Valance laughed harshly. “Ray, you like money well enough, but you got no stomach for doing what it takes to get it.”
“Go on,” Wallford said. “We’ll take care of this one. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more. I like the idea you have. You’re a smart man, Ray. Just hang on and you’ll be in the money.”
After Hayden left, Cherry asked in disgust, “Why do you keep feeding him that line? You don’t like him any better than I do.”
“I don’t like anyone,” Wallford corrected. “Even you have to admit he’s useful. He’s like a horse or a shovel, Cherry. We’ll use him up, then replace him.”
“And that goes for me, too, I guess?” Cherry grinned, shaking his head. “You’re a hard one, Jason. I never saw a harder one.”
Wallford didn’t answer. “When he wakes up, find out what he knows. He’ll have to be killed if he could get in the way.”
He moved toward the door and turned to the left. He never saw the form of the woman who stood in the shadows outside Valance’s office. Maureen had brought an IOU from Prentiss, one of the gamblers. She had paused when she had heard Dooley Young mentioned. Her face grew pale as she listened, and her heart beat wildly. Aware of the danger to herself if anyone caught her helping him, she slipped out of the club by a side entrance and started running.
****
Mark and Jeff dug into the stew that Lola set before them with the appetites of two men who had not eaten since breakfast. Jude came in while they were eating and pulled up a chair to join them. “How’s the UP doing, Mark?” he asked as he filled his plate.
“Got some rough sledding ahead, Jude.”
Having worked as a grading foreman for the Union for years, Jude understood the problems, and as the meal went on, Mark found himself talking freely. Every now and then he would glance at Jeff, who never took his eyes off Lola—it was clear to Mark that he was still in love with her. He realized that Driver was the kind of man who would not move easily from one woman to another. A man such as Jeff would carry the grief of her rejection all his life.
Mark ventured, “How’s the church doing, Jude? This is a pretty rough place.”
Jude agreed, his reddish hair and beard taking up the light from the lamp. “The world’s a rough place, Mark—as I suppose you know. But for the gospel, it’s a more fruitful ground here in Bryant than in the most prosperous district of New York.”
Mark was interested. He was a man of great vigor himself, and he saw that same quality in the preacher. “How do you figure that?”
“Because in the more genteel parts of the world, people think they’re all right with God if they behave in a civilized manner. Never occurs to most people that the sin of greed is just as black to God as the sin of adultery. Out here you don’t have to convince a man he’s a sinner. Every one of them knows that.”
“That’s right,” Driver said quietly. “All you have to do here is convince him he’s got to do something about it.”
Lola stopped and put her hand on Jeff’s shoulder. She smiled at him warmly, saying, “You’ve changed since you made up your mind to follow God, Jeff.”
Driver met Mark’s astonished gaze and laughed ruefully. “Guess you never noticed. I suppose it takes a while for that kind of a thing to show through.”
“I’m glad for you, Jeff,” Mark said quickly. “I’m still a lost sheep myself, but I know you’ve done the right thing.”
Lola opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a loud knocking on the door. She turned and went to open it, and Maureen practically fell into her arms. “Maureen! What’s the matter?” she cried.
“It’s Dooley!” the girl gasped. She was out of breath from her run, her face pale. She gasped, “They’re going to kill him! Mr. Winslow—you’ve got to help him.”
Mark sprang from his chair. “Where is he, Maureen?” he demanded as he buckled on his gun belt.
“In Cherry’s office! Oh, hurry!”
Mark and Jeff left the church at a dead run. They rounded the corner and plunged into the crowd that milled around, knocking men aside recklessly and ignoring their curses.
“What is it, Mr. Winslow?” Mark looked down to see Terry McGivern’s stocky form running beside him. “Is it trouble?”
“Yes! Round up as many UP hands as you can get—bring them to the Wagonwheel!”
“It’ll be quicker than you think!” McGivern cried out, and he wheeled and began shouting, “You Union terriers—come on for a bit of fun!” and at once men began running to join him.
Jeff pulled Mark to a sudden halt. “Wait a minute,” he said urgently. “Let Terry get some of the boys here. There’s just the two of us—”
“No time, Jeff,” Mark snapped and rammed his way into the Wagonwheel without hesitation. Jeff followed him, his eyes pin-pointing a dozen men who would obey any order given by Cherry Valance.
Lou Goldman was standing at the bar, and Mark spotted him immediately. He walked straight up to him, stopping four feet away. “Where’s Cherry, Lou?” he demanded.
“Cherry?” Goldman mumbled. “He ain’t here right now.”
“You’re a liar, Lou,” Mark said. He was poised, ready to fight, and his eyes locked on Goldman. “Take exception to the remark?”
Goldman, usually a man of instant temper, had gauged Winslow’s mood. He drew himself up straight, kept his hand away from his gun, and said, “No. I’ll just remember it.”
“Go put on a nightgown, Goldman!” Mark laughed harshly. He waited for Goldman’s reaction, but the gunman clamped his lips together and said nothing.
As Mark wheeled and walked toward the rear door, Goldman’s hand flashed for his gun. The clear sound of a gun being cocked prevented him from carrying out his evil intention. His head swiveled to see Jeff Driver training a Colt on his heart.
Driver remarked easily, “We played this once before, didn’t we, Lou?”
Goldman saw several of his men waiting for his signal, but he never gave it.
“What we waiting for, Lou?” Dent Conroy snapped from Driver’s left, more than ready to put a bullet in him.
Driver paid him no attention, but kept his dark eyes fixed on the face of Lou Goldman. “Your boss is tryin’ to figure out if it’s a good day to die, Conroy,” he said evenly.
There was a sudden sound of shouting in the rear, and then a scuffling. Driver knew he was in a bad spot and hoped that help would come, when Mark reappeared in the opening. He had Dooley slung over his shoulder, and Jeff noticed the bloody face of the little man as Mark walked toward him.
He held Dooley in place with one hand and drew his gun with the other. “Where’s Cherry, Lou?”
Goldman’s face was pale, and he shook his head. “He left about ten minutes ago, Winslow. That’s all I know.”
A loud crash preceded McGivern and a small mob of his tracklayers as they barged into the Wagonwheel. “I’ve got a few of me best here, Mister Winslow,” Terry said with a bright smile. He was eager to fight, and added, “Now if you’d like for me and the boys to do a little demolition—”
Mark kept his gaze on Goldman as he replied. “I’m taking Dooley to the doctor. I’ll be back as soon as I get that done.” A silence came over the place, and Mark’s eyes seemed to glitter in the yellow lamp light. He let the silence run on until it was almost painful.
“When I come back, Lou,” he said softly, but with a barely disguised ferocity, “I’m going to kill you. And Cherry, too. As for the two in the back who were doing the beating—I’m going to hang them on the lamppost outside.”
Driver glanced around the room and saw that every man in the saloon was absolutely certain that Mark Winslow meant every word he was saying. Goldman said nothing, and Mark turned and stalked out of the room. Driver backed out and joined Mark, who headed for the doctor’s office.
“Is he alive?” Driver asked.
“He’s breathing,” Mark said tersely.
They found the doctor, a tall, thin man named Sanders. Mark said,
“Get to work, Doc.”
Sanders took a quick look at Dooley. “I’ll have to cut his shirt off. This arm may be broken.” He began to work, the sight of Dooley’s crushed and bloody face causing him to shake his head.
Finally he was finished, and they came out of the room into his outer office, where they found Jude, Lola and Maureen.
“Is he all right?” Maureen whispered.
Sanders told them, “He’s had a bad beating—his nose is broken and some ribs are cracked—but he’s better off than I thought at first.”
Maureen began to cry, and Lola put her arms around her, comforting her. Jude said, “It’s all over town, Mark, what you said to Goldman. Wait for a while before you do anything. Get some help.”
Mark gave him a defiant look, shaking his head. “I’m going to rub them out, Jude.”
“Mark,” Lola said. “Don’t go. You’ll just end up killing each other.”
Mark’s face was set, and there was a cruelty in it that neither Lola nor the others had ever seen.
“Stay off the streets,” he warned, walking out the door.
Mark found McGivern and a milling crowd of Irishmen. “Come with me,” he said. With a yell they fell in behind him. He led them to Simms’ hardware store, which was still open. Willard Simms’ eyes grew large as the store filled up with the yelling tracklayers. “Get your guns out, Willard,” Mark said. “The Union’s paying for them.”
A shout rang out, and Simms began handing out rifles, shotguns and handguns, along with ammunition. When he ran out, the rest of the mob grabbed axe handles. “Send the bill to me, Willard,” Mark said, then turned and led the way down the street.
Word had gotten out, and Driver saw at once that it was going to be an all-out war. A rifle shot rang out, and a man dropped to his right. Driver pulled his trigger and laid his shot on the flash, and then a fusillade of shots broke the night air. The Union men scrambled for cover, and Mark ducked into a doorway, trying to see the lay of the situation.
Most of the shots from Cherry’s men rained down from the windows across the street. “Lay your fire on that,” he shouted, as soon as he had organized the track hands into some kind of orderly line. They moved down the street, some of them falling, but the shooting was too intense to last long.
“They’re breaking!” Jeff shouted.
“Close up! Close up!” Mark ordered, and they continued down the road, firing at the retreating men.
It turned into a brutal slugfest, with men falling beneath the blows of ax handles or the barrels of rifles. Lights gleamed out of a second story window and several of Valance’s men appeared, and began targeting the Irishmen. Mark knocked one of them back with his last shot, then others threw a withering fire on the snipers, driving them back.
The fight raged down the street, leaving dead and wounded in its path and inside the buildings. Cherry’s men were pinned in and were forced to throw down their guns.
“I don’t see Cherry—or Goldman,” Jeff shouted.
“They’re here . . . somewhere,” Mark answered. “We’ll search every building.”
They moved down the street, but found no sign of the two men. Finally Mark relented. “All right. That’s it.”
“What’ll we do with these birds, Mr. Winslow?” Terry asked, waving his hand at the captives.
“Lock them up somewhere,” Mark said. He was weary to the bone and turned to walk away. Driver joined him, and the two men made their way slowly down the street. They were almost at the end of the main street when Lola and Maureen appeared. Without warning, a shot rang out—then another. Mark felt the hiss of one slug close to his head and pulled his gun. He heard Lola cry out Jeff’s name as more shots filled the air. One of them raked across Mark’s neck, stinging like a wasp, but he stood upright and began to fire at the riders who had appeared from behind a corner.
The ambush could not last because McGivern and others were coming, aiming their bullets at the men on horseback. There was an angry cry, and Mark heard Goldman’s threat, “We’ll get you yet, Winslow!” before the horses wheeled and thundered away.
Mark put his gun away, turned and saw Lola kneeling beside Driver. He went to her side and knelt. “Jeff—is it bad? Where’d they get you?”
Even in the darkness, by the dim light of the lanterns hanging on the buildings, he could see that Driver was shot to pieces.
“Mark—” he said weakly as he struggled to raise his head.
“Take it easy, Jeff,” Mark said. “We’ll get you to the doctor.”
Driver coughed and blood filled his mouth. Lola wiped his face, crying silently.
Everyone was quiet, and when Jeff spoke weakly, Mark leaned forward to catch his words.
“We . . . had some good . . . times, didn’t we—Mark?”
Mark nodded, his throat tight. “Sure did.”
Driver’s head was resting on Lola’s lap, and he looked up into her face. There was no strength in him, but his gaze remained steady. “Lola . . . thanks . . . for telling me . . . about Jesus.”
He took a deep breath, and his eyes closed momentarily. Suddenly, he glanced up. “Mark . . . ?”
“Yes, Jeff.”
“Take . . . care of yourself.”
Mark took the dying man’s hand and held it. “Thanks, Jeff. You saved my life. . . .”
Jeff nodded and a smile touched his bloody lips. “Glad of that . . .” His eyes closed as pain racked through his body. Then he slowly opened them again. “Mark . . . ?”
“Jeff? What is it?”
“Take care . . . of Lola, Mark!” He tried to lift his arms, but found he couldn’t. “Mark . . . try to believe . . . in Jesus!” he gasped, his eyes intent on his friend. With a final shudder, he relaxed, his dark head falling limply onto Lola’s lap.
She held him as she would have held a child who was hurt, tears streaming down her face.
Mark Winslow’s throat was dry. He got to his feet and discovered that his legs were trembling so badly he could barely stand. Taking a deep breath, he walked down the street, a tall, lonely figure, disappearing into the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Late Buggy Ride
The bloody clash between the gamblers and Winslow’s tracklayers made few headlines, but the once-small cemetery outside of Bear River City looked like plowed earth for a time as the town laid nine more men to rest. The saloons that didn’t close down became almost as circumspect as a town hall meeting. This was partly due to the fact that Reed and Casement drove the men night and day as they attacked the Wasatch territory, trying to get as much steel laid as possible before the winter storms struck.
But the iron-fisted control of Winslow had more to do with the demise of the saloons than the railwork. The night of violence had left Mark a hard man. When he was not out on a mission for Reed, he personally rode the streets where he would squelch the least sign of trouble with fists or guns. He treated both customers and owners alike, and when there was a shooting in Nolan Gipson’s saloon, it was Gipson who was almost killed by Mark’s bullet.
Dooley healed quickly and was ready to go gunning down the men who had beaten him, but Mark put a halt to that. Lola had insisted on watching over the little rider while he recuperated, and Mark stopped by in mid-morning to check on his progress. He found Dooley dressed and raring to go, despite a tender nose and sore ribs.
“Captain,” he greeted Mark as soon as Lola admitted him. “Guess I’m ready for work. If I keep on eatin’ Lola’s cookin’ I’ll get fat as a possum.”
Lola laughed, but remarked seriously, “You ought to wait for a while, Dooley. Doctor Sanders says your ribs aren’t completely healed.”
“Aw, if I felt any better I’d have to take medicine for it,” Dooley said. “Lemme get my coat and I’m ready for trouble.”
“You’re looking tired, Mark,” Lola observed after Dooley left. It was not so much fatigue, but rather a hard edge that etched lines on his face. The death of Jeff Driver had taken something out of h
im. His spirit weighed heavy, and his eyes were grim. And if Driver’s death had taken something out of him, it had also put something in, and it was this that Lola deplored. Mark had always been a tough man, but now there was a ruthlessness in him, a quality very close to cruelty. She had heard stories of his heavy-handed application of rough justice, and now as she looked at him, she could believe it.
He answered her briefly, “Working hard, I guess.”
She hesitated, wanting to say something to him, but not certain how to put it. Finally she said, “Mark, don’t let Jeff’s death destroy you.”
He gave her a swift, intolerant glance. “You think I ought to forget it? Act like it never happened?”
“You could never do that,” she said quietly. “If I live to be an old woman I’ll still carry the memory of Jeff with me. That’s the only way we can give him anything, Mark.”
“What about the ones who killed him?” he asked harshly. “Don’t you have memories of them, Lola?” Anger scored the planes of his wedge-shaped face, and he clenched his fists together. “They’re alive and he’s dead. You expect me to just pass that by?”
“I don’t expect you to, Mark,” Lola said, “but it’s what you ought to do.”
“Forgive my enemies? Turn the other cheek?”
She faced him fully. “That’s what Jesus said, Mark. The men that killed Jeff will have to answer to God.”
“They’ll have to answer to me first,” he said thickly. The rage that had exploded in him after Jeff’s death had settled into a seething hatred that lay heavy in him, never asleep for a moment. He tried to make her understand, aware his reaction hurt her. “Lola, it’s different for you. You’re a woman and you have all the gentleness that a woman should have. But a man has to stand for what’s right. If I let Jeff’s killers go, I’d never know a moment’s peace.”
“And how much peace do you have now, Mark?” she asked gently, her eyes on his.
He had no answer for her. The restlessness that had driven him since the end of the war and the breakup of the old order of his life he had learned to live with. But the constant demands of his job had drained his natural good humor, and now the death of Jeff Driver had sucked him dry of the little goodness he’d possessed. He knew he had become a sour, unforgiving man—but even as he stood there, recognizing that he had none of the peace she mentioned, he had no power to cast off his driving thirst for revenge.
The Union Belle Page 30
