The Violent Peace

by George G. Gilman

  Steele picked up the rifle and turned towards the front of the store as the signal bell jangled above the door.

  “It's all right, I've seen the soldier and he says—”

  Mona pulled up short and curtailed her excited announcement as she saw the figure of Steele approaching her. Steele smiled at her with his mouth, recognizing her as the woman who had come to town on the buckboard-last night.”

  “Oh, isn't Harry – Mr. Binns - here?” she asked.

  Steele touched his hat brim with a gloved band. “He had a little trouble with his breathing, ma'am,” he replied. “He's lying down.”

  Mona's excitement died and she regarded Steele with heavy suspicion. “You aren't the doctor,” she accused.

  Steele sidled around her and opened the door, hanging the sign on it. “No, ma'am,” he confirmed. “Binns and I had some business to do. It's all wrapped up now. Good day.”

  He stepped out on to the sidewalk and closed the door on Mona's confusion. She could not read from the inside, the sign which swung gently in the draught from the closing door. One word had been scored out, and another added, It read: CLOSED FOR EVER.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CLANCY and Blake sat on a sofa in a comer of the lobby as Steele entered from the street and crossed to the desk. The blood ecrusted right sleeve of Blake's tunic hung limp and empty at his side. His arm was in a sling across his chest.

  “Checking out, ma'am,” Steele told the over-painted madam behind tile desk.

  “Look, Blakey,” Clancy said earnestly. “You made your mind up by telling the dame she could get lost. It's a lousy army, anyway. With the war over, what's the goddamn point? You're likely to get shipped out to some crummy patch of desert and get your hair lifted by a crazy drunk Indian.”

  Steele had to pay for the greasy meal he had been served shortly after he arived at the hotel the previous night.

  “But the pay's regular,” Blake argued, wanting to be convinced.

  Steele told the madam he would pass up breakfast.

  Clancy snorted. “It's so frigging small they can afford to give it to you regular. Why, I hear that in Texas a man can—”

  Mona's scream carried clearly across the sunlit plaza. Steele calmly pocketed the loose change given him by the madam as she and the two troopers swung around to look out through the open doors. Mona's footfalls thudded against the hard-backed dirt of the plaza: then sounded hollowly against the planking of the sidewalk. She burst into the lobby and pulled up abruptly. Her face was drained of color and her body trembled. The agony of her grief Seemed to vibrate in the hot, still air. She raised her hand and pointed a quivering finger at Steele. Time stretched interminably as she summoned the strength to speak.

  “He killed him!” she was finally able to rasp.

  The trooper and the madam abruptly turned their shock-filled eyes towards Steele. His face was blank of expression as he backed over to a doorway at the foot of a flight of stairs. The rifle was held loose at his side, tilted slightly to point at the floor.

  “He shouldn't have lynched my father, ma'am,” Steele said calmly.

  Mona shook her head, vigorously, continuing to point the finger of guilt at Steele. “Harry's never harmed anybody in his life,” she flung at him.

  Steele narrowed his eyes by a fraction, but in no other way did he show the traumatic effect the woman's statement had on him. She had called Binns Harry. The old timer had named one of the lynchers as Ed Binns. He kept his voice at an even pitch. “I heard about him from an eye-witness, ma'am,” he said, his mind in a turmoil as he struggled to make himself believe that Harry was Ed called by another name in his home town. “Binns was just one of them. I've got three more to settle with.”

  Mona lowered her arm and brought herself under control, “Where?” she demanded, knocking a strand of hair away from her right eye. “Where is he supposed to have—”

  “Washington,” Steele replied. “Right after Lincoln was shot.”

  Steele, the madam and the two troopers saw the confusion spread across Mona's handsome face, to be suddenly swamped by realization. She gave a hysterical laugh which twisted her features into ugliness. “You kill-crazy fool!” she shrieked. “Harry was the wrong man. You murdered the wrong Binns. He hasn't been to Washington in weeks. It was Ed you wanted. My goddamn, no good husband Ed - Harry's brother.”

  Steele was deserted by the capacity to hide his feelings behind an impassive mask. The awful knowledge that he had brought agonizing death to an innocent man exploded on to his face in a color-draining, immobilizing expression of self-hatred. But as his eyes turned to each person in the lobby, imploring for understanding, begging for consolation, they found none.

  Hoofbeats sounded out on the street. He looked through the doorway, beyond the voluptuous form of his accuser, and the sunlight seemed suddenly to darken. He fell back against the door and blinked. The harsh light of morning returned to full intensity and he saw the two riders starkly outlined against the buildings of the plaza. Both were travel-stained and weary looking. One of them was a mean-faced man in a frock coat. The other was Jim Bishop.

  Steele snapped up the rifle and felt his emotions freeze as he turned his blank-eyed stare towards Mona. “My father was innocent too,” he said, giving the door behind him a back-heel kick which crashed it open. “It's a lousy world, ma'am.”

  The two riders dismounted, flexing muscles stiffened by long hours in the saddle.

  “Thanks for your custom,” the madam called as Steele backed out into the yard behind the hotel. “Come again.”

  Lovell and Bishop entered the lobby, brushing through between Mona and the doorframe. Both sensed the tension in the pot air, and looked from the open rear door to the madam.

  “We're looking for a man,” the Washington detective announced.

  Everyone looked at the newcomers and saw the evil of Lovell and the confusion of Bishop.

  “You come to the wrong place, fellers,” the madam replied brightly. “This is a cat house. I hear Aaron Ross over at the livery might accommodate you.”

  Clancy grinned. Blake swallowed hard. Mona sagged against the doorpost. Lovell snapped the revolver from the holster at the front of his bent and leveled it as he approached the desk.

  “Name's Adam Steele,” he snapped.

  The madam had run a house for too long to be intimidated by a gun pointing at her ample bosom. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, her eyes glittering as she held Lovell's resolute stare. “Strange thing. We had a man with the same moniker staying here. He just checked out.”

  Realization hit Mona for a second, and the gasp she gave caused both Lovell and Bishop to swing towards her. “Through there!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger. “He went through there. Only seconds ago.”

  When the two lawmen burst into the yard, both had revolvers in their fists, and the muzzles swung rapidly from side to side, covering the whole cluttered area. Eyes raked over boxes and trash baskets. Lovell waved his gun to one side and Bishop moved as directed, using his free hand and his feet to knock and kick over the rubbish. Lovell did the same on the other side of the yard. They found nothing and looked angrily towards the stairway climbing up the rear of the hotel, and the two empty alleys leading off.

  “I'll look up top,” Bishop said breathlessly, turning to the foot of the steps.

  “Forget it!” Lovell snapped, heading into one of the alleys. “He'd know he'd be trapped up there. Check that, then comb the whole frigging town.”

  Bishop glanced up the stairway, then shrugged and went into the alley Lovell had indicated.

  Steele remained motionless, stretched out full length in the hot sun on the roof, until the sound of the lawmen's angry footfalls had faded. Then he wriggled backwards, away from the roof's edge. He raised his head, but not his body, and glanced around. The otherwise flat surface of the roof was broken by two smoking, chimneys and a number of trapdoor frames. He stayed as flat to the sun-heated boarding as he could, rotating his
body until the nearest trapdoor was only inches from his face.

  He could hear voices in the bedroom below.

  “Now you won't forget?” a man said timorously. “Anyone starts to poke fun at me, you tell 'em.”

  A girl trilled with laughter. “That I will, Mr. Ross,” she said, and Steele's mouthline tightened as he recognized Jennie's voice. “It's all been just rumors about you. Ain't no question but that a girl knows which way to turn with you.”

  “That's fine,” the man replied. “Yes, that's fine. Goodbye, Miss Jennie. See you again soon.”

  Footfalls sounded. “Hope so, Mr. Ross,” Jennie said. “I'll be ready and willing.”

  A door opened and closed. “You smelly little creep,” she finished softly.

  Steele waited a few more seconds, to make sure the girl did not have a customer immediately after Ross, then inserted his fingers under the edge of the trapdoor and inched it up. He pushed the rifle barrel through the crack, and sighted down it. The hinges creaked and Jennie stared up in frightened surprise. The bed was, immediately beneath the trapdoor and she was spread across it, on top of the counterpane. She was completely naked now, the dress draped over a chair close to the bed. Her body was spread-eagled, as if in readiness to be entered rather than in relaxation after the act. Perhaps because of her profession, which made modesty hypocritical, or because the sight of the pointing rifle terrified her, she remained frozen in position, every secret place of her naked flesh open to Steele's indifferent gaze.

  “Some you lay for, some you lie to,” Steele said softly, opening the trapdoor wider and then keeping her covered as he hauled himself into a sitting position, legs hanging through the square hole.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  “Drapery store man hasn't been to Washington in weeks,” he replied, gripping the Colt Hartford in one hand as he folded up the trapdoor.

  She shrugged, the gesture rippling the flesh of her shoulders and quivering the mounds of her breasts. “I get paid for pleasing men, mister,” she said. “You paid and I told you what you wanted to know. I thought it made you happy.”

  “It made me a murderer,” he told her.

  She gasped as he suddenly dropped through the opening, drawing the door closed after him. His boots sank into the bed at the side of each naked hip and the rifle muzzle jabbed lightly at the white skin of her throat.

  “Now I want something for free,” he warned softly. She smiled and drew up her knees, splaying her thighs wider, her feet hooking around his ankles. “Help yourself,” she invited, cupping her breasts, stacking the flesh so that the nipples pointed up at him.

  “No," he told her. “Help from you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FOOTHILLS was not a large town, but the thoroughness with which Lovell and Bishop searched it kept them engaged with the grueling chore until well past dusk. On each occasion when their paths crossed, Lovell's temper was darker and more explosive. Because of this, which indicated the Washington detective was likely to shoot Steele on sight, Bishop's concern deepened - for it was his intention to take the wanted man alive to stand trial.

  It was after seven when the unsuccessful search ended and the two lawmen met in front of Aaron Ross's livery stable. Both were bleary-eyed, with haggard faces and bowed shoulders.

  “That's about it,” Bishop said with a deep sigh that was part a sign of weariness, part of relief. “There's no place else to look.”

  Lovell eyed the deputy sheriff with disgust. “It was a mistake letting you ride with me,” he snarled. “If I'd been alone, he wouldn't have ducked out so quick. You, he knows.” He spun around and strode into the livery stable.

  Bishop glanced up and down the street leading off the plaza and followed the city detective. The place smelled of kerosene, straw and horse droppings. In the light of two lamps, Clancy was adjusting the bridle of a saddled horse. Blake was being helped in readying his own mount by a short, thin man with a bald head and melancholy eyes. He was Ross, and his sad eyes became fixed on Lovell's glowering face as the lawmen halted in the doorway.

  “His horse is still in the stall, marshal,” the little man announced with forced enthusiasm. “He ain't been in since you first come.”

  “I told you, I'm not a marshal” Lovell hurled at Ross, then loped across the stable to the stall the liveryman had indicated with a nod.

  Steele's bay gelding nuzzled the detective's hand eagerly, then snorted when he found no sugar. Ross gave the injured trooper a leg up into his saddle.

  “You ready, Clancy?” Blake asked anxiously.

  “Sure am,” the older trooper replied, grasping hold of his mount's bridle.

  Bishop stepped out of the entrance to allow passage for the troopers. Then a flash of metal caught his eye and he took a step forward, knowing he would be too late.

  “Lovell, don't!” he yelled. The gelding started to rear; sensing danger. But Lovell was an expert with the knife, fast and deadly. He plunged it towards the animal's head, allowing for instinctive movement, and angling the blade at the right degree. The deadly point penetrated deep into the horse's staring right eye, the cant of the blade directing it incisively into the brain. There was a thin, high wail, then a massive gout of blood which arched across Lovell's ducked shoulder. The detective retained his grip on the knife handle and the blade came free with a sucking sound as the dead animal collapsed to the floor of the stall.

  Clancy and Blake spoke softly to the trembling horses, calming their agitation at the smell of blood. Then they joined Ross and Bishop in treating Lovell to states of revulsion. The detective turned slowly, and swung his mean-eyes glare from Clancy to Blake and back again.

  “Law's business, soldiers,” he said, wiping the bloody blade on the bedroll hanging next to Steele's saddle. “Army ought to mind its own.”

  “Sure, mister, sure,” Blake blurted. “Don't pay no heed to the uniforms,” Clancy said. “We ain't in the army no more.”

  Blake led the way out of the stable, and Clancy was hard on his heels. The beat of galloping hooves was the only sound against the quiet of the town. Soon, even this was swallowed up by distance.

  “My God,” Ross gasped, trembling. “What will I tell him if he comes back?”

  “That his horse was lucky,” Lovell replied softly, sliding the knife back into its sheath at his armpit. “For him, it won't be fast.”

  He moved to the door and Ross stumbled hurriedly out of his path. He leaned against the doorframe and started to roll a cigarette, looking with meanly angry eyes at a glass-sided hearse which emerged from the side of the undertaker's parlor. It was hauled by a high-stepping pair and driven by somebody in a hooded cloak. Lovell lit the cigarette and stepped, up on to the sidewalk. Bishop followed him, knuckling tired eyes. As the hearse rolled by and turned onto the street heading west out of town, both men could see in through the glass side. The coffin was open and the bloated face of Harry Binns lay on a pillow, darkly purple against the white satin.

  “I figure he's holed up someplace in Foothills,” Lovell said with conviction. “He wouldn't have chanced this country on foot.”

  “Maybe,” Bishop allowed.

  Lovell stared across at the lighted windows of the hotel. “We look again,” he said at length, after long moments in which he smoked in silence. “You start from here and take the west side. I'll go through to the other end. Reckon I'll try the cat house first. He might have doubled back there.”

  “Okay, if that's what you want to do,” Bishop said.

  “One thing,” Lovell said curtly, tossing away the half-smoked cigarette and catching hold of Bishop's shirt sleeve.

  “Yeah?”

  “You get him; you hold him. Or you shoot him in the leg or some other place that won't kill him. I want that bastard alive.”

  Bishop jerked out of the other man's grip, and turned to face him squarely. “That's the way I aim to get Adam, too,” he answered, returning Lovell's unwavering stare. “And I aim to keep
him alive to stand trial.”

  Anger had driven the young deputy into revealing his intention. He waited for the city detective to react violently to the statement. Instead, Lovell merely smiled thinly and stepped down from the sidewalk.

  “Man wants something as bad as you do, I reckon he's willing to fight for it,” he called back as he headed towards the Foothills Hotel.

  “Whenever you're ready,” Bishop tossed after the retreating figure of the man. He let his hands drop to his sides, then tensed them, fingers curled to snap out his guns.

  Lovell halted abruptly, but did not turn around. A girl laughed somewhere in the hotel and to Bishop it sounded like a derisive taunt. But it was from a different world and he did not allow it to disturb his concentration upon the unmoving form of Lovell.

  Then the detective exploded a laugh of his own, and started again on his walk to the hotel. “Not now or here, son,” he called without turning around. “Another time and another place.”

  Bishop relaxed with a sigh, recalling that these were the precise words used by the man Lovell was hunting. Lovell went through the doorway into the hotel lobby. Bishop stepped down from the sidewalk and dragged his feet wearily across the tracks made by the hearse.

  *****

  Steele sat up in the rear of the hearse and stretched cramped muscles, then looked over the side of the casket at the dead, waxy features of Harry Binns. A sadness showed in his dark eyes for a moment, then was gone. He reached out of the open rear of the hearse, slid his rifle on the roof, then hauled himself up after it. As he dropped down on to the seat beside the driver, Jennie turned to look at him, her frightened face very white against the black hood.