No homestead was close enough to be seen from this viewpoint. And there was no sign that the men who worked the homesteads were riding toward Bacall. To ensure, perhaps, that the gunslingers hired by the Channons of Texas had for once relieved the Gershels and the Wolfes and the rest of the need to utilise vigilante justice.
Ride for Bacall they certainly would. Unless Sheriff Floyd Polk was better at his trade than Jake and Chester, Clinton Davis and Arkin had been.
Barnaby Gold moved off the trail to the side of a small wood. Selected a lightning-struck oak some twenty feet away, drew the Peacemaker from the holster and emptied its chambers into the charred and dead tree. Gripping the gun double-handed and holding it out at arm’s length, at eye level.
The burst of gunfire erupted shouts of alarm from the houses at the southern end of the street.
He glanced briefly and indifferently at the men and women who came from doorways to see the reason for the shooting. Then closed to within ten feet of the oak and began to practise with the swivel-rigged Peacemaker. Spacing the shots at three-second intervals.
He could absorb the recoil much better now. And the groupings of the bullet holes had improved greatly.
The eagle-butted Colt .45 was fully reloaded and he was ejecting the spent shells from the holster gun when Polk rode his gelding under the town sign.
‘Arnie Dalton told me about the piece of paper you got, son,’ the lawman called. ‘And Fran and the whore back up the town shootings were self-defence.’
‘Okay.’ Gold began to push fresh shells into the chambers of the revolver.
Polk reined his mount to a halt on the trail. ‘From what they said and the damage I saw at the hotel, you don’t need the target practise, son.’
‘Guess you don’t have the ambition to be the best lawman in the country, sheriff?’
He nodded. ‘That’s right. But then my life doesn’t depend on being it. One thing.’
‘Uh?’
‘You’ve killed your last man on my territory. So don’t you go blasting at anything except trees around here. I’m not, nor ever will be, the best lawman in the country. But I take pride in being as good as I can be.’
‘If more Channon guns ride in, sheriff?’
‘Lie low. I’ll take care of them.’
‘And if the Gershels talk you around to their way of thinking?’
‘I’ll hold you in the gaol until the circuit judge comes to Bacall. When you’ll be tried under due process of law.’
‘If Will Gershel and his neighbours won’t hold still for that?’
‘I’ll do the best I can to make sure they do, son. But I’m one against many. Giving you advance warning. If any of the homesteaders stop a fatal bullet from your gun and those that are left don’t get a noose around your neck ... in my book, you’ll be a murderer. Gunslinger like you shooting down an ordinary working man.’
Polk gazed expectantly at Gold and there was silence between them for several seconds.
‘Back in your office, you told me to stay in town. Seemed to me then that you meant it.’
A nod. ‘I sure as hell did, son. When my mind was fifty-fifty about believing you or not.’
‘Now you’re telling me to leave.’
‘I can’t tell you that, son. Not while there’s the matter of more killings, and a rape, to be cleared up.’
He heeled the gelding forward.
Gold held the wooden-butted Peacemaker down at his hip. Squeezed a finger to the trigger and brought his left hand across the front of his body. Fanned the hammer.
Six rapidly-fired bullets thudded into the dead tree. The gun-smoke drifted away and was neutralised by the warm air of early morning.
Sheriff Floyd Polk looked back over his shoulder and halted his horse to witness the shooting.
‘That meant to be a threat, mister?’
‘No, sir. Just doing what I came out here for.’
‘You’re good.’
‘I’m getting there.’
‘But staying here, I reckon?’
‘Found out real young that avoiding trouble was no way to deal with it.’
‘You’re still young, son. If you get to live much longer, you’ll find out the world has no place for people like you.’
Barnaby Gold was holding up the Peacemaker, loading gate thumbed aside, so that the expended shells fell to the ground as he rotated the cylinder.
‘Then maybe people like you will allow me to live in a world of my own, sheriff.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE lawman heeled his gelding into a canter and was soon out of sight on the south trail down into the river valley.
Gold holstered the reloaded Colt, then exploded six more shots from the gun on the swivel rig. Spacing them several seconds apart, but trying for speed as well as accuracy with the mother-of-pearl, eagle-butted gun that had a cutaway trigger.
Then he reloaded the Peacemaker, fixed it back on the gun-belt, and sat down on a fallen tree trunk. Lit a cheroot and watched as the town of Bacall began to go about its daily business now that breakfast was over.
As always, what was running through his mind was not displayed on his clean-cut, evenly tanned, green-eyed, handsome face. He neither frowned nor smiled, scowled or looked pensive. He was just a young man, sombrely dressed, waiting for something to happen. Totally un-worried. And utterly confident.
When all the men had left their homes to go up the curved street, and after several mothers had brought their children to one of the houses which obviously served as a school, he rose from the tree and re-entered Bacall.
That he was not welcome there was obvious from the way many of the men had looked at him. And it was equally apparent, from glances the women directed at him, that it was not usual for them to accompany their children the short way to their lessons - his presence in town was the reason for the break in routine.
Halfway up the street, he entered the gunsmith’s store to restock the loops in his belt with .45 calibre shells for the Peacemakers. The owner was nervously anxious to be of service and blatantly relieved when his customer left.
Next, Barnaby Gold crossed the broad street to go into a clothing store. The man behind the counter was the short, pot-bellied, white-bearded one who last night had demanded Jake and Chester be buried outside the town limits of Bacall. His attitude and expression were far less servile than those of the gunsmith.
‘You want somethin’, mister?’
‘When I rode into town last night, there was a caped Ulster coat in your window, sir. Black.’
The prospect of doing cash business improved the man’s temperament. ‘Took it out just this mornin’. Make it a point of changin’ the window display once a week.’
‘It’s not been sold then?’
He came out from behind his counter and went to the far side of the store. Where some items of clothing were heaped on the table. He sorted through the heap.
‘Reckon it’ll be just your size, young feller.’
He found it and Barnaby Gold shed his frock coat to try on the one that interested him. It was of the same dark colour as the old one, reaching to the same length - three inches below his knees. With deeply plunging lapels below which were six plain, brass buttons. The cape attached to it had a collar with a strip of velvet trimming around it.
‘I’m right about the size, ain’t I?’ the storekeeper said eagerly as he directed his customer to a full-length mirror.
Then cleared his throat. ‘But them revolvers give us a problem. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sure.’
Gold released the holster ties from his thigh and unbuckled the gun-belt. Buttoned the coat.
‘I got the belt for it here, too,’ the eager storekeeper called as he went back to the table.
‘No need, sir.’
Gold fastened the gun-belt back around his waist, outside the coat. Studied his reflection in the mirror and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
‘Needs somethin’ els
e, wouldn’t you say, young feller?’
Gold saw the man’s image in the mirror. He was holding out a long, black silk scarf.
‘Appreciate it, sir.’
Gold took the scarf, looped it around his neck beneath the collar of the cape and tied it loosely between the lapels of the coat.
‘Looks good.’
‘It’s fine, sir. You sell boots here?’
‘Sure do. Come look.’
He kept them under the counter and after getting Gold’s size began to bring several pairs up into view. A highly shined pair, low heeled and reaching just to the level of the coat hem was chosen. Jet black, and slightly decorated with stitching down the outsides. With sufficient room for Gold to tuck his pants legs down inside them.
‘How much do I owe?’
‘What about a new shirt, young feller? A necktie, maybe? Some underwear? Hose? Hat?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘Sure thing.’ He began to write figures on a pad, then totalled them. Checked the addition and showed his arithmetic to Gold. Who paid for his purchases and headed for the door.
‘Appreciate your help, sir.’
‘Pleasure, young feller. Pity about you wearin’ them guns over such a fine tailored coat, though.’
‘Sure is.’
He went out, closing the door on the bearded old man who was shaking his head disconsolately.
Fred Street’s livery stable was on the other side of the street from the clothing store. The man was still suffering from the effects of last night’s drinking as he curried the horse of one of the dead Channon guns. Gold paid him what he owed for a night’s stabling and feed for the black gelding, then saddled the animal and led him outside.
Every business in Bacall was now open and the low-key activity of the town was briefly interrupted by the sight of the newly-garbed Barnaby Gold leading his saddled horse toward the Riverside Hotel.
People in the bank, the mortician on the threshold of his funeral parlour, the preacher talking to two women out front of his church, the expressman helping two others unload crates from a flatbed wagon in front of the stage depot and even a group of Chinese in the laundry all temporarily stopped what they were doing to glance at the passing stranger in Bacall. Then the chores and the talk recommenced.
Across from the hotel where Gold hitched the gelding to the rail, work on the new building was in full swing. One of those involved was a sign-writer. On a board painted white he was starting to letter in red: BACALL SCH.
‘Town’s goin’ to have a proper schoolhouse,’ Arnie Dalton said as he turned from nailing planks across the frame of the shattered window. ‘Bacall is goin’ to be some place some day.’
‘Charge me for the cost of a new pane, repairs of the balcony, when you figure out how much I owe for room, board and the whore, Mr Dalton.’
‘That’s not necessary. Fred Street’s havin’ the horses and saddles of them men you shot. Payin’ for the repairs. Givin’ the balance to the town toward the cost of the school.’
‘Okay.’
‘You want your bill? You leaving?’
Gold halted at the batwings. ‘Soon as Sheriff Polk gets back.’
‘Me and Fran and Annie, we told Floyd how it happened. That you had to defend yourself.’
‘He told me.’
‘If he has to go all the way down the valley to the Engel place, be some time before he gets back to town.’
‘Get breakfast?’
‘I’ll have Fran see to it.’
‘In my room?’
‘Sure.’
‘Appreciate it.’
There was nothing in Arnie Dalton’s demeanour to suggest he was aware of what had happened between his guest and his wife during the night.
Gold went into the freshly-cleaned and deserted saloon and up the stairway. The bathtub, pails, towels and cake of soap were gone from his room. So was Anne Kruger. The bed was neatly made with fresh covers. The Murcott, his saddlebags and the three pieces of the shovel were on the bureau. The window was open and he took the chair over to it and sat down. Ten minutes later called: ‘Come in,’ when.knuckles rapped on the door.
‘I didn’t want to, but I always do it. It would’ve looked odd if I didn’t bring up the food.’
‘It doesn’t bother me, Mrs Dalton.’
She brought the tray to him and he took it from her without getting up from the chair. She looked drained and tense from the emotional strain of coming up to his room.
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’ He started to eat the breakfast of ham, eggs and beans.
‘Not allowing me to sully myself as Arnie’s wife. He’s a fine man. A good man.’
‘Deserves better than you, lady.’
‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ She had obviously struggled to control her impulse to anger at his terse insult.
‘You cook well, Mrs Dalton.’
‘Dear God, don’t you have an ounce of human feeling in you, man? Can’t you at least say you understand I wasn’t my normal self when I shamed myself in the night?’
Barnaby Gold clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Lady, there’s a good chance that pretty soon a bunch of men are going to ride into this town from the south. With a lynch rope they aim to put around my neck. That being so, I don’t have the inclination to give a shit that you’re not getting your share of—’
‘I hope they come!’ she hissed through teeth clenched in a sneer. ‘And I hope they put that noose around your rotten neck! So I can have the pleasure of watching you die, you cold-hearted bastard!’
‘Sure, Mrs Dalton. I can understand that. A woman like you has to get her pleasure wherever she can.’
She vented a strangled cry, whirled and ran out of the room. Slammed the door in the same forceful manner as had Anne Kruger on previous occasions.
Barnaby Gold finished his breakfast in peace. Then took his saddlebags and the shovel downstairs and out of the saloon. Stowed them in their accustomed places and returned to his room. He saw neither the Daltons nor the whore.
He smoked a cheroot halfway down before he heard the thud of many hooves hitting the southern end of the street.
And clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WILL and Jesse Gershel were riding at the head of the group of men. In back of them was Festus Wolfe and the other homesteaders who had converged on Bent River Crossing to gun down Clinton Davis in mistake for Barnaby Gold.
Fourteen riders in all, dressed in work clothes but armed with revolvers, rifles and shotguns. They galloped under the town marker sign and began to slow their mounts as they rode between the houses at the foot of the sloping street. Then reined them to a halt in the commercial, mid-town area of BacalL Where merchants and clerks emerged from doorways to gaze through the settling dust of the halt at the grim-faced, unshaven and weary-looking men in the saddle.
‘Okay, you people!’ Jesse Gershel yelled, taking off his CSA forage cap, running a shirt sleeve across his sweat-beaded brow and replacing the cap. ‘We don’t want none of you pokin’ your noses into our business!’
He glared at the apprehensive townsmen.
‘Shut your mouth, boy!’ his father growled. And made the same survey to either side of the street: but with no belligerence in his grim-set face. Said: ‘You folks need our business, ain’t that right?’
There was a long silence as each citizen of Bacall waited for another to speak. Until the gunsmith blurted:
‘Ain’t no one can deny that.’
‘We hear a stranger named Barnaby Gold is here in town?’
‘Best you don’t mess with him. Folks like you: and him bein’ what he is.’
‘Advice ain’t what we come for!’ Will Gershel countered, and the gunsmith backed into his premises. ‘You folks know what he done?’
‘He killed a couple of gunslingers down to the—’
‘I mean to us!’ Gershel cut in on the white-bearded, elderl
y owner of the clothing store. ‘He raped the Engel child. And shot her Ma and Pa. Then he gunned down JL Larkin.’
Gasps and cries of shock rippled along either side of the broad, sun-bright street. Will Gershel waited for the noise to subside. Then: ‘Where is he?’
‘Floyd Polk rode out into the valley after talkin’ with the kid,’ the clothing storekeeper said.
‘Polk can ride to hell and back, for all we care! Yellin’ at the top of his voice about due process of law and the rest of it! Won’t alter nothin’! Where’s Gold?’
Now there was angry aggression on Gershel’s fleshy, time-lined and element-darkened face as he swept his narrow-eyed gaze along each side of the street.
‘Damnit, you can’t ride into this town and...’
Again the white-bearded man was cut off in mid-sentence. By Jesse this time.
‘Don’t tell us what we can’t do, old timer!’
Another tense silence.
‘We’ll search through every damn buildin’ here if we have to!’ Will Gershel snarled.
‘Let’s get to it, Will!’ Festus Wolfe yelled.
‘There’s only two places in town rent rooms!’ the gunsmith called from within his store, to silence the vocal agreement given to Wolfe. ‘And he ain’t stayin’ at the boardin’ house!’
The elder Gershel set the pace for the group. Heeled his horse into an easy walk up the sloping curve. The other homesteaders closed into a tighter group to the sides and behind him. Drew revolvers from holsters and rifles from boots: unhooked shotguns from saddle horns.
Doors were slammed, some of the townsmen shutting themselves in their premises - others waiting until the gun-toting riders had gone by before running in the opposite direction to be with their womenfolk and children.
At the arched entrance of the church, the gaunt-faced preacher implored: ‘Let there be no more violence here.’
And was ignored.
‘Hey, Pa! That’s his horse hitched outside the saloon!’
Jesse’s voice rang out above the sound of running feet, as the men working on the new schoolhouse dashed for shelter into the laundry, despite the chattering protests of the Chinese.
Destined to Die Page 11
