by Lauran Paine
Someone’s shout of encouragement was swept away by a rising wind. If they heard the shout they did not look up to see where it had come from.
Boss almost went to his knees, still clutching the dog. Charley pushed past, got an arm around an overhang upright in front of the general store, stepped back, and threw out his free hand. Boss grabbed it in a viselike grip and Charley used the leverage of the upright to pull his companion the final five feet to safety on the plankwalk.
Boss shook his head and laughed. Charley pushed him away from the swirling water, which was within inches of overflowing the duckboards, then removed his hat to dump water and to run a soaked hand down over his face to push off more water.
Boss leaned to put the dog down as a large man emerged from the general store to grab the dog before it could flee, even though it did not appear to have flight in mind. It was shaking like a leaf, too frightened to do anything but cower at Boss’s feet.
The big man lifted the dog and yelled at Boss. “I owe you, mister. It’s my daughter’s pup. I tried to grab it up in front of the harness shop but the water was too fast for me.” The big man shoved out a wet hand, which Boss gripped and then turned to yell at Charley. “You all right?”
Charley was wiping his dripping nose when he answered. “Never felt better in my life. Where is that damned cafe?”
Chapter Nine
Butler!
It could have been suppertime. It was dark enough to be, but in fact was midafternoon. Even so, the cafe counter was full of men talking at the top of their lungs, every one of them wearing clothing darkened by the wet.
The cafeman was as busy as a cat in a sandbox and did not look up as the latest arrivals looked for places to sit. At the lower end of the counter two burly, bearded freighters pushed left and right to make places and beckoned. They were rough, loud men with trousers wet above the knees and mud caked on their boots. One of them leaned as Charley sat down and said, “You ever see so much damned water come down in an hour before in your life?”
Charley shook his head. “Never did. What I’d like to know is when it’ll let up.”
The freighter reached for a crockery mug of coffee. “From the looks of the sky, maybe not for a week.” He drank noisily and lowered the cup to look at Charley and Boss. “If you fellers is passin’ through, you’d better hole up at the rooming-house before all the beds are gone.”
The cafeman arrived looking harassed. They ordered whatever he had that was hot. The cafeman nodded brusquely and hastened away.
The freighter on Boss’s right leaned on the counter with thick arms and said, “It’s not a regular storm or there’d be thunder an’ lightning. This here is more like that one that washed away Gunnison up north ten, twelve years ago. Water come down that damned canyon carrying melted snow until it was about twenty feet high with nowhere to go but straight into town. Killed a lot of people.”
Men left the cafe leaving mud behind as more men pushed in out of the darkening day. The cafeman took time out from fetching food to light a pair of lamps on his pie table. Every time someone opened the roadway door the lamps would wildly flicker.
The freighters finished their meal and were rising to pay up and depart when another large, thick man walked in and came down the counter. He saw Charley and Boss, smiled from ear to ear, and slapped each of them resoundingly on the back as one of the rising freighters said, “Did you catch her dog, Mack?”
The man addressed as Mack jutted his jaw downward. “This gent did. He was wading the roadway. The pup come in front and he grabbed it.”
The three big freighters showed approval of Boss’s presence of mind by rapping him across the shoulders as they headed for the door.
The downpour did not slacken. If anything, it seemed to be coming down harder. It certainly was making more noise. Boss and Charley concentrated on the first cafe-cooked meal either of them had eaten in a long time. Even the coffee tasted better than camp coffee.
Gradually the other diners thinned out. The cafeman got a little respite and used it to amble down the counter to lean on his pie table opposite Spearman and Waite and carve off a cud of tobacco as he loudly said, “There’s worse things than being stranded in Harmonville.”
Boss looked up. “Name one, mister.”
The cafeman took it as a joke and grinned, got his cud tucked into his cheek, and went after the coffeepot to refill their cups.
Another customer stamped in out of the darkening day. The cafeman looked up from pouring coffee and called out a cheerful greeting. “Nice day, marshal.”
Neither of the freegrazers raised his head nor altered the rhythm of his chewing, but both sat stone-still for a moment.
The cafeman went up where Marshal Poole had dropped down on the damp counter bench. Evidently Marshal Poole had not looked at the other diners. He said, “Meat’n spuds like always, Les, and coffee. It’s worth a man’s life to cross the road.”
The cafeman was sympathetic. “I know it is. Potholes two feet deep out there. But it’ll stop. It always has, hasn’t it?”
Al Poole did not answer. He was leaning slightly to see around the diners between himself and down where the freegrazers were eating. He very slowly straightened back, picked up his coffee cup when it arrived, using both hands, and sipped very slowly.
There was less loud talk now as fewer diners concentrated on eating, but the other noise overhead and outside did not diminish at all.
Boss pushed his platter away, leaned back to dig for silver in a trouser pocket, and made a point of not turning his head.
When Charley was also finished they arose and headed for the door, deliberately ignoring everything on their right. They almost made it. Marshal Poole called to them. He too was standing, but he was straddling the counter bench. They faced around as Marshal Poole said, “I’d like a few words with you gents.”
Boss nodded woodenly. “We’ll be outside.” He opened the door and closed it behind Charley. Marshal Poole was still watching them as they moved toward the edge of the plank-walk to consider the drowning town and countryside. Charley spoke with his back to the cafe. “Sure as hell Baxter talked to him this morning when he brought in his casualties.”
Boss nodded, sucked his teeth, and expectorated into the rising roadway millrace. “Yeah.”
Two women in voluminous skirts that were wet halfway to their knees went northward holding their bonnets. The intermittent whipping wind that had been blowing earlier had now become a constant irritation.
Charley said, “Unless I miss my guess, Boss, he’s not going to want to hear our side of it.”
Boss spat again. “He’s goin’ to, though, whether he wants to or not.”
“When was the last time you got locked inside a jailhouse, Boss?”
Spearman turned his head. “A month or such a matter before I left Texas. You?”
“Never have been and I’m not really lookin’ forward to it this time. Not in Denton Baxter’s town.”
Marshal Poole emerged from the cafe pulling his hat down hard as the wind picked up a little. He was working a toothpick with his left hand as he walked over and eyed the roadway. Without facing the other men or using any preliminary he said, “Mister Baxter swore out a warrant for you two this morning.”
Boss, taking his cue from the lawman, also faced the roadway. “For what?”
“Attempted murder. Four of his riders identified both of you as the ambushers who waylaid them night before last and beat hell out of his foreman and one of his riders.” Finally, Poole spat out the toothpick and twisted from the waist.
Boss met his stare. “We’d like to swear out a warrant too, marshal. That big feller you had in your cells . . . someone shot him from out in the dark without any warning and tried to brain the kid who rides with us.”
“You saw them do that, did you?”
Boss shook his head without explaining why he and Charley had not seen the murder. “The boy survived. After they killed Mose they came into camp, tried t
o kill him too.”
Poole looked thoughtful. “Where is the boy?”
“Up at the doctor’s house. I guess they thought they’d killed him too. They almost did.”
Marshal Poole turned back to gazing into the roadway. “I’ll go talk to him after I lock you two up.”
Boss slowly shook his head at the lawman. “I don’t think so, Mister Poole. You don’t lock nobody up unless you serve our warrant on Baxter and fetch him in to be locked up too. And you don’t go near the boy. He’s sicker’n a dog. No one’s goin’ to badger him. No one.” Boss met the lawman’s steady gaze with one just as steady. “While you’re about it, marshal, you might want to bring in a rider called Gus. Him and that big feller with the busted hip didn’t make no secret about Baxter sendin’ them out to stampede our cattle. They also told us where the other men were—down south to raid our camp. One of those three is a murderer. The other two were with him. One of them tried to brain the boy.”
Marshal Poole said, “You camping here in town?”
Boss nodded. “Got our wagon out behind the livery barn.”
Poole nodded his head. “All right. You won’t be leaving for a while. But you’re plumb welcome to try. Meanwhile I’m goin to round up some possemen, and if I got to smoke you out of your wagon, believe me, Mister Spearman, I’ll do it.”
Marshal Poole stepped down into the swirling tide of swift-racing roadway water and began groping his way toward the other side. Charley and Boss watched his progress. When Poole finally reached the opposite side he did not turn toward his jailhouse office, but northward in the direction of Doctor Barlow’s place. Boss swore and lunged out into the roadway with Charley behind him. Boss’s anger made him careless. Once he fell into a washout and got pretty well soaked before Charley helped him up. He struck out again as though nothing had happened, reached the opposite plank-walk in front of the poolhall, and struck out swiftly to overtake the marshal. Charley had to stretch out to keep up and even then was unable to match Boss’s stride until they were at the little picket fence outside the doctor’s cottage.
Marshal Poole was already on the porch raising his fist to knock, when Boss bellowed at him and whipped up the right side of his poncho.
Poole twisted at the precise moment the door opened behind him and the handsome woman stood in the opening. Charley held his breath. Boss couldn’t fire first because the woman would be directly in his line of fire. If Poole went for his gun, Boss was going to be killed.
Charley moved swiftly in front of Boss as he called to the lawman. “Get away from the door!”
Poole did not move. Behind him the handsome woman did, though; she took one forward step and bumped Marshal Poole with her shoulder. He was not standing squarely on his feet. He had to fling out both arms to keep his balance.
Boss covered the intervening distance swiftly. The woman ignored him to face Poole’s anger. He was struggling to say something when Boss arrived at the foot of the stairs and bellowed at him. “I told you to stay away from the kid!”
The woman glanced briefly at Boss’s darkly angry features before returning her attention to Marshal Poole. She smiled sweetly at him. “Excuse me, marshal. The porch is wet and I slipped.” She paused, then spoke again. “You want to see the boy who was hurt the other night?” Before Marshal Poole could reply she gently shook her head at him. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. My brother gave him an injection to make him sleep. He probably won’t awaken until tomorrow morning.”
The lawman was red in the face. He glared at the woman, still groping for something to say. Charley moved aside so the steps would be unobstructed. At their bottom, Boss still stood like a rooted oak, right hand beneath the drooping folds of his poncho.
The woman’s tawny eyes were perfectly calm as she said, “There’s hot coffee inside, marshal, if you’d care to come in and wait for my brother.”
Poole turned his back on her, stamped down the steps, and did not look back even after he had cleared the picket fence and was walking southward under the full force of the storm. He probably did not even feel the water.
Boss let his right hand hang as he studied the handsome woman. “Lady, don’t ever do anything like that again.”
She gave Boss the same sweet smile. “Come up here out of the rain, Mister Spearman.” She smiled at Charley and moved toward the doorway. After Boss and Charley had dropped their ponchos and entered the house, the woman led them through to a warm, dry kitchen that smelled of freshly baked bread. She pointed to chairs at an old scrubbed table, then went after coffee cups.
They watched everything she did.
When she brought their coffee she said, “My brother was called out an hour or so ago. Would either of you care for fresh cream?”
Neither one of them did. They dropped soggy hats to the floor and hunched around the hot cups gazing at her. Eventually Charley put a hand to his forehead and gently shook his head from side to side.
She smiled at him. “Mister Waite, yelling at him wouldn’t have done any good.”
That was probably true, but bumping into him when he and Boss were a hairsbreadth from shooting was as close as she would ever come in this lifetime to getting shot.
Boss threw himself against the back of the chair, looking at her. “How’s Button, ma’am?”
Her smile faded. She looked into the cup she was holding. She did not have to speak; the change was noticeable to both men. Boss said, “Worse?”
She did not look up when she replied. “No better, Mister Spearman. The fever is burning him up. We tried cold rags without any luck at all.” She finally raised her eyes to them. “He has periods of delirium when he talks about everything under the sun. Do either of you know a man named Butler? I think he has a broken arm. My brother set a broken arm for a man he’d never seen before last week.”
Boss shook his head, but Charley’s eyes narrowed a little. “Butler . . . Boss, one of those men Mose beat in the store got his arm broken. Lady, what about Butler?”
“Button said the name several times. He seemed to be saying a man named Butler was trying to pull him off the tailgate of a wagon with one arm yelling to someone to help him.”
Charley stared at Boss Spearman. “He did see them. I know what he told us; he didn’t see them. But he did and he heard a name. Boss, one of those fellers who jumped Mose at the store got a broken arm.” Charley leaned to pick up his hat before arising. “The storekeeper where they had the fight might know the name of the man who got his arm busted.”
Sue did not try to delay them. She went out where they shrugged into their ponchos and looked at the leaden, low sky as she said, “I’ll tell Walt you were here. He’ll be interested.”
Chapter Ten
No Letup
The downpour still had not slackened. There was every indication that it wouldn’t for a long time as Charley and Boss stood on the edge of the west-side plankwalk trying to guess from eddying dark whirlpools exactly where the deepest washouts were.
On the opposite side of the road several loafers were standing beneath a leaky wooden overhang out front of the abstract office, watching Spearman and Waite. One cupped his hands, yelled, then gestured. Charley waved back and stepped down into the water. Its force was greater than he’d expected. He had to lean and grab an upright until his feet were braced, then he cautiously started forward.
The loafers moved across the flooded duck-boards to watch as Boss also stepped down. He had seen Charley’s close call and clung to the overhang upright until he was ready to start ahead.
They were unable to cross directly toward the watchers; the torrent was too strong, so they angled southward and were midway across when a shout from the loafers made them stop and turn. Coming into town from the north was a stagecoach whose driver was standing up trying to line out his four-horse hitch so as to avoid the most obvious whirlpools.
The driver was holding his hitch to a slow walk. The horses had the water’s force behind them. Because they sensed dange
r, they were feeling their way. A hundred yards southward men were standing out front of the corralyard office. They were the yardmen and the manager of the stage company.
Boss yelled above the noise of the downpour. “Let ’em pass, Charley.”
Waite was already past the center of the road and would have to back up to do this. He watched the big stage for a moment, then risked two long steps forward so the coach could pass between them.
The driver saw them but gave no sign of it. His only interest at the moment was avoiding two-foot-deep washouts. If his horses did not step into such a hole, one or two of his coach wheels might. If that occurred it was very possible his stage would go over on its side.
There were passengers leaning out on both sides, getting drenched, but because they recognized the more immediate danger of capsizing, they were ignoring the water.
The whip was a short, wiry man wearing a poncho over a coat. He looked twice as broad as he actually was. Charley saw the man’s right cheek bulging from a cud of tobacco.
Boss halted, legs spread. Opposite him with room enough for the coach to pass between them, Charley was turning back by inching one foot at a time, feeling for sound footing. The thoroughly engrossed loafers were like statues on the eastside plankwalk.
The offside lead horse was a high-headed, big, powerful beast who was probably bay but right now looked either dark brown or black. His nostrils were distended as he felt his way ahead with both eyes bulging.
He was not watching the water. None of the horses were; they were concentrating on their footing. Dead ahead of the bug-eyed big leader was a whirlpool. Charley cupped his hands to yell to the driver to haul to the right. The driver either did not hear him or did not see the whirlpool. He was feeling the temperament of his horses through the lines and squinting over their heads in the direction of the corralyard.
Charley yelled again. This time the whip flicked him a glance, then ignored him to peer straight ahead from beneath his droopy hat brim. He did not have much farther to go, about a hundred yards.
