by Matt Braun
If it wasn’t so infuriating he might have laughed. The fact that they paid him to waste his time and effort only made it more absurd. Like a dog chasing its tail, he had accomplished nothing.
Judge Muse brought him back to the present with a sharp rap on the table. “We’re fighting for nothing less than our very lives! Everything we possess has been poured into this town. Speaking quite frankly, Deputy, I think that demands some added effort on your part also.”
Tonk Hazeltine gave him a glum scowl. “I already said my piece. Trouble with you fellers is you’re makin’ a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Like hell we are!” Spivey replied hotly. “This town’ll be swamped with Texans today, and if I know them they won’t miss a chance to hooraw things good and proper. It’s our election, but odds are they’ll use it as an excuse to pull Newton up by the roots.”
“Which could disrupt the voting,” Muse added, “and easily jeopardize whatever chance we have of defeating the bond issue.”
Hazeltine said nothing, merely staring back at them. Spivey and the judge looked nonplused, but it was all the Irishman could do to keep from grinning. What he had suspected from the outset was now quite apparent. The lawman was all bluff, and he plainly wasn’t overjoyed by the prospect of cracking down on the cowhands. Muse and Spivey had blinded themselves to the truth, staking their hopes on his much publicized reputation. Right now he was the only law the town had, and they couldn’t see past the glitter of his tin star.
The silence thickened and after a moment Spivey glanced over at the Irishman. “What d’ya think, Mike? Isn’t there some way we could keep the lid on till after the votin’ is done with?”
“Why the hell you askin’ him?” Bailey snarled. “The only thing he ever give Texans was a hard time, and you’d better believe they ain’t forgot it neither.”
Judge Muse raised his hand in a curbing gesture. “Mr. Bailey, may I remind you that you and Mr. McCluskie were deputized in an effort to even things out. You’re a Texan, and you should be able to reason with them if things get out of hand. Mr. McCluskie, on the other hand, is versed in—shall we say, keeping the peace—and that, too, has its place. All things considered, it seems like a good combination.”
“Like hell!” Bailey rasped, edging forward in his chair. “You turn him loose with a badge and I guaran-damn-tee you there’s gonna be trouble. He’s got it in for Texans and everybody knows it.”
McCluskie pulled out the makings and started building a smoke. “There’s only one Texan I’m on the lookout for, and you’re sittin’ in his chair.”
“You’re gonna get it sooner’n you think.” Bailey half rose to his feet, then thought better of it and hastily sat down. “That goes for your snot-nosed side-kick, too.”
The Irishman fired up his cigarette and took a deep drag. Then he tossed the match aside and smiled, exhaling smoke. “Bailey, you monkey with me and I’ll put a leak in your ticker. Any time you think different, you just try me.”
Spivey broke in before the Texan could frame an answer. “Now everybody just simmer down. Whatever personal grudge you’ve got is between you two. But for God’s sake, let’s keep the peace today. C’mon now, what d’ya say? Do I have your word on that—both of you?”
When neither man responded, the saloonkeeper hurried on as though it were all settled. “Good. Now, Mike, you never did answer my question. What do we do to keep the lid on?”
McCluskie puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. “Where’s the votin’ booth? Horner’s Store, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. What with it bein’ just north of the tracks, we figured it was handy to everybody concerned.”
“Yeah, that sounds reasonable.” The Irishman took a swipe at his mustache, mulling some thought a moment longer. “Way I see it, the thing to do is to keep the cowhands from crossin’ the tracks in any big bunches. Hazeltine could watch over Horner’s, and me and Bailey could patrol opposite sides of the street down on the southside. That way if any trouble starts we could close in on it from three sides. Oughtn’t to be that much of a problem if we handle it right.”
Hazeltine stiffened in his chair and glared around at Spivey. “Who’s callin’ the shots here, me or him?”
McCluskie chuckled and flipped his cigarette in the direction of a spittoon. “Tonk, the man just asked for some advice. I wouldn’t have the job on a bet.”
Spivey nodded vigorously, looking from one to the other. “Course, you’re callin’ the shots, Tonk. Wouldn’t have it any other way. But you’ll have to admit, he’s got a pretty good idea.”
The deputy pursed his lips and shrugged with a great show of reluctance. “Yeah, I guess so. Probably wouldn’t hurt none for me to stick close to that votin’ booth.”
McCluskie wiped his mouth to hide a grin. Wouldn’t hurt none. What a joke! The sorry devil had been oozing sweat at the thought of patrolling the southside. Holed up in Horner’s was just his speed. Likely what he had intended doing all along.
Judge Muse climbed to his feet, smiling affably. “Then it’s all settled. Gentlemen, I’m happy to see we’ve reached an accord. I, for one, have a feeling this is going to be a red-letter day in the history of Newton.”
The men pushed out of their chairs, standing, and Bailey’s gut gave off a thunderous rumble. Someone suggested breakfast and the others quickly agreed. Despite Randolph Muse’s optimistic forecast, they shared a hunch that it wasn’t a day to be faced on an empty stomach.
Walking back to the hotel, McCluskie couldn’t shake an edgy feeling about Bailey. The man was a loudmouth and a bully, but he was no coward. Not that he wouldn’t backshoot somebody if that seemed the best way. He would and probably had. Yet even that took a certain amount of sand, and Bailey had his share.
The Irishman wasn’t worried about himself. Characters like Bailey were strictly penny-ante, and there was a certain savor in beating them at their own game. But the threat against the kid was another matter altogether. It was very real, and Bailey had ample reason to want the youngster dead. Making a fool of a hardcase, who had set himself up as bull-of-the-woods, was a risky sport. It could get a man—or a boy—gunned down in a dark alley. Or in bed. Or just about any place where he least expected it.
Thinking of the kid made him chuckle, but it was amusement heavily larded with concern. These days the button was cocky as a young rooster. That he had shaded Bailey on the draw was only part of it. Mostly it had to do with a girl named Sugar, and the fact that she had become his regular girl. Not that she was his alone, but she came as close as she could. Sugar was one of Belle’s girls, and Belle was a businesswoman first and last, and even for the kid her generosity had certain limits. After listening to McCluskie’s arguments she had agreed to a compromise of sorts. Sugar could see the kid all she wanted on her off time, and so long as he made a definite appointment at night, Belle wouldn’t use the girl for the parlor trade. Otherwise Sugar would work the same as usual, which meant that she was the boy’s private stock, but only about halfway.
The kid wasn’t exactly overjoyed by the arrangement, yet he couldn’t help but strut his stuff the least little bit. Sugar had a knack about her, there was no denying that. She had convinced him that he was the only real man in her life, and every time they were together, he came away fairly prancing. What they had wasn’t just the way he wanted it, but it was far more than he’d ever had before. Life had dealt him enough low blows so that having Sugar, even on a part-time basis, seemed like a stroke of luck all done up in a fancy ribbon. The way he talked it was as if the bitter and the sweet had finally equaled out. He was happy as a pig in mud, only he couldn’t stop wishing the wallow was his alone.
When McCluskie entered the room, he found the kid standing before the mirror, practicing his draw. Every day the boy got a shade faster, but smooth along with it, as though somebody had slapped a liberal dose of grease on a streak of chain-lightning. The Irishman felt a little like God, profoundly awed at what he had wrought.
Kinch saw him
in the mirror and turned, holstering the Colt in one slick motion. “Just practicin’ a little. I been waitin’ breakfast for you.”
“Already had mine.” McCluskie cocked his thumb and forefinger and gestured at the pistol. “You’ve got yourself honed down to a pretty fine edge. What’s the sense if you won’t shoot nothin’ but tin cans?”
“Same song, second verse. You’re talkin’ about Bailey again, aren’t you?”
“That’ll do for openers.”
“Mike, I done told you fifty zillion times. I had him cold. There wasn’t no need to shoot him. He was froze tighter’n an icicle.”
“There’s some men that would’ve dusted you on both sides while you was standin’ there admirin’ how fast you were. You try pullin’ a fool stunt like that again and the jasper you’re facin’ might just be the one that proves it to you.”
“Okay, professor.” The kid smiled and threw up his hands to ward off the lecture. “You don’t have to keep beatin’ me over the head with it. I got the idea.”
“Yeah, but have you got the stomach for it? I’ve been tellin’ you not to wear that gun unless you mean to use it next time. So far you’ve given me a lot of talk but you haven’t said anything.”
“Awright, I’m sayin’ it. Next time I won’t hold off.”
McCluskie eyed him skeptically. “Sometimes I think it was a mistake to give you that gun. Might have saved us all a pile of grief.”
“You lost me. Where’s the grief in me packin’ a gun?”
“I just came from a meetin’ with the big nabobs.” The Irishman hesitated, turning it over in his head, and decided there was nothing to be gained in holding back. “Bailey was there and he started makin’ noises about nailin’ you. Course, he’s been makin’ the same brag all over town, so it’s not exactly news. But it’s past the talkin’ stage now. He’ll have to make his play soon.”
“Aren’t you and him gonna be workin’ together today?”
“Now what’s that got to do with the price of tea?”
“Nothin’. I was just thinkin’ I might tag along with you.”
McCluskie grunted, shaking his head. “Bud, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Bailey knows better than to mess with me. It’s you he’s after.”
“Still wouldn’t do no harm.”
“Maybe. But we’ll never find out. I want you to stick close to the room today. I’ll have the cafe send up your meals.”
“Aw, cripes a’mighty, Mike. I’m not a kid no more. If he’s spoilin’ for a fight it might as well be sooner as later.”
The Irishman studied him a moment, weighing the alternatives. “No soap. I’ll sic you on him when I’m convinced you won’t hold off pullin’ the trigger. Meantime, you keep your butt in this room. Savvy?”
Kinch spun away and kicked a chair halfway across the room. “Horseapples!”
McCluskie walked to the door, then turned and glanced back. “How’s your cough today?”
The kid wouldn’t look at him. “Why, you writin’ a book or somethin’?”
“Keep your dauber up, sport. There’s better days ahead.”
The door closed softly behind him and an oppressive silence fell over the room. Kinch flung himself down on the bed and just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Then he felt the first tingle deep down in his throat.
He waited, knotting his fists, wondering what his lungs would spew up this morning.
* * *
Shortly after the noon hour Hugh Anderson and his crew rode into town. McCluskie saw them pull up and dismount before the Red Front Saloon, and his scalp went prickly all of a sudden. That explained it. Why things had been so quiet all morning. The Texans crowding the saloons up and down the street had been biding their time. Waiting for the big dog himself to start the show.
Anderson and his hands were the bane of every cowtown in Kansas. They were wild and loud, rambunctious in the way of overgrown boys testing their manhood. Only their pranks sometimes got out of hand, and they had a tendency to see how far a town could be pushed before it stood up and fought back. Their leader was an arrogant young smart aleck, the son of a Texas cattle baron, and he had developed quite a reputation for devising new ways to hooraw Kansas railheads. Worse yet, he fancied himself as something of a gunslinger, and had an absolute gift for provoking senseless shootouts.
McCluskie knew what was coming and headed toward the tracks at a fast clip. Crossing Fourth, he scanned the street for Bailey, meaning to give him the high sign, but the Texan was nowhere in sight. Before he could reach the next corner, men began boiling out of saloons and Anderson’s crew was quickly joined by another forty or fifty cowhands. There was considerable shouting and arm waving, and suddenly the crowd split and everybody raced for their horses. The Irishman jerked his pistol and took off at a dead run.
But he was no match for them afoot, and they thundered across the tracks even as he passed the hotel. Townspeople were lined up outside Horner’s Store waiting to vote and the Texans barreled down on them like a band of howling Indians. Anderson opened fire first, splintering the sign over the bank, and within moments it sounded as if a full scale war had broken out. Glass shattered, lead whanged through the high false-front structures overhead, and above it all came the shrill Rebel yells of Texans on the rampage.
Most of the town had gathered to watch the balloting, and now they stampeded before the cowhands like scalded dogs. Women clutched their children and ran screaming along the street, while men scattered and leaped into nearby doorways seeking shelter. The Texans made a clean sweep up North Main, laughing and whooping and drilling holes through anything that even faintly resembled a target. Then they whirled their ponies and came charging back toward the tracks.
Tonk Hazeltine made the mistake of stepping out of Horner’s Store just at that moment. Had he remained inside the cowhands would probably have kept on going, satisfied that they had taught the Yankee bloodsuckers a lesson. But the sight of a tin star was a temptation too great to resist.
Hugh Anderson skidded his horse to a halt, and the Texans reined in behind him, cloaked in a billowing cloud of dust. Hazeltine stood his ground on the boardwalk, watching and saying nothing as they walked their horses toward him. When they stopped, Anderson hooked one leg over his saddlehorn and grinned, gesturing toward the deputy.
“Well now, looka here what we caught ourselves, boys. A real live peace officer. Shiny badge and all.”
The Texans thought it a rare joke and burst out in fits of laughter. Circling around behind them, McCluskie saw the lawman’s face redden but couldn’t tell if he said anything or not. It occurred to him that Hazeltine was probably too scared to draw his gun. Still, if he could just get the drop on them from behind it might shake the deputy out of his funk. Once they had the cowhands covered front and rear that would most likely put an end to it.
McCluskie raised his pistol but all at once cold steel jabbed him in the back of the neck. With it came the metallic whirr of a hammer being thumbed back and a grated command.
“Unload it, Irish! Otherwise I’ll scatter your brains all over Kingdom Come.”
One of McCluskie’s cardinal rules was that a man never argued with a gun at his head. Slowly, keeping his hand well in sight, he lowered the Colt and dropped it in the street. Then he stood very still.
There was no need to look around. Bill Bailey’s voice was one in a hundred. Maybe even a thousand.
With or without a cocked pistol.
CHAPTER 11
BAILEY MARCHED the Irishman forward, nudging him in the backbone every couple of steps with the pistol. The cowhands’ attention was distracted from Hazeltine for a moment, and they turned in their saddles to watch this curious little procession. McCluskie looked straight ahead, ignoring their stares, and took his lead from the jabs in his spine. They circled around the skittish ponies and came to a halt before Hugh Anderson.
“What’ve you got there, Billy?” Anderson was casually rolling himself a smoke. “Another lawdog?”
>
“He’s the one I told you about. Pride and joy of the Santee Fe. Ain’t you, Irish?”
McCluskie kept his mouth shut, coolly inspecting Anderson. The Texan was older than he expected. Pushing thirty, with a bulge around his beltline that spoke well of beans and sowbelly and rotgut whiskey. A hard drinker, clearly a man with a taste for the fast life. But for all the lard he was packing, there was nothing soft about him. His face looked like it had been carved out of seasoned hickory, and back deep in his eyes there was a peculiar glint, feverish and piercing.
All of a sudden McCluskie decided to play it very loose. He had seen that look before. Cold and inscrutable, but alert. The look of a man who enjoyed dousing cats with coal oil just to watch them burn.
“McCluskie.” The word came out flat and toneless. Anderson flicked a sulphurhead across his saddlehorn and lit the cigarette.
“You’re the one that had everybody walkin’ on eggshells back in Abilene.”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Bailey crowed. “The big tough Mick. Leastways he thinks he is.”
“Bailey, whatever I am,” McCluskie observed softly, “I don’t switch sides in the middle of a fight.”
“He’s got you there, Billy.” Anderson smiled but there was no humor in his eyes. “Folks hereabouts are gonna start callin’ you a turncoat, sure as hell.”
“No such thing,” Bailey declared hotly. “I just played along, that’s all. So’s you boys would get the lowdown.”
He rammed McCluskie in the spine with the gun barrel. “You smart-mouth sonovabitch, I oughta fix your wagon right now.”
Anderson laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Hold off there, Billy. We can’t have people sayin’ we go around murderin’ folks. Besides, I got a better idea.” His gaze settled on McCluskie and the odd light flickered a little brighter. “You. Trot it on over there beside jellyguts.”
The Irishman’s expression betrayed nothing. He walked forward, mounted the boardwalk, and took a position alongside Hazeltine. The deputy shot him a nervous glance, but just then he couldn’t be bothered. His attention was focused on Anderson.
