The Smoking Iron

by Brett Halliday

  The Marfa sheriff swallowed hard and shifted his gaze to Pat Stevens.

  “Thought we’d better drop in to keep you from makin’ a bad mistake,” Pat told him easily. “Seems like yore brother-in-law got the wrong idee about us tonight.”

  The sheriff said, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Happens we ain’t dodgin’ no posse. We’re headin’ into the Big Bend on a stock-buying trip.”

  “Killin’ hawses to get there?” sneered the sheriff.

  “We ain’t killed any yet.” Pat paused to roll a cigarette. “You know the Katie spread near Hermosa?”

  The sheriff’s eyes flickered from Pat to Ezra’s impassive face, then back again. “Sure,” he said gruffly. “Everybody in Texas knows the Katie outfit. That Rollins gal has been givin’ me fits ever since her old man died last year.”

  Pat lit his cigarette and flipped the match away. It lit, still burning, on top of the pile of old circulars on the desk.

  The sheriff brushed it off hastily and glowered at Pat.

  Pat shifted his position so his gun-belts were comfortable and asked, “What kinda fits?”

  “Wantin’ perfection from rustlers. Like as if I didn’t have nothin’ to do but send deputies out to guard the K T. Never had no trouble like that when her daddy was alive.”

  “You the law all down through the Big Bend?”

  “What there is of it. This here’s the only county that’s organized.”

  “So the K T is havin’ trouble with rustlers,” mused Pat.

  “Other folks don’t squawk when they lose a few head of stock,” the sheriff said aggrievedly.

  “What time does the stagecoach leave for Hermosa?”

  “This ain’t no information bureau,” the sheriff growled. “I don’t know who you think you are, Mister, but I still got my suspicions about you and yore tough-looking pardner.”

  Pat said, “I don’t give a damn what you suspect. When does the stage leave?”

  The sheriff hesitated. He caught his lower lip petulantly between his teeth and worried it. “Midnight. If the El Paso stage is on time.”

  “Midnight? That’s a hell of a time for a stage to take out.”

  “It’s when it makes connections with the El Paso stage,” the sheriff told him stiffly.

  Pat nodded and got up. “It’s been a right nice talk, Sheriff. Don’t burn yore fingers helpin’ out yore brother-in-law’s graft at the livery stable. An’ I don’t want no trouble to come to Dusty Morgan on account of he spoiled a deal for Baines,” he went on harshly. “Me an’ Ezra, we’ll take it personal if anything happens to Dusty.” He turned and strode out of the sheriff’s office with Ezra behind him.

  This time he offered no opposition when the one-eyed man again wistfully mentioned a steak. They went directly to the restaurant across from the Topaz Saloon. There was a long wooden counter crowded with hungry men, with a row of oilcloth-covered tables along the other wall. One of the rear tables was vacant, and Pat and Ezra took chairs at it.

  A waiter approached and listlessly rubbed at some grease-stains on the oilcloth with a dirty rag, asking, “What’ll it be, gents?”

  “Two steaks,” Pat ordered. “The biggest in the house an’ not too cooked.”

  “With plenty of fried pertaters,” Ezra added hastily.

  The waiter called over his shoulder toward the kitchen, “Slice two rumps and let the blood run, an’ grease the spuds on two.”

  Pat settled back and folded his arms across his chest with a little sigh of anticipation. Ezra blinked his one eye after the waiter and then asked, “Why’d you ask the sheriff all them questions about the K T? You figgerin’ on buyin’ some heifers from the gal?”

  “Maybe she’ll sell ’em cheap,” Pat suggested. “Before the rustlers get ’em all.”

  “That’s right. An’ the rustlers might sell ’em cheap,” Ezra observed shrewdly. “Did you know about that setup when you come down here?”

  “Sort of. But the rustled stuff mostly goes over the river, I reckon. Not much chance of makin’ a deal there.”

  “I dunno,” argued Ezra. “Stock ain’t worth much in Mexico. I reckon they’d smuggle ’em back purty cheap.”

  Pat shook his head disapprovingly. “It’d be downright crooked to buy stuff a man knew was smuggled.”

  “I don’t like that sheriff,” Ezra announced suddenly. “Way he kep’ lookin’ at me you could tell he was willin’ to bet there was a reward out for me. Why didn’t you spring yore Colorado sheriff’s star on him, Pat?”

  Pat looked surprised. “I’d just as lief keep that a secret. Even a Colorado sheriff mightn’t be too popular down in the Big Bend.”

  “Why’d you ask him about the stage?” Ezra pursued. “We ain’t gonna ride it, are we?”

  “I just wondered,” Pat hesitated while the waiter came and dropped some knives and forks in front of them and slopped down two glasses of water. “Bartender over to the Topaz told me that the dance-hall gal named Rosa is the sheriff’s sweetie.”

  Ezra frowned at him in bewilderment. “That so? What of it?”

  “Rosa,” Pat reminded him, “is the name of the gal that Dusty Morgan was lookin’ for.”

  “Shore. But what of it?”

  “The sherriff,” Pat said patiently, “don’t take good to the idee of his sweetie honeying up to another man. I figger Dusty’s stickin’ his neck into trouble … an’ I wanted to judge how bad the trouble might be.”

  “You mean that’s why you went an’ talked to the sheriff … to find out what Dusty’ll be up against a-courtin’ Rosa?”

  “Mostly. Dusty did us a good turn at the stable,” Pat went on slowly. “I’d hate to see him in trouble without tryin’ to help. He seems like a nice young feller.”

  “Yeh. In a crazy sort of way,” Ezra agreed. “Feelin’ his oats, that’s what he is. Jest honin’ fer a chance to use that hawg-laig he’s got strapped on him.” Ezra paused to chuckle heavily. “Reminds me of you before you learned some sense. The way Sam an’ me usta pull you outta scrapes you’d got into because you was so danged hard-headed.”

  The waiter came with their steaks and fried potatoes and interrupted Ezra’s reminiscences. The steaks were hefty hunks of meat hot on the outside and raw in the middle. The potatoes were thick and soggy. Both men attacked the food voraciously.

  Ezra topped his meal off with three slabs of apple pie and two cups of coffee, while Pat was satisfied with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

  The big man sighed gustily and patted his stomach when he was done. “Now that was real man’s food,” he beamed. “Sticks to the linin’ of a feller’s belly. Different from what Kitty dishes out. Not that she don’t try hard,” he went on hastily, “but she jest don’t know what sorta vittles a man craves. Plenty good fer a little shrimp like Sam, but I stay hongry all the time no matter how much I eat.”

  Pat nodded sympathetically. “Now that you got yore belly well lined, what say we mosey down to the hotel an’ see can we line up a bed to sleep in?”

  Ezra paused outside the restaurant and stared across at the Topaz Saloon. “A couple more of them bar glasses of whisky would mix mighty good with that pie.”

  Pat started to dissent but changed his mind as he saw a bulky figure going through the swinging doors of the saloon. It looked like the sheriff. He said, “Let’s go,” and surprised Ezra by his hurry in getting across the street.

  The Topaz was crowded by this time. A solid line of men stood at the bar and the tables in the back were all occupied. There was a Mexican string quartet at the rear, and a girl stood in front of them on a low table singing a Mexican song. She wore a crimson gown that left her shoulders and most of her bosom bare but had a full skirt that swirled about her lithe calves and thighs. She wore a red rose hi her black hair, and her lips were redder than the rose. With her hands planted on her hips, she swayed and stamped with the rhythm of the music, and there was a barbaric exotic appeal hi the husky voice that spoke pleadingly of love to th
e roomful of men.

  Pat spied the sheriff standing at the end of the bar, and he shouldered up and made room for himself beside the county official.

  The sheriff held a glass of whisky in his right hand and his gaze was fixed on the figure of the singer. His hand shook a little, and some of the whisky slopped over the edge of the glass and dripped from his fingers. He didn’t notice. His eyes had a glazed look and there was a fatuous expression of satisfaction on his broad face as though he believed the words of the song to be directed solely to him.

  There was a burst of applause from the room as Rosa finished singing. The sheriff set down his drink and started forward. Pat caught his arm and said casually, “Ain’tcha forgettin’ yore drink, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff frowned as he recognized Pat.

  “Not,” Pat admitted judicially, “but what a gal like that is enough to make any man forget his drink. But yo’re sorta old to be makin’ them kind of eyes at her, ain’tcha?”

  The sheriff wet his lips. “Think I’m too old, eh?”

  “She wouldn’t look at you twicet.”

  “Want to bet anything on that?” The sheriff’s florid face was a deep crimson.

  Pat Stevens shrugged his shoulders. “A gal like that needs a young man,” he observed unemotionally. “A feller like you or me is just ridin’ for a fall if he thinks different.”

  Rosa had stepped down from the table, and the quartet had swung into the lively strains of a dance tune. Over the sheriff’s head, Pat saw the girl go like a homing pigeon into the arms of Dusty Morgan and the two twirled onto the dance floor.

  “Speak for yourself,” the sheriff snorted angrily. “Rosa won’t look twice at any of the young bucks. And,” he added belligerently, “they all know I’ll kill any man that comes between her an’ me.”

  Pat said, “That’s a plumb piece of foolishment. Drink up an’ I’ll buy one.”

  The sheriff picked up his drink and boasted, “Stick around and I’ll show you what I mean.” He lifted his glass and turned his gaze past the end of the bar again.

  Pat saw his bulky body stiffen. The edge of the glass rattled against his teeth and the liquor dribbled down is chin. He dropped his glass and started forward, brushing his coat back to get a grip on his holstered gun. Men saw him coming and got out of his way.

  Pat Stevens followed closely behind him.

  Dusty Morgan and Rosa went on dancing, oblivious of the sheriff’s approach. One of the girl’s bare arms was about Dusty’s neck and she was bent back with her face turned up toward his. Her eyes were closed and her red lips were parted. She danced with her pliant body molded against his, and Dusty’s arm was tight about her slim waist.

  The music stopped and Rosa was held for a moment in his embrace. Then her arm tightened about his neck and she pulled his head down to hers, seeking his mouth with her lips.

  An audible murmur swept over the crowded room. The sheriff stopped on widespread legs not more than ten feet from the couple. He drew his gun, and his angry voice rumbled out like the bellow of an infuriated bull, “Come outta that kiss a-shootin’.”

  Rosa relaxed away from Dusty with a little cry of fright. The youth turned slowly and the sheriff’s gun swept up in an arc to fire.

  Pat drove his shoulder into the sheriff’s right side. He grabbed his gun hand and they stumbled aside together. As he wrenched the weapon away from the infuriated lawman, Ezra stepped up nimbly and flung both arms about the sheriff’s bulky figure, pinioning his arms to is side.

  Pat calmly broke the six-shooter and emptied it. He told Ezra, “Turn him loose now,” and offered the sheriff his empty weapon, butt first.

  The sheriff was wheezing with rage and a red vein stood out along his forehead. Between clenched teeth, he promised, “You’ll regret this.” And to Dusty, he promised in the same labored voice, “I’ll kill you if you’re still in town by midnight.”

  Rosa sprang forward with a high-pitched squeal and threw her arms about the sheriff’s neck. She cuddled his head against her bare bosom and began crooning in his ear.

  Pat turned away in disgust and told Ezra, “Let’s get a drink.”

  They went to the bar and were joined by a general movement of men in that direction. The sheriff and Rosa disappeared between a pair of curtains into an inner room.

  Dusty Morgan came up to them at the bar while they were drinking. His eyes were cold and slaty, and his lean young face was bitter and hard.

  “Hereafter,” he told Pat grimly, “I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business.”

  Pat said, “Sure,” but Ezra muttered angrily, “You danged young whelp. He saved you from bein’ murdered.”

  Dusty’s eyes blazed savagely. He took a backward step and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelts. “Empty yore holster, One-eye. No man can talk to me that-away.”

  Ezra snorted contemptuously and turned his back on young fire-eater.

  Pat said mildly, “A man’d think you were just honin’ to eat lead.”

  A man standing beside him interjected, “An’ he’s plenty liable to eat a big hunk of it if he’s still in Marfa by midnight. Sheriff Davis shore means to kill you, fellah.”

  “If I don’t kill him first.” Dusty Morgan’s voice was like a whiplash. He turned to look around the saloon for the sheriff.

  At the rear of the bar, a voice snickered. “Rosa took him off with some sweet talk but don’t worry none about him bein’ back. He’ll back up his talk with lead.”

  The muscles in Dusty’s jaw tightened. His eyes were sultry as he turned back to the bar and ordered a drink.

  Pat took Ezra’s arm and drew him toward the front door, saying quietly, “Time we was gettin’ a little shut-eye.”

  5

  The proprietor of the Lone Star Hotel was a portly man with a bald head and glossy black mustaches. He was dozing in the otherwise empty lobby when the two men from Powder Valley walked in. He sat up and yawned and blinked at them, mechanically brushing spilled cigar ashes from the front of his broadcloth vest.

  “Come right on in, gents.” The heartiness of his greeting was marred by another yawn. He got up an waddled to the desk, shoved a register around toward them. “Sign right there if you want a room.”

  “Have we got to sign out right names?” Pat asked, taking a stubby pen and dipping it in the inkwell.

  The proprietor stroked his mustaches, looking them over carefully. Then he sighed and admitted, “Not many do, I’m afraid. But it isn’t any of my business.”

  “That bein’ the case,” said Pat gravely, “I’ll just sign her … u-m-m … how does Pat Stevens sound?” he asked Ezra with a weighty frown.

  “Sounds right familiar. I don’t see …”

  “Yeh. It’s a good soundin’ name,” Pat interrupted quickly. “I’ll just put down from Dutch Springs, Colorado, to round it off, sorta.” He boldly signed his correct name and residence and asked the proprietor, “You got a double room somewheres around number seventeen?”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “Just for tonight. We’ll have to be ridin’ south in the mornin’.”

  The proprietor nodded his bald head sadly. “Most fellows are heading south when they stop by in Marfa.

  I’ll give you gents number nineteen … right across from seventeen upstairs. That’ll be ten dollars for the two of you. Cash.”

  Pat said, “It don’t seem like nobody don’t trust nobody in Marfa.” He put three silver dollars on the counter. “There’s my price for the room, Mister.”

  The fat man looked down at the three dollars. “I said ten.”

  “An three’s what yo’re gettin.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe you’d want word to get around that you’re just stoppin overnight on your way to the border. Sheriff might be interested.”

  “Are you,” Pat asked harshly, “another brother-in-law of the sheriff?”

  “Now that’s a funny question. We’re not related, but …”

 
Pat said, “We’ll go up to the room.” He turned away, leaving the three silver dollars lying on the desk. Ezra followed him to the back of the lobby and up a narrow stairway which made an abrupt turn at a landing halfway up.

  The upper hallway was lighted with one lantern hanging from the ceiling by a piece of baling wire. Number nineteen was halfway down the hall. The door was unlocked.

  Pat struck a match as he went in, found a lamp sitting on the washstand and lit it. There was a double bed and one chair in the room. A single window looked out on the main street of Marfa. Pat got the window open while Ezra cautiously let his weight down on the bed. The ancient springs creaked but held up under him. “Mattress is sorta lumpy,” he announced cheerfully, but she’ll sleep better’n the ground under a saddle blanket. Three dollars is plenty high for jest one night.” He sighed and leaned forward to pull off one boot.

  Pat said, “I figured that’d be a fair price. Better not pull off more’n yore boots, Ezra.”

  The red-headed man squinted his one eye up at Pat. “You know I don’t sleep good on a mattress with my clothes on.”

  “Sleep on the floor then.”

  Bewildered, Ezra tried to argue.

  “Aw, Pat. You know danged well …”

  “I know that neither one of us is goin’ to sleep much till midnight … or till Dusty Morgan comes into the room across the hall.”

  Ezra kicked off his other boot and stretched out with a sigh of contentment. “You lookin’ fer trouble tonight?”

  “I’m not lookin’ for it. But you heard what the sheriff told Dusty. An’ what Dusty said about it.”

  Ezra looked interested. “You figger Dusty’ll take a runout before midnight ridin’ his own hawses an ruining the swap we had all fixed with him?”

  Pat grunted, “I’m afraid he’ll get in worse trouble by buckin’ the sheriff.”

  “Why you worryin’ so much about Dusty?” Ezra demanded. “The way he jumped us fer helpin’ him tonight plumb digusted me. Let ’im chaw his own tough meat from now on.”

  Pat Stevens was rolling a cigarette. He shook his head slowly. “We’re hooked up with him whether we like it or not. He put in his oar for us at the livery stable.”