his boots.

  “Not to me.”

  “Well, I’ll try not to wake you when I get back.”

  “Have fun.” Frank snuggled deeper into the hay, Dog moved closer to him, and they both went back to sleep.

  When he woke early the next morning, Jeff had not returned. Frank dressed and got Dog down from the loft. The temperature was below freezing. Frank figured it was in the mid-twenties, but there was little wind, and that helped. Frank checked his watch: five o’clock.

  “You stay here,” Frank told Dog. Dog curled up in an empty stall. “I’ll bring you back something to eat.” Dog yawned and went back to sleep.

  Frank walked over to a cafe that was just opening, and ordered a pot of coffee and breakfast. “Big doings here in town last night, huh?” he said to the waitress.

  “Foolishness,” she replied, filling his cup. “Marshal arrested about two dozen people . . . men and women.”

  “Did he now?” And I’ll bet Jeff was one of them.

  “Sure did. Amongst them was two preachers and that Overhouser woman and Paulette Tremaine. They’re still in jail.”

  Frank ate his breakfast and drank his coffee, enjoying the warmth of the cafe and the good food. The cafe began to fill up and Frank stepped out into the cold. The lights were on at the marshal’s office. Frank walked over and looked in the window. The marshal was seated at his desk, working on some papers. Frank tapped on the door and the marshal let him in.

  “Morgan,” the marshal said, surprise on his face as he waved Frank to a chair. “You have a problem?”

  “No. But my young partner might. You have a Jeff Barton locked up?”

  The marshal smiled. “Indeed I do.”

  “Damn! I figured as much. Disturbing the peace at the rally last night?”

  “You got it. Most of those arrested have paid their fine and left. But several refused and I had no choice but to keep them locked down.”

  “Jeff Barton, Paulette Tremaine, and Martha Overhouser?”

  “You got it square on the money, Morgan.”

  “And a young gal named Colleen?”

  “Colleen O’Brian. How’d you know that?”

  “Met Colleen and Martha Overhauser at a stage stop. Jeff’s been riding with me. He’s sort of smitten with Colleen. Paulette and Martha are old school friends from back East.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” The lawman grinned. “Say, you wouldn’t like to be my deputy for a while, would you?”

  “Not a chance, Marshal. Can I see Jeff?”

  “Oh, sure. I was just about to take them some coffee. Help me tote it?”

  “Be glad to.”

  The front door was pushed open and Conrad stepped in, all dressed to the nines, from his polished low-quarter shoes to his funny-looking hat. He was frowning, and his frown turned to a scowl when he looked at Frank. Two big bruisers stepped in right behind him. Conrad’s bodyguards would probably tip the scale
s at about 250 pounds each, both of them looking as if they’d been carved out of solid oak.

  Conrad did not speak to his father, just nodded and turned his attention to the marshal. “You have a young lady locked up, Marshal. A Miss Colleen O’Brian.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “May I see her?”

  “It’s a little early, young man. Let me see if they’re awake.”

  “Very well. We’ll wait.”

  “Have a seat. Come on, Frank, you grab the cups, I’ll tote the pot.”

  The marshal opened the door and Martha Overhouser hollered, “The accommodations in this prison are abysmal! Primitive, to say the least.”

  “Your mouth got you in here, lady,” the marshal said. “Ten dollars will get you out.”

  “Never!” Martha roared. “It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Suit yourself. How about some coffee, ladies?”

  “I would like some, please,” Jeff said, not meeting Frank’s eyes.

  “Me too,” Paulette and Colleen said.

  Frank passed out the tin cups, and the marshal filled them.

  “I would like two sugars and a small bit of cream, please,” Colleen said.

  “Black or not at all, lady,” the marshal told her.

  “You are a very rude and crude person, Marshal Dickson!” Martha shouted.

  “Your fine just went up to twenty dollars, Mrs. Overhouser,” the marshal told her.

  “Insensitive oaf!” Martha said.

  “You want to keep trying for thirty dollars, lady?” Dickson asked her.

  Martha sat down on the bunk and shut her mouth.

  “Colleen!” Conrad snapped from the doorway. “I am very disappointed in you.”

  “Get your butt back out in the waiting area, boy!” Dickson told him.

  “Don’t you speak to me in such a manner, Marshal Dickson!” Conrad popped off.

  “I’ll speak to you in any damn way I feel like, boy. Now you get back into the waiting area and you stay there. Move, boy, or I’ll put your ass in a cell.”

  Conrad opened his mouth, and Frank said, “Put a sock in it, son. Get out of here.”

  Conrad spun around and stalked out of the cell area, his back stiff as a poker.

  “How much is Jeffs fine, Marshal?” Frank asked.

  “Ten dollars.”

  “I have the money to pay my fine,” Jeff said. “If I choose to do so. But I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Shut up,” Frank told him. He looked at Marshal Dickson. “What’s he charged with?”

  Dickson smiled. “There are about a dozen charges I could hang on him and Miss O’Brian. But if they’ll pay just ten bucks each, I’ll only charge them with creating a public nuisance.”

  “That’s on the books?”

  “It is now.”

  Frank laughed and handed the marshal twenty dollars. “That’s for Jeff and the girl. The other two are on their own.”

  “Stand firm, Colleen!” Martha yelled. “Don’t yield to pressures from a man.”

  “How about me?” Paulette asked from another cell.

  “I ought to send you to the territorial prison, Paulette,” Dickson told her. “You’re long overdue in my book.”

  “Try it, you officious piss-ant!” Paulette challenged him. “I know the judge . . . in more ways than one.”

  Muttering under his breath about soiled doves in general and Paulette Tremaine in particular, Dickson opened the cell door and jerked Jeff out, then opened another door and hauled Colleen out. “The two of you get out of here. Move!”

  “You and I will talk later on today, Colleen,” Conrad said as the young lady walked into the waiting area of the marshal’s office. “Your behavior last night was quite disgraceful. I’m very ashamed of you.”

  “I thought she was wonderful,” Jeff said. “Standing up for her beliefs.”

  “Who asked you for your opinion?” Conrad popped right back, looking at Jeff the way a doctor might look at a germ. “You . . . you vagabond!”

  “Boy does have a way with words, doesn’t he?” the marshal said to Frank.

  Before Frank could reply, Jeff took a step toward Conrad, his hands balled into fists. “You pompous little tyrant! You need a good thrashing!”

  “Try it, you misbegotten sot!” Conrad came right back.

  Frank was looking on, amused at the exchange. Conrad’s bodyguards, however, were not amused. They moved closer to Conrad, ready to protect their boss.

  “You boys stand easy,” Frank told the pair of bruisers.

  “Or you’ll do what?” one asked.

  “Put more holes in you than you can count,” Frank replied, pushing back his coat and slipping the thong off the hammer of his .45.

  “He’s a craven killer,” Conrad advised his bodyguards. “He means it.”

  “A craven killer?” Jeff said, looking first at Conrad, then at Frank. “That’s a damn lie! He’s no craven killer.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Conrad shouted. “You ... worthless bum!”

  “Yes, I’m calling you a liar,” Jeff came right back. “And I’m also calling you an arrogant, two-bit, petty little spoiled brat. What do you think about that, Fancy Pants?”

  “I’ve a good mind to give you a proper thrashing!” Conrad said.

  “All by yourself, or with the help of your hired thugs?” Jeff asked.

  “I ain’t no thug,” one of the bodyguards objected. “Where the hell you get off callin’ me a thug?”

  “Me neither,” his partner said. “That’s a damn insult I don’t have to take.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Conrad said, removing his coat. “I boxed in school and I am quite skilled in the art of pugilism.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Marshal Dickson asked Frank.

  “Means he thinks he knows how to fight.”

  Jeff took off his coat and balled his hands into fists.

  “Stop this!” Colleen said.

  “Stay out of this, dear,” Jeff told her.

  “Dear?” Conrad shouted. “How dare you call my girl dear?”

  “I’m quite flattered,” Colleen said to Conrad. “And I am not your girl.”

  “You cheap little slut!” Conrad told her.

  “That does it,” Jeff said. He stepped in close to Conrad and popped the young man on the snoot.

  The fight was on.

  Fourteen

  Conrad was knocked to the floor. “You ’oke my ’ose!” Conrad hollered, holding his busted beak.

  “I’ll break more than that!” Jeff yelled.

  Conrad kicked out and his shoe caught Jeff on the knee. Jeff started cussing and went hobbling one-legged around the room, yelling and holding onto his aching knee.

  Conrad got to his feet, his nose bloody. He set himself in his best prizefighter pose: left arm fully extended in front of him, right hand held close to his chest, both hands balled into fists.

  “Is he going to fight or pose for a statue?” Marshal Dickson questioned.

  “Damned if I know,” Frank replied.

  Jeff carefully tested his knee, found that it worked, and faced Conrad. “Now you get thrashed,” he told the younger man.

  Conrad’s reply was to pop Jeff on the jaw. The blow staggered him back. Jeff recovered, and gave Conrad a left shot to the belly and a right fist to the side of the head.

  The two then stood toe-to-toe for half a minute, slugging it out, each giving back as much as he got.

  “Pretty damn good fight,” Marshal Dickson said.

  “Oh, stop this!” Colleen begged.

  The men paid no attention to her.

  “Time, time!” Conrad said.

  “Time’s butt,” Jeff said, and knocked him to the floor.

  “Foul, foul!” Conrad yelled.

  “That ain’t fair,” one of the bodyguards said. “That was an uncalled-for blow.”

  “This ain’t no prize ring, boys,” Dickson said.

  Conrad jumped to his sh
oes and popped Jeff on the nose.

  “Ouch!” Jeff hollered, putting both hands to his nose. Conrad gave him a left and right to the belly.

  “Give it to him, Mr. Browning!” a bodyguard yelled.

  “I can’t stand this!” Colleen screamed.

  “You can leave, miss,” the marshal told her.

  Colleen looked at Frank. “Stop this!”

  Frank shrugged. “They’re fighting over you, Colleen, not me.” Jeff hauled off and knocked Conrad through the office window. Conrad landed on his butt on the boardwalk.

  Jeff crawled through the broken window after him.

  “Whoever wins the fight gets to pay for that broken window,” Marshal Dickson said.

  “Sounds fair to me,” Frank replied.

  Conrad and Jeff were slugging it out on the boardwalk, Colleen was screaming, Martha and Paulette were hollering back in the cell area, and a crowd was gathering in the street to watch the fight in front of the marshal’s office.

  Frank and Marshal Dickson stepped outside to watch the fight, the bodyguards with them.

  All in all, it was a typical day in the mining town of Durango.

  Conrad and Jeff rolled off the boardwalk and into the muddy street, still cussing and flailing away at each other, but doing little damage.

  “I think they’ve just about had it,” Frank remarked.

  “ ’Pears that way to me,” Dickson said.

  Jeff and Conrad staggered to their feet and stood panting and glaring at one another.

  “That’s it, boys,” Dickson said, stepping off the boardwalk and into the street. “Fight’s over.”

  Conrad reared back and took a swing at Jeff. He ducked and the punch caught the marshal flush in the mouth. Dickson’s feet flew out from under him and he landed on his butt in the mud.

  The crowd cheered.

  Conrad’s feet slipped in the mud and he began flailing his arms, trying to keep his balance. He didn’t make it. He fell heavily into Jeff and they went down together, landing with a big slopping sound in a mud puddle in front of a horse trough.

  The crowd cheered and applauded.

  “Good Lord!” Frank muttered.

  “Get me out of here!” Conrad yelled.

  “Somebody get this crazy crackpot off me!” Jeff yelled.

  “Crazy crackpot!” Conrad yelled. “Why . . . you . . . you worthless hobo. You ...”