Sudden--Dead or Alive (A Sudden Western #4)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘It’s all right for yu,’ put in another. ‘Yu can get on yore nag an’ hightail it out o’ here. We got businesses, families — we got to stay an’ face them.’

  ‘Yu could face them like men,’ Severn suggested. ‘With guns in yore hands.’

  ‘Hell, Severn,’ said the one who had spoken first. ‘Yu think we ain’t dreamed o’ doin’ just that?’

  Severn turned to face the man. Heavily built, with a fine bushy beard, and the broad shoulders and ruddy complexion of a man who spent much of his time outdoors, the speaker was about forty-five years of age. He thrust out a ham like hand. ‘Shearer’s my name,’ he announced. ‘I’m the alcalde. Mayor, if yu like.’

  They shook hands, and Severn’s smile was relaxed for the first time. ‘I’d say we could start off by yu callin’ me Don,’ he remarked.

  ‘Fine, Don, fine,’ boomed Shearer. ‘An’ Paul goes for me. Señor Diego Cruces,’ he waved a hand towards the old bartender, ‘oldest inhabitant o’ the town. An’ this gent here is Paul Hardingham, who runs the general store.’

  ‘Pleased to know yu, Severn,’ Hardingham said. ‘But what I was sayin’ still goes: buckin’ the Cullanes is not a game for amateurs.’

  ‘Better you theenk of going pronto, señor,’ repeated the old man. Despite his words, his old eyes brightened when Severn shook his head.

  ‘I ain’t runnin’,’ the puncher announced.

  Silence greeted the flat remark; then Shearer gave a full throated whoop of delight which brought the crowd surging forward again, every man among them smiling thrusting out his hand to shake Severn’s.

  ‘Severn,’ boomed the huge alcalde, ‘them’s words I been waitin’ for somebody to say nigh on seven years.’ The smile on his face was as wide as Texas. Severn looked a question, and Shearer continued, I’ve been waitin’ for a man to come along an’ close this town to the Cullanes. I’d say yu was him. Will yu do it?’

  ‘Will I do what?’

  ‘Why, be the town’s marshal, boy! Put up signs all around the goddamned place sayin’ “Cullanes keep out” — an’ make it stick!’

  ‘Oh, no! Señor Shearer - Señor Severn - no, please!’ These plaintive words came from old Diego Cruces, who came around from behind his bar, wiping his hands on the white apron, a look of deep concern upon his face.

  ‘You cannot do thees, Paulo,’ he told Shearer. ‘One man alone cannot stand against the Cullanes. Es imposibile! No: No!’

  Shearer put his arm around the old man’s shoulders.

  ‘Hell, Diego, give Don thar a chance to speak for hisself. I’m guessin’ he’s the man who could do it, if the man lives. But I need him to say it, too,’

  He looked at Severn expectantly, but before the puncher could speak there was a commotion in the crowd and an old drunk, bleary with whiskey, grimy and tatterdemalion clothes flapping on his scarecrow frame lurched forward and peered owlishly at Severn.

  ‘I know yu,’ he hiccupped, lurching, recovering himself, then lurching again until a bystander lent a steadying hand. ‘I seen yu afore, mishter.’

  ‘Could be, ol’ timer,’ Severn allowed quietly. ‘Whyn’t yu go an’ sleep it off somewheres an’ come back when yu remember?’

  The old man shrugged off the patronizing hand of the bystander and for a moment anger flared in the rheumy eyes.

  ‘I ain’t sh — so drunk m’brain’s gone. Seen yu — someplace.’

  ‘C’mon, Ray,’ one of the bystanders intervened, nervous lest Severn take offence. Some of these gunfighters were mighty touchy about being recognized. If Severn was wanted somewhere, he wouldn’t take kindly to the town drunk blowing it all over the town. Sure, everyone in San Jaime knew that old Ray wouldn’t hurt a fly. But this cold-eyed hombre with the tied-down guns was something else. Ray, however, was having none of such friendly persuasion. ‘C’mon nothin’!’ he snapped. ‘El Paso, it was mebbe. They called yu - some name or other?’

  ‘That’s right, Dad,’ Severn said. ‘A long time ago, an’ I’d as lief yu didn’t remember.’

  As if Severn’s request had turned a switch inside his brain, old Ray’s eyes went dim, and he shook his head. ‘Funny,’ he mumbled. ‘Right there on m’tongue. Funny, that. Prob’ly need a drink.’ He pushed outward against the ring of bystanders. ‘Lemme by,’ he mumbled. ‘It’ll come to me another day. Lemme through.’

  The crowd parted and the old man stumbled away, as Severn gazed inquiringly at the big man.

  ‘Ol’ Ray Poynton,’ explained the alcalde. ‘Like yu seen, he drinks some.’

  Severn nodded. ‘Used to be a Poynton up Fort Worth way. Hell of a good man. One o’ the best ever walked as far as knife-fightin’ was concerned — they said he could’a’ given Jim Bowie a run for his money. Would that be—?’

  Shearer gave a huge laugh. ‘Dad? Hell, no, Don! Dad ain’t drawn a sober breath since he come to these parts. I’d say the nearest he ever got to knife fightin’ was battlin’ one o’ Moloney’s steaks down at the hash house.’

  This heavy jest drew a ripple of laughter from those who heard it; the idea of old man Poynton being a fighting man was as funny as a bowlegged mule.

  ‘Well — what’s it to be, Severn?’

  Shearer’s question brought all attention back again to the tall, loose-limbed figure by the bar. The watchers almost held their breath as Severn frowned in concentration.

  ‘I’d need some help,’ he said finally.

  Shearer’s eyebrows sloped upwards with delight, and that huge grin split his face again.

  ‘Yu mean - yu’ll do her?’ he gasped.

  ‘I’ll take a flyer at it,’ Severn agreed. ‘But I’ll need—’

  Whatever he had planned to say was lost in the huge roar of cheering which greeted his announcement. Men linked arms with complete strangers and danced up and down with delight; Diego Cruces, for all his pessimistic words, served up drinks as fast as they could be drunk. In the midst of the milling, raucous throng, only Severn stood silent and alone, his face impassive. He had seen too many frontier towns to forget that these same men would probably have as cheerfully drank with Yancey Cullane, and as enthusiastically slapped his back, had the red-haired scion of the devil put half a dozen slugs into Severn’s body. Severn shrugged. In their worlds no skill was admired like gun skill. For the moment, he had become a bastion against their fear of the vengeance of the Cullanes, and they were not afraid. For the moment; reality would return soon enough.

  ‘Better it is that thou shouldst not vow, than that thou shouldst vow and not pay.’

  Severn wheeled to face the speaker of the words which had interrupted his reflections. He saw a tiny, white-haired man, little under five and a half feet and as thin as a beanpole, standing before him. The eyes were a deep and brilliant blue, the face, although lined with age, possessing a deep and tranquil happiness, heightened by the blackness of the cassock which the man wore. ‘I am Father Malcolm,’ the priest said.

  Severn nodded. ‘Padre,’ he acknowledged. ‘Ecclesiastes in a cantina is some of a surprise.’

  ‘No more than a gunfighter who recognizes it, my son,’ said the old man, and a deep-down twinkle lit his searching eyes.

  ‘You intend to police this town?’

  ‘That’s what the man said, padre.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘Will I what?’

  ‘Will you keep the Cullanes out?’

  ‘Not without help, I’m afraid.’

  The old priest nodded. ‘I thought so,’ he sighed. ‘Then more of my people will be killed and hurt. Will it never end?’

  ‘Not until someone ends it, padre. Beggin’ yore pardon, seh — they ain’t goin’ to be talked out o’ San Jaime.’

  Father Malcolm smiled sadly. ‘Mr. Severn, anyone in this town will tell you that — in my own way — I have fought the good fight against the Cullanes for more years than most. I know their ways perhaps better than you, and that is why I beg of you not to take on this job. Leave San Jaime. Go away f
rom here while there is still time.’

  Severn shook his head doggedly.

  ‘Yu know I can’t do that, padre.’

  The old man sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. I fear only for my people, you understand?’ He shook his head. ‘I am afraid for all of us.’

  ‘Hell, padre,’ interposed Shearer. ‘We ain’t dead yet, yu know!’

  ‘I wish your faith in Mr. Severn were half as fully expressed in the house of God, Mr. Shearer,’ said the old man quietly. ‘And — I wonder — could you manage to start a sentence just once without using the word “Hell” to do it?’

  ‘Hell, padre,’ Shearer said, then ‘Dammit! I mean ... well, I’m sorry, padre, but this ain’t none o’ your business.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ Father Malcolm said, ‘and it is not. The Cullanes, however, are: and they will come back here looking for Mr. Severn. If he is here, they will kill him. And then, perhaps, to teach San Jaime a lesson, they will burn down a few houses, kill some innocent people. For that reason, Severn’s being here is my business. I am begging you to leave San Jaime, Severn.’

  ‘Now just a damned minnit, padre,’ said Shearer, truculently. ‘Don here is the first man who’s stood up to the Cullanes in as long a time as I can recall. Mebbe he’s the man who can give this town its self-respect back!’

  There was a murmur of agreement from the bystanders at these words, but the old priest would not back down.

  ‘They will kill him out of hand,’ he said flatly.

  Shearer looked Severn up and down, and there was a slight twinkle in his eyes as he spoke this time.

  ‘Hell — I mean, well — Hell, padre, I ain’t so shore o’ that. Yu take a look at him, will yu?’

  The subject of this exchange smiled diffidently as the old priest regarded him soberly for a long moment.

  ‘You have done this kind of work before,’ he said finally. It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘One or two times,’ Severn admitted.

  ‘Then it may be that I am wrong,’ the priest said. ‘God be with you, in that case.’

  ‘I’ll be glad of all the help I can get,’ Severn said, and his wry grin brought an answering smile to the face of the white-haired man. He did not speak again as the bluff alcalde detailed someone to show the new Marshal where his office was, and bade Severn to get a good night’s sleep.

  ‘We’ll talk about everythin’ tomorrow,’ Shearer said, clapping Severn on the shoulder. ‘Take my word for it — we’ll back yore play to the limit!’

  There was a chorus of assent from those nearby at Shearer’s words, and Severn turned to leave. As he did so, the tall, smooth-faced man he had encountered in the livery stable pushed forward to face him. His voice was harsh as he called Severn’s name.

  Severn turned slowly, noting that a stillness had fallen again upon the men in the cantina.

  ‘Yu want me?’

  ‘Name’s Yope,’ announced the big man. ‘I run the livery stable.’

  Severn nodded. ‘We’ve met afore.’

  ‘I just heard what happened,’ Yope continued. ‘Is it true?’

  Severn nodded. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Well damn my eyes, Severn!’ Yope shouted, his face breaking into a huge smile. ‘Yore hoss gets fed free, an’ here’s yore ten dollars back! Let me shake yu by the hand!’ He thrust his paw forward, his face wreathed in smiles. Severn let his breath out in one long, smooth exhalation.

  ‘Yu know, for a minnit there yu had me worried,’ he told the stableman. ‘I thought yu was on the warpath!’

  ‘Warpath be damned!’ grinned Yope. ‘I want to jine yore army.’

  Severn threw the money which Yope had thrust into his hand on to the bar. ‘Diego!’ he called. ‘Set up drinks for Mr. Shearer an’ the boys. I’m hittin’ the hay. An’ Yope — I’m thankin’ yu.’

  He went out of the saloon with the man whom Shearer had asked to take Severn to the town’s Jail - the Marshal’s office -leaving a hubbub of excited talk and speculation in the crowded bar behind him.

  Father Malcolm eyed the shouting, swearing, cheerful mob and shook his head as he spoke to the alcalde.

  ‘Paul, I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said.

  Shearer bellowed out a huge laugh. ‘Padre, for the first time in a long while I feel like a man again, instead o’ some kind of dirt-eatin’ animal. Yu tellin’ me that’s bad?’

  ‘No,’ said the old man, thoughtfully. ‘That is a good thing. But when you get home tonight, look at the Book of Proverbs, 27: I, will you?’

  Mystified, the alcalde agreed, and then returned to his drinking with the boisterous citizens of San Jaime. The old priest walked alone back to the church on the northern side of the plaza, his head bowed, his thoughts deep and dark, and centered upon the evil which would soon descend upon the sleeping town.

  Chapter Seven

  Twenty four hours after the arrival in San Jaime of the man who was now its Marshal five men rode silently into the town and pulled up outside the cantina. They were coated with the white alkali dust of the desert, and their faces were villainous with heavy stubble. Their leader, a tall man with the heavy build of a brawler, pushed his way ahead of his companions into the cantina, and the quintet bellied up to Diego Cruces’ bar.

  ‘Whiskey!’ shouted the big man, smashing a fist down on the bar which made the bottles jingle on the shelf. ‘Whiskey! An’ pronto!’

  His companions, all dressed in the rough garb of the frontier, grinned as Cruces scurried along to serve them.

  ‘Gotta say one thing for Mike,’ grinned one, a small fellow with a vicious squint. ‘He shore knows how to get service chop-chop!’

  ‘Ogston, yo’re right,’ grinned the one he addressed, who dug an elbow into the ribs of the fourth member of the group and nodded in the direction of their leader. He had grabbed the bottle without bothering about a glass, and tipped it backwards, letting the fiery liquor course down his throat, dripping from the corners of his mouth and running through the heavy stubble on his chin down on to the front of his woolen shirt.

  ‘Yee-haw!’ called out the squint-eyed one. ‘Ride ’er, Mike boy!’

  The others yelled encouragement as the one called Mike’s Adam’s apple bobbed without stopping, and the level of the whiskey in the bottle fell steadily. The one called Ogston, a short, well-built individual with the battered visage of a horse breaker, hauled out his forty-five and emptied it into the ceiling, giving vent to a shrill, piercing Rebel yell. One of his companions pounded him on the back, and all of them roared their encouragement as their leader pulled away at the bottleneck in his mouth. So engrossed were they, so lost in their enthusiasm that none of them noticed the batwings flip back as Severn came into the cantina on cat feet. He had in fact just been taking a walk around the little town, assessing its location and its people, when the disturbance and the sound of the shots had brought him hurrying over to the cantina. He pushed through the crowd watching the antics of the newcomers from the safety of the sidewalk, moved inside, and then leaned against the wall, fishing into his vest pocket for the makings.

  ‘Havin’ fun, boys?’ he inquired mildly. He did not raise his voice; yet the cutting edge of his words sliced through the racket the five men were making, and stilled it as if they had been struck dumb. Each man turned slowly, eyes narrowed with annoyance, or wide with surprise as their reaction to Severn’s words took them. Ogston, his gun still smoking in his hand, half moved his arm as if to bring the weapon level, but he stopped as if turned to stone at Severn’s next utterance.

  ‘Don’t do somethin’ yo’ll regret.’

  Once again the voice was mild but there was still a chilling menace in it. Ogston frowned, then remembered that the gun in his hand was empty. With a gesture almost comical in its haste, he dropped the six-gun as if its butt had turned red-hot.

  It was the tall man, Mike, who took the longest to react. Slowly, deliberately, he put down the bottle on the bar, and turned to face the int
erloper. If the drink had had any effect upon him at all, it did not show in the ice-blue eyes which he now bent upon Severn, eyes which narrowed to slits as he caught sight of the star on the Marshal’s breast.

  ‘Wal, wal, if it ain’t Wyatt Earp,’ he sneered. ‘What’ll it be, Marshal - a drink? Or a fandango?’

  ‘Neither,’ Severn said shortly. He eased himself upright and moved three steps forward, his hands hanging loose at his sides, and no menace in his stance at all. Yet every man watching knew that it was instinct in his slightest movement, and in the cold gaze he now bent upon the revelers.

  ‘Yu boys just get into town?’ Severn asked.

  ‘Jest this minute,’ the squint-eyed one replied. ‘Whyfor yu stickin’ yore nose in?’

  ‘I’m guessin’ yu ain’t been here lately,’ Severn continued, ignoring the man’s remark. ‘Mebbe yu didn’t see the signs?’

  ‘Signs?’ the one called Mike said. ‘What signs?’

  ‘All over the place,’ Severn explained. ‘Put ’em up myself this mornin’. Yu can read, I’m takin’ it?’

  ‘Be keerful yu don’t take it too far,’ snapped the big man. ‘We didn’t see no signs.’

  ‘I figgered that, or yu’d be on yore way to the hoosegow right now,’ Severn told him. ‘Bein’ yu missed ’em, I’ll tell yu now: as of today, wearin’ guns in town ain’t allowed.’

  There was a silence for a moment, then the five men looked at each other and burst into laughter. Severn’s face did not change expression as he watched them, and his unchanging mien gradually stilled their incredulous outburst.

  ‘By Gawd!’ Ogston finally managed. ‘You really mean it!’

  Severn nodded but did not say anything. The situation was still very much in the balance. He did not know who these men were; and intended to avoid trouble rather than provoke it. They might just be passing drifters. If not...

  ‘Yu tellin’ us that guns ain’t allowed in Cullane’s town?’ The one called Mike’s voice was a pitch higher, and he was frowning, as though trying to understand the reason for a child’s crying.

  ‘It ain’t Cullane’s town anymore,’ Severn said flatly. The one called Mike took a pace forward and thrust out his unshaven jaw belligerently. The fiery spirits he had so recklessly swilled were taking hold of him now, and a fire was building in his eyes.