“You do your job, and that means takin’ your lickin’ now, and next time, maybe you’ll come out top dog. Two Bears wouldn’t hold it agin you. But he’ll fight—he’ll always fight, and the only way you’ll ever take him is dead. So what’s your play?”
Captain Quarles looked up at Frazee, and his blotched face showed no more emotion than a wooden mask. Then he said suddenly, “You’re right, of course. I can’t carry on a campaign under these conditions. I rescind all arrest orders against you. I will return to the fort and refit for another expedition. I should like to have you as my guide.”
For an instant, Burden Frazee’s craggy features split in a genuine smile. Then he shook his head.
“No, Cap’n,” he said slowly, “I can’t see my way to do it. Me and Two Bears—well, you’d better git another guide. I’ll point out a good man for you. I’ll take you back to the fort, and then I’m goin’ to quit. Reckon that’s the way my stick floats.”
Quarles nodded stiffly.
Frazee turned his pony and rode back along the trail they had trampled in their retreat. He pulled up short of the battleground, pulled down a limb, and stuck it across the trail. From around his neck, he took his pipe, and hung it on the branch by its thong.
The young men would be scouting here, he knew, and they’d take this pipe to Two Bears. Two Bears would understand, he knew. He kicked his pony around and rode back to the troopers’ camp.
FETCH ME BRANNON’S EARS, by Seven Anderton
April dusk had fallen when Lafe Garvin and Ira Porter rode over a ridge and saw Broken Bow lying ahead of them in the valley. The Black Hills lay four days of hard riding behind. Their horses were travel thinned.
Garvin was lanky, of medium height, and weather-tanned to a coffee brown. There was a saddle bend in his legs. The gray in hair and mustache said he was not young, but his word would have been taken had he claimed to be anything from forty to sixty. The blue eyes under ragged brows were sharp and keen; he moved with easy coordination, and rode like he was part of his horse.
Porter was not yet thirty, a hair under six feet tall, and so solidly and smoothly built that he appeared twenty pounds lighter than his actual two hundred. His lean face was slightly hawklike, his eyes gray and his blonde hair threatened with red.
Well worn range garb and gear marked the pair as saddle tramps who knew their way about the wide frontier. Smooth walnut grips of .45 Colt revolvers protruded from low hung holsters on their gun belts.
“There she is,” Lafe Garvin said. “She’s growed some; last time I seen her there wasn’t no railroad, and I figgered I’d never come back again on purpose.”
“Why?” Gordon asked.
Garvin chuckled. “My heart was busted. The only gal I ever wanted to hitch up with married a harness maker because I wouldn’t quit hellin’ around, and make something better than a cowpoke and buffalo hunter out of myself. Her and me was right soft on each other, but she said a girl had to have a man she could depend on. Her name was Hazel Williams. Wonder if she’s still around Broken Bow; mebby I’ll find out if we stay around long enough.”
“Seems I heard somewhere that the town is still plenty salty,” Ira said.
“Mebby so,” Lafe replied; “we’ll likely find out.”
It was full dark when the comrades pulled their horses up at a water trough in the middle of the town’s principal street. The street was lighted by lamps atop posts and the radiance from the windows of saloons and a few stores.
“Yonder is a beanery,” Ira said, “and I could use some grub.”
Lafe grunted. “You was hungry eight years ago when I run across you at Fort Laramie and you ain’t never got over it. But we might as well go eat. Won’t do the horses any hurt to cool out ’fore we put ’em up for the night.”
The place to which Ira had called attention was a two-story frame building. Yellow lamp light shone through a window upon which painted lettering read:
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MA’S RESTAURANT
ROOMS
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As they tied their horses in front Lafe said, “Looks like supper’s over. Nobody in there. But mebby we can anyhow fix for a place to sleep ’fore we look around.”
* * * *
The restaurant had a counter along one side, six tables and a desk and cigar counter just inside the entrance. There was a room register on the desk. A woman came hurrying through an archway that led to the kitchen. She was buxom and rosy-cheeked, with lively brown eyes and abundant dark hair touched but lightly with gray.
“Supper’s over,” she said as she stepped behind the desk. “We stop serving at seven, but if—”
“Well dang me, Hazel,” Lafe cut her off, “if you ain’t purtier than you used to be.”
She gave him a sharp look, then recognition dawned in her eyes. “Lafe Garvin!” she exclaimed. “You wouldn’t look so bad yourself if you’d shave off that soup-strainer; what are you doin’ in Broken Bow?”
“Me and Ira Porter here,” Lafe told her, “just come out of the Black Hills with a purty good stake and a hankerin’ to see how folks are livin’ back east. Figger to take the train from here—mebby as far as St. Louis. How’s Edgar?”
“Edgar got killed seven years ago,” she answered.
“Too bad,” Lafe registered no deep sorrow. “You married again?”
“No,” she said flatly, then hurried on, “If you and your friend are hungry, I can scrape up what’s left in the kitchen. And I got a room if you want to put up for the night.”
“We can use the room,” Lafe said, “and I can eat most anything; but Ira has got bad stummick trouble.”
Hazel’s glance at the robust Ira was sympathetic until she saw his grin.
“He just can’t seem to get the danged thing full nohow,” Lafe added.
She snuffed. “There’s anyhow one way you ain’t changed, Lafe Garvin; you two come on back to the kitchen.”
In the kitchen, a girl of nineteen was putting washed dishes onto shelves. She was a well rounded brunette with pixie-like attractiveness.
“This is my daughter Sarah,” Hazel said needlessly—since the resemblance was so marked. “Sarah, this is Lafe Garvin and Ira Porter; I’m going to rustle them up some supper.”
Sarah Grove regarded Lafe for a moment with interest, then her dark eyes went to Ira Porter and remained fixed. Ira seemed fascinated. Neither of them paid any attention when Lafe said, “By gum, she’s mighty near as purty as you was—I mean are—”
“You mean was,” Hazel cut off, “and you’re still lyin’ because she’s prettier. Sarah, you better run along to the quilting party. I’ll feed these two and finish up here.”
“What?” Sarah said, tearing her gaze away from Ira. “Oh, yes, mother. I guess I’d better.” She took off her apron and hung and hung it on a wall hook.
“Better go out the back way,” her mother said—and Sarah did.
* * * *
Fifteen minutes later Lafe and Ira were eating the bountiful meal Hazel Grove had “scraped up” and placed on an oilcloth covered kitchen table. She sat at the end of the table, ready to bring more.
“Mighty nice to see you again, Hazel,” Lafe said. “I ain’t heard nothin’ from here for a long time.”
“I heard about you now and then,” she said. “Last time was four-five months ago. Some men rode through here and was talking about you and Wild Bill Hickock raising Old Ned in Dakota.” She regarded him steadily for a moment, then continued, “Lafe, this may surprise you, but I wish you had rode in here as young and hellacious as you used to be.”
Lafe gulped a mouthful of food and stared at her. “Well I be jiggered,” he said. “Why?”
“Because,” she replied. “The minute you show up where he is—Gabe Brannon—he’s the marshal here—is goin’ to make you take off your guns. He don’t allow anybody to wear guns in town, and he will be plumb mean about it. If you was the young hellion you used to be you’d kill
him; and if there was ever a job that needed doing that’s it.”
Lafe had lost interest in food. “Danged if you don’t sound plumb bloodthirsty,” he said. “Well, Hazel, I ain’t as young as I used to be—which same I can’t help. But one thing is plumb certain—when any gent makes me shuck my hardware I’ll be dead. What puzzles me is hearin’ you say you want to see any man—‘specially a lawman—salivated. What got you to feelin’ thataway?”
She didn’t answer the question. “I’m sorry I said that, Lafe,” she said. “I guess you ain’t changed any other ways—but you are older, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Didn’t you ever hear of Gabe Brannon?”
“Um,” Lafe said. “Seems I did hear Broken Bow had a holy terror of a marshal—but the name slipped my mind. What’s he been doin’ that makes you want somebody to fetch you his ears?”
“He’s a beast,” Hazel replied bitterly. “You can’t blame everybody for being afraid of him. He’s quicker than lightning with his gun—and he’s itching every minute to use it. He’s killed seven men in the two years he’s been here, and crippled several and run a lot more out of town. It was a sorry day for Broken Bow when Ben Slatt and Alva Dingman and that bunch brought him here.”
“Alva Dingman!” Lafe exclaimed. “That polecat I know about; Hickok and me hightailed him out of Abilene once. What’s he doin’ here?”
“He runs the Hot Time saloon; it’s a hellhole. This town was bad before he came, but he lined up with Ben Slatt and the others and made it ten times worse. Ben. Slatt is the banker, and there’s half a dozen others—like Abe Hiller that runs the Emporium, and they run the town. They got most of the folks in debt to them, or buffaloed one way or another. They hired Gabe Brannon to do their dirty work—and there don’t seem to be any way to get rid of him. Elections is just a joke. They run them. I’ve been sore tempted to load up Edgar’s old shotgun and kill Gabe Brannon myself when he comes pesterin’ around.”
“Brannon’s been botherin’ you, that it?” Lafe’s eves grew cold.
“Me!” Hazel exclaimed. “I wish—I just wish he would. He’s got a crazy notion about Sarah. She can’t hardly even speak to any other fellow. Brannon warns ’em off—and they know he’d just as soon kill them as look at them. He—”
“How old is Brannon?” Lafe cut her off.
“Must be close to forty,” she replied. “But he’s wicked bad, Lafe. Don’t you go and—”
“I’m a purty ornery galoot myself,” Lafe told her, “Seems you told me that a good many times. I reckon I’ll have to take me a sashay around town and find out whether a gent can’t wear his ornaments in a free country.” He pushed back his chair.
“No, Lafe,” Hazel protested.
Ira had stopped eating to listen with interest when Hazel spoke of Bannon’s attentions to Sarah. He stood up with Lafe.
“You ain’t in on this,” Lafe said.
“Who’s goin’ to keep me out?” Ira retorted. “I’ll go along, or be pretty close behind.”
Their eyes locked for a moment, then Lafe said, “Mebby you can be handy at that—if you’ll do like I say. You know you ain’t fast enough to draw against a holy terror, but you’re a sidewinder other ways, I’ll admit. You go up to our room and leave your artillery.”
After hesitating a moment, Ira started to unbuckle his gunbelt. “I’ll leave it right here—”
“I said up in the room,” Lafe stopped him.
Lafe’s left eyelid had drooped slightly. Ira nodded understanding. Lafe turned his head and looked a question.
“Number three,” Hazel Grove said. “just at the top of the stairs.”
“Lafe,” Hazel said anxiously when Ira had gone, “I wish you wouldn’t—”
“You don’t wish nothin’ of the sort,” Lafe said calmly. “That purty little gal might be ours if I had knowed once what I know now—and not gone hellin’ off to Wyoming when I did. Mebby you and me might unmake a mistake or two after I do some palaverin’ with this Brannon jasper.”
They stood for a long minute, speaking only with their eyes. Then Lafe said, “Ira’s comin’ downstairs. I better go.”
“I—I have to hope you can, Lafe,” she said softly.
“Can what?” he said, turning back at the archway.
“Bring me Brannon’s ears,” she replied. Tears were brimming in her eyes.
* * * *
Business—drinking, gambling and dancing—was in full blast when Lafe and Ira entered the Hot Time saloon. They found a place to belly up to the long bar. Lafe ordered beers. They sipped the beverage while surveying the crowd in the smoke-hazy room.
“See the gent with the slicked down black hair and the dinky mustache down yonder at the end of the bar?” Lafe said. “That’s Alva Dingman; I’m wonderin’ if he’ll know me when he looks around.”
They were looking at the flashily dressed proprietor when a gruff voice at Lafe’s elbow said, “All right, feller, shed that belt and gun and pass it over to the bartender. Nobody wears hardware in this town.”
The speaker was a big, sandy-haired man. His beefy face was florid but not unhandsome. His sharp black eyes were steady and his right hand hovered near the butt of his bolstered Colt. A polished star shone on his unbuttoned vest.
Lafe Garvin put down his beer glass and stepped back slightly as he turned to face the speaker. Ira Porter stayed close to Lafe’s back.
“Nobody?” Lafe said, looking at the marshal’s gun.
“Nobody but me,” Gabe Brannon snarled. “Unwrap that belt and pass it over—quick and careful.”
Neither man had spoken softly and the crowd grew suddenly silent. Even players at the card tables stopped to watch what was happening. Customers nearest to Lafe and the marshal began to edge away.
“Now, mister,” Lafe said. “I can’t rightly do that. I just as soon be barefooted in a patch of sandburrs as out in public without my hawgleg. Sort—”
“Gabe, be careful!” a frantic voice shouted from the rear of the bar. The sudden silence had drawn the attention of Alva Dingman. “That’s Lafe Garvin,” Dingman screamed, “and he’s a poison dirty killer.”
Lafe did not raise his voice, but it cut clearly through the tense dive.
Without removing his cold gaze from the marshal, Lafe said, “You’re a damned liar, Dingman. You know I never shot a man that didn’t draw first, and at that I never killed but two. I just fixed the rest so they wouldn’t never be handy with a gun again. If this pet wolf of yours tries to draw on me, he ain’t ever goin’ to have much use for his gun hand afterwards. I’m waitin’ for him to reach.”
Then Lafe added a sentence that puzzled his hearers—with the possible exception of Ira Porter. “Come to think of it,” Lafe said, “you could get better ears offen a jackrabbit.”
The silence was heavy for long moments. Then Lafe said. “Dingman, tell your star-totin’ lobo to draw or pull in his horns. Seems to me that iffen I was runnin’ a no-gun town I would do it by provin’ I was man enough to do it without wearin’ one myself.”
Alva Dingman had crouched until only his head was visible. “Gabe,” he shouted, “let that crazy killer alone. This is a law-abiding town; we’ll take care of him later.”
Lafe and Brannon stood with eyes locked. “Well,” Lafe said, “you goin’ to try it now or behind my back?”
“You heard the mayor’s orders,” Brannon snarled. “Now you get out of here—and you better get out of town.”
Lafe nudged Ira with an elbow, then said, “I’ll be around for a spell; got interests. But I’ll mosey along. This dump stinks of skunk anyhow.”
Ira Porter had already walked towards the door. Lafe followed, looking over his shoulder. Other men, many of them looking pleased, cleared his path.
* * * *
A lamp on the desk was turned low and the kitchen was dark when Lafe and Ira returned to Hazel Grove’s place. They had been absent less than a half hour.
Hazel rose from a chair placed where she could watch the stre
et. “What happened?” she asked as she turned up the lamp.
“Nothin’ much,” Lafe told her. “Brannon talked rough, but ’peared shy about reachin’ for his iron.” He grinned. “I was given to understand that this here town is law-abidin’ and will take care of me later. I’m lookin’ forward.”
“You better look behind pretty often, too,” she said. “That outfit will get you foul, Lafe. I wish you’d pull out for—”
“Now, Hazel,” Lafe cut in, “you ever know me to start a undertakin’ and then tuck my tail?”
She sighed. “No, I didn’t. But please be careful; this is going to make Brannon all the meaner about Sarah when he finds out you’re our friend. He’s plumb ruining her life.”
“Such as how?” Lafe asked.
“She can’t even go to the Saturday night dances. Brannon asks her to go with him every week. She won’t—but she’s afraid to go with any other fellow, even if they wasn’t afraid to take her.”
Ira broke his scowling silence. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Is there a dance?”
“Yes,” Hazel said, “but don’t you—”
“Mebby,” Ira interrupted, “I’ll collect Brannon’s ears ’fore Lafe gets around to it.”
“Well, well,” Lafe said. “Let’s put our horses away and roll in ourselves. Tomorrow might be sort of strenerous.”
Lafe and Ira came down to breakfast early but a few shop workers and the crew of a freight train were ahead of them. Sarah Grove was waiting tables while her mother minded the kitchen. Lafe and Ira took the vacant table nearest the entrance to the kitchen. Hazel popped out of the kitchen to take their order. It was simple. Ham and eggs.
“They’re up to no good,” Hazel said in a low voice as she bent above the table. “Brannon always comes in early on Saturday to ask Sarah if she’s decided to go to the dance. He ain’t been in; you watch out.”
“Allus do,” Lafe assured her.
Hazel returned to the kitchen. Soon afterwards Sarah brought their food. “Miss Sarah,” Ira Porter asked bluntly, “would you go to the dance with me tonight?”
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 36
