Sudden Dead or Alive

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘Who says so?’ he snarled.

  Severn just looked at him.

  ‘Yu?’ The big man gave an amused snort. ‘Yu got to be out o’ yore mind, mister. Just who the Hell do you think yu are?’

  ‘I’m the feller what posted them notices,’ Severn informed him. ‘An’ I’m aimin’ to make what they say stick! So yu got a straight choice: unhook yore guns an’ put ‘em on the bar now. Or spend the night in the juzgado?’ The big man shook his head, as though some persistent insect were annoying him.

  ‘No man is goin’ to take Mike Turnbull’s guns off him,’ he rumbled, threateningly. ‘An’ that goes for my boys, too!’ He spread his legs slightly, and his hands eased nearer to his guns.

  ‘Before yu go off half-cocked,’ the Marshal told him, ‘watch!’

  The five men watched him. But none of them saw him move. Yet the next moment in some miraculous fashion which none of them could comprehend, the two guns which had nestled in the tied-down holsters at the lawman’s side were in his hands, the black bores glaring menacingly at them. The squint-eyed one let his breath out in a slow, building sigh.

  ‘Christ!’ he said, feelingly, and without hesitation unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall with a thunk! to the floor. His companions hastily followed suit. Only the big man hesitated for a moment; but when Severn raised his eyebrows inquiringly, he sighed too, and his shoulders slumped as the tension went out of his body.

  ‘Marshal,’ he said, ‘Yu made yore point. ‘I d’ve been about three weeks late if I’d pulled on yu, an’ I’m thankin’ yu for not lettin’ me be fool enough to try it.’ He unbuckled his guns and slung them on to the bar. ‘Will yu take a drink with us?’

  ‘Be glad to,’ Severn replied, a smile replacing the glacial set of his visage, ‘as soon as Diego there gets off of his knees an’ hangs yore guns someplace where yu won’t be tempted to unlimber ‘em again.’

  ‘Mister, don’t yu fret none,’ the squint-eyed one said, with much feeling in his voice. ‘After what I just seen, I’m plannin’ on buyin’ me a pair o’ eyeglasses. I never even seen yore hands move. Who in Hell are yu, anyway?’

  ‘Name’s Severn,’ the Marshal told him. ‘Don Severn.’

  ‘That true, what yu said about this not bein’ Cullane’s town no more?’ Turnbull asked, as Diego bustled about pouring their drinks.

  ‘Well, about half-true,’ Severn admitted with a rueful grin. ‘I know it. Yu know it. Thing is, I ain’t shore if old Man Cullane knows it just yet.’

  In terse sentences he told them about the events of the preceding day, and his agreement to become the town’s Marshal.

  ‘San Jaime aims to stand on its own feet,’ he concluded.

  ‘An’ that means anyone comin’ in checks his guns till we find out if he’s a Cullane man or not.’

  ‘Well, we shore as Hell ain’t,’ Turnbull said. ‘Me an’ my boys is what yu might call an independent operation. The lazy-lookin’ one there is Tommy Long. Don’t look such a Hell of a character, but Tommy’s bust more bank safes than any hombre yu ever ran into, Severn. What he don’t know about dynamite yu could stick in yore eye.’

  Long grinned sheepishly. ‘Howdy,’ he mumbled.

  ‘The beat-up gent who did the shootin’ is Bronco Ogston,’ Turnbull continued. ‘Like yu might gather from his moniker, he’s a mestizo man. Ain’t a bronc born that he couldn’t stay on.’

  Severn smiled. ‘Never was a horse that couldn’t be rode …’

  ‘…Never was a cowboy couldn’t be throwed,’ Turnbull grinned. ‘I knowed yu’d say that. Well, Bronc thar’s the nearest I ever come to findin’ a cowboy who could disprove that little jingle. Anyways, the squint-eyed one is Dickie Drew — say howdy, Dick — an’ the last one of all — but not the least by no means — is jest about the best tracker in Christendom. Les, say howdy to Marshal Severn. Severn, Les Lawrence.’

  ‘Which leaves yu,’ Severn prompted. ‘What brings yu to these parts?’

  ‘A leetle trouble north o’ the Bravo, Marshal,’ said Turnbull unabashedly. ‘We wuz plannin’ a plump little bank job in San Antone, but — wal, in the event, we made the border jest two an’ a half jumps ahead o’ the Rangers, an’ figgered we’d lie low a spell afore pokin’ our noses back over the border.’

  Despite himself, Severn found a smile forming on his face. Thieves and robbers they might be, but there was something engaging about Turnbull and his men. Severn’s instincts told him that they were no more than footloose punchers who had tried to find a more lucrative occupation than punching cattle. He remembered Sam Bass, the hapless Indiana boy who had turned to a life of crime and ended up with a lonely death on a road outside Round Rock, up in Arkansas, no richer by a penny for his robberies, dead at twenty seven with a Ranger’s bullet in his belly.

  ‘It ain’t no life for a lady,’ Severn observed. ‘Yu boys makin’ it pay?’

  Turnbull looked bashful and shuffled his feet a little. ‘Tell yu the truth, Severn,’ he said, ‘we ain’t makin’ no damned dinero a-tall. We’re jest about down to the bone. In fact, we was figgerin’ on tryin’ to get hitched up with the Cullane boys. We heard if yu rode with them, at least yu eat regular an’ mebbe make a dollar or two to boot.’

  Severn shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ he observed.

  ‘Well, Hell, Severn,’ expostulated Lawrence, ‘yu ain’t about to bust the Cullanes all on yore lonesome, are yu?’

  ‘Not right off,’ admitted Severn. ‘First things first. They figgered they owned this town. Now they been told to stay out.’

  ‘Yu told that to the Cullanes?’ Turnbull’s voice was full of horror. ‘Hell, mister, yo’re a nacheral born fool for trouble. They’ll ride in here an’ wipe yu out. Ain’t yu heard what them boys did up at Fronteras?’

  Severn nodded grimly. I heard,’ he said. ‘It’s about time they was put a stop to.’

  ‘Well good luck to yu, mister,’ Ogston said, shuddering theatrically. ‘Yo’re gonna need it. Me, I’m headin’ for tall timber. I wouldn’t want to be in this town when the fur starts flyin’.’

  ‘Which ought to be pretty damned soon, by what they say happened here last night,’ added Turnbull. ‘Yu got plenty o’ men to back yu, Severn?’

  The Marshal shook his head. ‘Nope,’ he admitted. ‘I got one or two might stand behind me. ‘The alcalde. The priest. The livery stable man. Diego here. That’s about it.’

  ‘And the Señor Poynton,’ interjected Diego from behind the bar, where he had been listening avidly to the exchange.

  Severn nodded. ‘Shore, I forgot the old man,’ he added.

  ‘Dad Poynton?’ Turnbull’s voice was incredulous. ‘Yu mean yu expect that ol’ drunk to stand an’ fight the Cullanes?’

  ‘Great jumpin’ grasshoppers, Severn!’ exploded Ogston. The ol’ fool ain’t drawn a sober breath in ten years!’

  ‘He’s drawin’ one today,’ Severn observed mildly. ‘I hired him as jailer this mawnin’.’

  ‘He’ll be drunk afore sundown,’ warned Turnbull. ‘Yu’ll find him snorin’ his head off in some alley someplace. Severn, yu got yoreself a fine crew, all right. Shearer’s a good man, but he ain’t fired a gun in anger in years. Diego, here — no offence, compadre — he ain’t no Dallas Stoudenmire, neither. As for the priest ...!’ He threw his hands up as though to disclaim all responsibility for Severn’s madness. ‘Man, yu ain’t got a hope in Hell!’

  ‘So everyone keeps on sayin’,’ Severn remarked. ‘All the same, I’m stayin’ put! The way I see it, either the Cullanes come to get me, or I’ll have to think o’ some other way o’ trickin’ ’em out o’ that stronghold o’ theirs. The way I figger, they’ll want to teach San Jaime a lesson. I’m aimin’ to surprise ’em some when they decide to do it,’

  Turnbull sighed, as though dealing with a fractious child. ‘Well, from what yu tell me, I’d say yu’ve surprised ’em some already, Marshal. Why don’t yu cut an’ run while yo’re ahead?’

  ‘Yu boys
aimin’ to ride out straight away?’ asked Severn, changing the subject abruptly. He watched their faces keenly as he spoke.

  ‘Had planned on a bath, a shave, an’ a few drinks, mebbe sleepin’ in a bed tonight,’ Turnbull admitted ruefully. ‘What yu say, boys?’

  ‘I say let’s get long gone the Hell out o’ here,’ Ogston said. ‘I don’t relish the idea o’ gettin’ my tail set on fire by no damned crazy ol’ man from the mountains.’

  ‘Hell, Mike,’ Lawrence said. ‘We could rest over one night, couldn’t we? My backside feels like my hoss has been ridin’ me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ interposed Long in his lazy drawl. ‘We got time to rest up a mite, ain’t we?’

  ‘Yu could end up restin’ in peace,’ grumbled Ogston, ‘if them Cullane boys decided to come in an’ show the Marshal here just how tough they really are.’

  ‘Two to one so far,’ Turnbull remarked. ‘Dickie, what’s yore feelin’?’

  ‘Mike, right now I’m tireder o’ ridin’ than frightened o’ the Cullanes,’ the little squint-eyed puncher said. ‘Let’s rest up. The hosses are just about worn out, anyways.’

  ‘What I was thinkin’,’ agreed Turnbull. ‘Okay with yu, Severn?’

  ‘As long as yu ain’t plannin’ on goin’ on with that idea yu mentioned o’ joinin’ up with the Cullanes,’ Severn told him, ‘yo’re welcome.’

  ‘Mister, the more I think on it, the more distance I want between me an’ them. Thank yu kindly, but no thankee. We’ll head out in the mornin’.’

  ‘Fine,’ Severn nodded. ‘Pick yore guns up at the jail afore yu ride.’

  With a nod, he turned and went out of the saloon, leaving the five men to their drinking. When the Marshal was gone, Turn-bull shook his head.

  ‘He may be the fastest thing with a gun I’ll ever clap eyes on,’ he said regretfully. ‘But he’s out o’ his tiny mind if he aims to take on the Cullanes by hisself.’

  ‘Yu can say that again,’ enjoined Ogston. ‘Them boys play dirty.’

  It was Long who demurred from this consensus.

  ‘I wouldn’t write that jasper off too easy, I was yu,’ he observed in his lazy drawl. ‘He looks like an hombre knows how to reckon the odds.’

  ‘Tom, yo’re usually a pretty good judge o’ character,’ Bronco told him. ‘Yu might even be right — he might give them sons a run for their dinero. But one man on his own ain’t no bloody good no how, an’ yu got to admit the Cullanes could eat him — an’ this town — afore breakfast.’

  It was at this point that the old cantina owner broke into their conversation.

  ‘Oh no, senores,’ he protested. ‘Thees town fight. With Meester Severn. He no alone. All people will fight the bad hombres.

  ‘Diego, yo’re talkin’ loco!’ burst out Ogston. ‘How in the name o’ perdition could yu fight the Cullanes?’

  Diego told them. He told them about how Severn had asked the priest to ring the church bell early in the morning, summoning all the people of the little town into the plaza, gathering gossiping in the bright morning sunshine on the steps in front of the church. He told them how Severn had explained that now he had confronted the Cullanes, almost dared them to take up the gauntlet he had flung down, that there was no doubt they would come back to punish the town. There were two things that could be done. He, Severn, could ride away and perhaps the Cullanes would turn their pursuit after him and ignore San Jaime. Or, if he stayed, the town could fight. He would show them how to defend the town, make an almost impregnable fortress of it. Picked men would defend the fortress, using every gun in the placita. Others would load the weapons. Still others would be employed in other ways. Severn had told them what could be done. He had told them how they could do it. And in the end he had convinced the people of San Jaime that they would do it. He had given them back something which most of the men of San Jaime had forgotten they possessed. ‘He has geeven us back our pride, señores.’ ended the old man, quietly. ‘Maybe ees better to die standing up than to live on the knees, no?’

  Turnbull did not answer; that is to say, he did not speak. A slow, low, long whistle escaped his lips, however - a sound of quiet astonishment.

  ‘This Severn hombre is quite something, amigo,’ he said to Diego. What’s his stake in all this?’

  ‘No entiendo, señor,’ replied the bartender. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Yu know any thin’ about him, Diego?’ asked Ogston. ‘Where he come from, anything like that?’

  Diego smiled and shrugged. ‘Eet is usual not to ask, señor.’

  ‘An’ safer, too,’ interjected Dickie Drew. ‘Remember it.’

  ‘Hell, I jest wondered,’ remonstrated Ogston. ‘Yu seen the way he pulled them guns — I mean, that ain’t no ordinary town-tamer, boy! Anyone who can handle guns like that — anyone who goes out o’ his way to take on Old Man Cullane an’ his brood — he ain’t ordinary, no siree! He’s something pretty special, if yu ask me!’

  ‘Yu want my nickel’s worth, I reckon he might be just that,’ drawled Tom Long.

  ‘If he aims to take on the Cullanes — he’d better be!’ was Turnbull’s heartfelt rejoinder.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘The way I hear it, he’s got the town on his side.’ The speaker was a giant of a man. Six feet seven inches tall in the high-heeled cowboy boots, he towered over every other man in the room, and this in a country where tall men were the rule rather than the exception. Arms like the arms of a gorilla dangled loosely at his sides, huge hands covered with matted hair brushed the ash from a smoldering cigar off the mighty thighs. In many ways, the resemblance to some huge gorilla continued: deep set, piggish eyes lurked beneath jutting brows, bushy eyebrows almost meeting the thicket of hair which fell across the shallow forehead. Every inch of the man spoke of huge, brute force, animal cunning, and an apelike simplicity of reasoning. This was Marco Cullane, oldest of Old Man Cullane’s sons, and the one whom he loved more than any other living thing.

  Marco was speaking to his father now. The old man sprawled in a battered armchair near a wide stone fireplace in the big living-room of the huge cabin set hard against the canyon wall, lost in the vastness of the Sierra, the epicenter of the impregnable fortress which the Cullanes called their stronghold.

  Who had first built the stone cabin in the canyon no man knew. The Cullanes had added rooms to it over their years there. The building was now a great sprawling stone edifice, built directly against the towering cliff behind, unassailable from above, impregnable from in front. Its walls were two and a half feet thick; its roof nearly four feet of solid earth upon which bushes and grass grew in profusion, camouflaging the house from above, softening its outlines to blend with the natural features of the canyon. The ground before it and to both sides was razed and cleared, the earth stamped to flat hard rocky dirt by generations of horsemen, containing not enough cover for a gopher.

  The big living-room was cluttered and dirty. Saddles, rifle scabbards, old pieces of bridles, discarded clothes, boxes of ammunition, cans of food were stacked and piled in corners, on shelves, tables, everywhere. The floor was gritty with unswept dirt which had lain there since Marco’s mother had died in the cabin many years before. If the old man was ever conscious of the clutter and grime, he made no mention of it; and since he did not, no other man dared.

  Old Man Cullane sat now staring out of the fly-speckled window with its heavy shutters, down the canyon, past the tumbled boulders between the towering cliffs on both sides, as though his piercing gaze could reach as far as San Jaime unaided. He knew as well as any man in the Stronghold what his unseeing gaze now surveyed: the U-shaped canyon with this house at its head, the strange malformation of rock at the open end of the U which was just wide enough to admit two horsemen side by side, forcing them to turn first sharply right and then as sharply left, totally visible from the heights above, without a rock or a boulder to hide them. The strange rock formation could be held by two men against an army, and rendered the Stronghold impregnable, even h
ad anyone been either rash enough to attack it or clever enough to discover its whereabouts.

  Cullane saw, without seeing, the bunkhouses opposite the big house, wood frame buildings to house the men who were the floating, ever-changing body of the gang: bushwhackers, rustlers, robbers, murderers, convicts, outlaws, the cream of the scum of the border, the men who joined up with the Cullanes for the rich pickings and who in joining dedicated their skills, their guns, and their lives to the old man in the armchair.

  He was about sixty-seven now. Tall, rangy, moving with surprising speed and grace, he could still outride and outshoot many of the riffraff who followed his flag. His hair was iron grey, abundant and flowing; the deep-set eyes were shaded by eyebrows which grew in every direction, bushy and undisciplined. There were deep lines around the sides of the mouth -lines of decision, lines put there by years of power, years of cunning, of using men and discarding them, years of knowing no law but his own law, and no God but himself. The deep-set eyes were a washed-out blue, flat now, without expression. But many men had quailed before the madness which could light them; and they had watched as many more die.

  Of all of his domain, the old man was entirely unconscious. He did not see the clutter; ignored the filth. When he wanted comfort - or a woman - he went to El Paso or New Orleans and bought whatever he needed. No living man knew what went on in his mind.

  ‘Got the town on his side, has he?’

  The old man’s rasping voice commanded instant attention.

  ‘That’s what I hear.’

  ‘Well, we got enough spies in San Jaime,’ snapped the old man. ‘What’ve ye found out about the man Severn?’

  ‘Nothin’, Pa,’ mumbled Marco, ‘Nobody knows nothin’ about him.’

  ‘Fools!’ rasped Cullane. ‘He roughs up yore brother, kicks him an’ Flatman out o’ town, an’ invites us to do somethin’ about it — an’ nobody knows nothin’ about him. Fools! Fools! There aren’t ten men like that in the West. Yu, boy! Tell me again what he looks like!’ Every eye in the room turned towards young Yancey Cullane, slouched in a chair near the door, his hat tilted back on the flaming red hair, and the purple-blue marks of his encounter with Severn vivid and vicious on his head.