The Kansas Fast Gun

by Arthur Kent

  Bennett moved his pony forward. He bent, his voice low. ‘I think you’re lying, Wolf. I think you came back here to see if the fruit you’d hung on the lone pine was there.’

  ‘Fruit?’ Wolf said. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘The boy you found spying on the mine – remember? You shot him, then you hanged him on the pine. Then you went on a drunk to town, and returned to admire your handiwork.’

  Tony Wolf stiffened. He swung his pony. But Bennett slammed forward. His quirt flaked out and the leather thonging curled round the miner’s body with a cracking sound.

  The cowpunchers on either side of Frome balled their ponies towards the miner, reaching for their revolvers.

  ‘Tell the truth!’ Bennett screamed.

  Frome’s movements were reflex. A poor drunk was in trouble and he acted. Spurs lashed the paint’s flanks, the pony bounced between Bennett and the miner, and Frome snatched to free the thonging. ‘Lay off, Bennett!’ he snarled.

  ‘Keep out of this, Frome!’ Bennett cried. His hand sank to his gun. ‘Or by hell, I’ll cut you down!’

  Frome had the thonging of the quirt in his hand. He snatched it downwards suddenly, jerking Bennett’s hand away from his gun.

  Bennett shouted, ‘We’re going to lynch this miner, and nobody’s going to stop us.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Frome said, ‘and I’ll see that you’re not.’

  ‘They lynched Denny, didn’t they?’ Bennett snarled.

  ‘Maybe. But this sod-shifter says he was in town. I believe him. He’s innocent, so he goes free.’

  ‘Denny was innocent. Look what they did to him.’ He swung, looking back for Le Roy. ‘Let Glinton decide,’ he snapped. ‘What do we do, Glinton?’

  There was a tense moment of silence. Frome looked from one grimly-set face to another, but saw no hope there. Le Roy suddenly swung his pony from the circle. ‘What do we do, Glinton?’ Bennett shouted again.

  Le Roy’s answer was loud and clear and precise. ‘Do like he did to my boy.’

  Frome snapped, ‘Glinton, wait!’ But it was too late. The cowpunchers closed in, boring their broncs at the miner, eagerly reaching for him to tear him from his saddle. Bennett’s pony cannoned into Frome’s. Stirrup to stirrup, elbow to elbow, Frome tried to keep him from Wolf.

  ‘For the last time, Frome ... you with us or against us?’ Frome saw Bennett’s sweating face inches from him.

  ‘Harm Wolf,’ he snarled, ‘and I’ll come gunning for you.’

  Bennett’s mouth was tight against his teeth. ‘Now I’m worried,’ he gritted.

  Cowpunchers closed in on Wolf from the other side. A fist hammered at the miner’s face and blood gleamed there. Frome made one last desperate effort to save him. Viciously spurring the paint away from Bennett, he lashed at the bunched riders. A man yelled as the paint caught his pony broadside, sending it crashing. A head reared suddenly before Frome, and he slammed at it. The head disappeared below him.

  Frome swung the pony, bringing it around the miner’s, striving to clear a path. He freed his foot from the stirrup and kicked at a man. He caught another with his quirt, sending the man twisting from his saddle, hands to face, screaming with pain.

  He came alongside Wolf and saw Bennett closing in. Bennett was cursing. Frome reached for the headstraps of the miner’s mount and simultaneously lashed the paint with his spurs, trying to break from the melee and drag the miner with him.

  But stirrup irons grazed his legs. Then a horse crashed into the paint. There was a loud report, like the snapping of bone, and the paint began to fold beneath him. Frome came up, clawing at Bennett’s pony, trying to drag it down. Then something cracked across his forehead and his head seemed to explode. Vomit clogged his throat. He snatched for Bennett’s saddle pommel, determined to get Bennett.

  The only sound was a shriek, followed by the curses of men and the pain cry of horses.

  Then something cracked down across his skull, and he felt himself sinking into a suffocating darkness.

  CHAPTER 5

  It hurt. It felt as if somebody had put a bucket on his head and was beating it. He knew that he was sitting up and knew that somebody was holding him there. Red hot flames seemed to dance before his eyes, he groaned, and the arms eased him down on his back again, and the pain eased.

  Water trickled across his face, and a voice reached him. ‘Look now,’ it said. He looked. Somebody was shielding his eyes with a grey, sweat-stained hat. You never saw Matt Grape without it. He recognized Grape’s voice now.

  ‘How do you feel, Dave?’

  ‘Terrible, but it can’t last.’

  ‘Somebody sure hit you. Slight concussion. But you’ll mend.’

  Memory came back, and Frome moved, lifting, opening his eyes, ignoring the sharp pain. First he saw the dead paint pony. It lay a yard from him, its head twisted, neck broken. Frome brushed Grape’s hat away, looking to the canyon rim through the sun-dazzle.

  Grape said softly. ‘Wolf’s up there, Dave.’

  Frome folded back, groaned, bunched his fists. ‘Bennett,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to get Bennett.’

  Grape poked a flat bottle at him. ‘Whiskey. Drink this, Dave. It’s good to hear you talk like that again. I’ve been waiting to hear a man-sized emotion from you for six years. Now you’re going to strap on a gun, go for Bennett, and that’s a good thing, no matter what the outcome.’

  Frome took a long pull at the bottle and shook his head. Grape said, ‘Bennett’ll do for a start. Always thought he’d lived too long.’

  Frome said, ‘What do you mean – for a start?’

  ‘Well, once you’ve dropped Bennett and shown the county that you’re a man, you can clean up this mess. The word’s that Speakman’s brought gunhawks with him.’

  Frome snapped, ‘Not interested. I’m after Bennett. Bennett lynched Wolf. Without him, it wouldn’t have happened.’

  Grape said: ‘Bennett can’t carry all the blame for that. Nor the mining company. You carry a load of the blame.’

  ‘Me!’ Frome came forward, winced, then relaxed, ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘I’m dealing with fundamentals,’ Grape said. ‘You’ve been playing half-man for years. Don’t you think that if you’d been yourself Le Roy and the others would’ve ignored you? If you’d been yourself, they would’ve listened to you – not Bennett. They only listened to him because he’s the only one who shows any guts and leadership around here.’

  Frome took an angry pull at the bottle. ‘For an old ranny, your reasoning astonishes me, Matt.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ll push it further. If you’d shown yourself a man, Denny wouldn’t be dead. He died because he listened to Bennett. He looked up to you, but you deserted him. You would’ve stopped him from doing anything stupid like spying on the mine.’

  Frome snapped, ‘You’re confusing the issue. I’m after Bennett, the rest doesn’t matter. With Bennett out of the way, this business will fizzle out and get settled over a conference table.’

  He swung up, shook his head. The pain was still there, but the whiskey neutralized it. He took another drink, then looked about him. He saw the lone pine and the body away in the distance, almost invisible in the sun glaze. He saw two ponies tethered to brush near at hand. He extended his hand, palm upwards. ‘All right, Matt, I’ll take that Le Roy gun-belt you’re wearing.’

  Grape made no protest. He began to unbuckle it. ‘Glinton won’t like you gunning his nephew.’

  ‘Glinton’ll get over it. He isn’t all that fond of Kyle.’

  ‘Maybe. Before he lost his son. Kyle’s his only blood male relative. Blood talks.’

  ‘More of your goddam fundamentals, Matt.’ Frome took the shell-belt and holster Grape handed him, buckled it around his waist, then got painfully to his feet. He stood straddle-footed for a moment, swaying, shaking his head.

  He dusted his clothes, straightened the holster on his hip, and moved carefully towards the horses.

  Grape said, ‘Pain go
ne?’

  ‘Nope, but I can carry it.’ He brought the Colt from the holster, checked the load, dropped it back into leather. ‘You don’t work for me, Matt, but you can do me another favour. Bury Tony Wolf. Better do it tonight.’

  Grape nodded, followed him to the horses. ‘Where are you heading now, Dave?’

  Frome selected the fastest horse, a big black. Both carried the Double Star brand. ‘To showdown with Bennett. You’d better not follow me too closely. I don’t want you involved.’

  He swung aboard the black, jacked it round, and used the spurs.

  Matt Grape watched him go. He smiled. After six long years, he thought, Dave Frome was a man again.

  Frome reached the Double Star headquarters a little after high noon. He came over a ridge and saw the sprawling ranchhouse, bunkhouse, barns, stables and corral laid out before him, white in the heat. Smoke was reefing up from the cabin and cookhouse chimneys, and it wasn’t hard for Frome to see why. Both kitchens were pumping out victuals for the new men who were riding in.

  Frome could see that the corrals were packed with ponies. The overdraft were hitched to the poles outside. Now he could see men, talking in groups or stretched in the shade provided by the buildings.

  Frome put the black down the hill and cantered round the corral five minutes later. He had been spotted way out, and his coming had caused excitement. The word must have reached the ranch cabin, but neither Le Roy, Bennett nor Hesta came on to the stoop.

  The silence was brittle when Frome put the black to the corral, tethered it, and stepped away. He knew the majority of the men who stood about the yard, but none saluted him. They ignored him.

  Frome stepped towards the house, and three punchers talking in the way, shifted. Frome jabbed a finger at one of them. ‘You, go tell Kyle Bennett to step out. With his guns on.’

  The man swallowed and stumbled towards the house. Frome watched him disappear through the door, and began to move again, his big body bent slightly forward, his fingers just away from the holstered gun.

  A moment later Glinton Le Roy, looking older, came on to the veranda. Hesta, dressed in a crisp black frock, followed him, looking at Frome coldly.

  ‘Where’s the dandy?’ Frome snapped at them.

  Le Roy looked glumly at his daughter, not knowing how to handle the situation. Hesta snapped, ‘Fortunately for you, Kyle’s away. Now go home before you make a fool of yourself.’

  The fact that Hesta was addressing him as a little boy or a coward, only made Frome more angry. ‘I’ll wait for him,’ he snapped.

  Le Roy said, ‘Do like Hesta says, Dave. Go home, sleep it off. You don’t want to tangle with Kyle. He’s fast.’

  A voice, purposely disguised, came from a bunch of cowpunchers. ‘You look out up there, there’s a gunfighter a facing youse.’

  Men began to laugh. Frome did not look back. ‘I remember. Kyle’s gone to collect some guns from Gulick. He shouldn’t be long. I can wait.’

  There came a movement from behind Frome. A furtive movement. He crouched, listening, ready to spin. He looked quickly at Le Roy and Hesta and saw them stiffen.

  A harsh voice came at Frome. ‘You’ve got a quarrel with Kyle, mister. I can act proxy for him.’

  ‘Isn’t no call for you to interfere, Talbot,’ Le Roy snapped. ‘Dave’s just going.’

  Frome smiled. That would be Martin Talbot. Another gun-slinger. A no-good, a bully, a cheat. It seemed Bennett was getting together a real rough crew. He reflected that while he was waiting for Bennett, he could thin out the man’s friends. Without turning, he snapped, ‘Talbot. I’ve heard your name. If it’s Martin Talbot, I’ve heard nothing nice about you.’

  ‘Say what you like,’ the man said softly, ‘but after I kill you I’ll still weep a little.’

  Hesta moved on the veranda. ‘Talbot! Return to the bunkhouse!’ She looked pale and scared.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Talbot said. ‘Frome’s insulted me.’

  Frome, still facing Hesta and Le Roy, and with Talbot directly behind him, smiled. He knew Talbot wanted to nail him now; and he felt the old, almost forgotten thrill, of pending battle.

  ‘You’d better turn, Frome, you’re important in these parts. I want to see an important man die.’

  Frome turned smoothly, dropping into his crouch, legs spread. He saw Talbot thirty paces away. Talbot was big, hulking, bearded, with a large slab face and a dropped right shoulder, the product of long handgun practice. Talbot’s gun was low on his thigh in a tied-down holster. His hand, fingers splayed, was only inches from the butt. ‘You get first call, Frome,’ he said casually.

  Hesta snapped from behind Frome. ‘This foolishness must stop!’ He heard her moving across the boards. Seeing that the Le Roys were moving to interfere, and anxious to get Frome, Talbot dived for his gun.

  It was his last move. He was quick, but not quick enough. His gun was only half clear of leather, when Frome’s slug took him between the eyes. He staggered forward, his gun slipping back into leather. His leg came up as he tried to keep erect, and then he thundered to the ground, falling on his face, his fingers clawing at the dust.

  Frome slotted the gun. He turned to the Le Roys. He saw their surprise and it made him smile. ‘Second thoughts. I won’t wait for Kyle. I’ll call on him in a day or two when he’s had time to reflect and practice a little. After all, Talbot was a fast gun.’

  He turned, moved along the corral. Men stepped hurriedly aside. Finally he found what he was looking for, a bronc carrying a Broken Arrow brand. He didn’t want to be beholden to the Double Star for anything.

  Swinging aboard one of his own ponies, he rode out of the yard without looking back.

  CHAPTER 6

  Dave Frome, wedged in at the long polished bar of The Drovers saloon, pushed his glass across the counter, and said to Mike Sturmer, ‘Fill it, Mike.’

  The bar was packed to overflow. Plattsville had changed in the few short years Frome had known it. The railhead had followed the mining companies; Plattsville had mushroomed into a score of streets and alleys. There were a dozen bars and honkytonks on Main alone. Every one would be packed, mainly with miners, citizens and a few cowpunchers.

  Mike Sturmer pushed a fresh beer across the bar. He looked at Frome thoughtfully. He thought that the rancher was drinking too much, was too silent, had troubles.

  Frome built a cigarette. The excitement of the gunfight had worn off and left him depressed. Hesta’s welcome had been definitely hostile, and he wondered if it was all over between them. Of course, Hesta had lost her brother ... but even so her welcome had been unfriendly.

  Could it be Kyle Bennett, he wondered. Kyle and Hesta had been very close once when the man had ramrodded for Le Roy. There had been an understanding between them. But then Hesta had found that Kyle had been marking time with a half-breed girl in Denton beyond the Arrows. Come to think of it, Frome reflected, Bennett still spent a lot of time Denton way.

  When Hesta had discovered the other woman, Kyle Bennett had left the Double Star and joined Luke Benson at the Muleshoe. Benson was a permanent cripple following a fall from a horse, and had been glad to hire Bennett to manage his spread. And now Kyle was back to the Double Star ... and to Hesta?

  And Frome had another worry. Matt Grape with his fundamentals, as he always called them, seemed to have hit on the truth out at the Lone Pine Canyon when he’d said that Frome was partly responsible for the deaths of Denny and Wolf. Frome wondered if he had been right in discarding guns after the Dodge tragedy. He thought he was; he thought violence was useless, never solved anything ... but then there were people who could only be held in by violence.

  Frome was about to lick down the cigarette paper, when somebody jogged his arm, and the fine shreds of tobacco spilled from the paper. He swung and saw the girl.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said.

  Frome grinned. ‘It’s all right. Too many packing this bar, anyhow.’ He put pressure on a group of miners standing to his right so t
hat the girl could reach the bar.

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Frome liked the sound of her voice. She was dark, attractive, and lacked that brittle hardness he associated with saloon girls. She wore a long dark cloak and Frome could see the glittering sequins of her stage costume through the front of it. Aware suddenly of Frome’s interest, she closed the gap. She reached the bar, bent forward, and signalled Mike Sturmer.

  Sturmer came along the bar. ‘Did you want me, Curly?’

  ‘I’m going to dinner, Mike.’

  Sturmer frowned. ‘It’s busy in town tonight. Don’t you think it’d be safer if you ate in your room? I’ll have something sent up.’

  ‘Look, Mike,’ the girl said firmly, ‘I’m tired of eating in my room. I’m only going next door.’

  Sturmer said. ‘But we’re busy, kid. I can’t spare anybody to escort you. There’s a rough crowd in town. And you’re quite a hit. Most people’ve heard you sing. You might be pestered.’

  Frome said, ‘I can always escort the little lady, Mike. I haven’t heard her sing, so she hasn’t affected my reason.’

  Sturmer smiled, the girl looked uncertain. ‘Why not? You’ve been sitting at this bar all evening, Dave. You need cheering up.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Mister Frome will escort you, Curly, if it’s OK with you.’

  The girl looked at Frome, then at Mike Sturmer. ‘If you say so, Mike, I have no objections.’ She smiled at the rancher. ‘I’ll be happy to accept your invitation.’

  Sturmer said quickly, because people were waiting to be served, ‘I’d better introduce you. Curly, meet Dave Frome; Dave, meet Curly.’

  Frome touched his hat.

  They left the packed bar and turned left on the boardwalk. The girl took Frome’s arm. They crossed the alley to the restaurant, entered it. Frome was surprised that he was a little unsteady on his feet and light-headed. He put it down to a lack of food and sleep.

  The girl sat opposite Frome and, in the better lighting of the restaurant, he could see that she was indeed beautiful. Her skin was smooth and softly sun-tanned, her eyes large and intelligent, her hair glossy black and curled. Frome reflected that here was no saloon girl. He remembered then that Sturmer had said she was a singer, and recalled hearing that Sturmer’s business had so increased that he was hiring featured players from the bigger towns and had built a stage at the rear of the saloon.