by T. T. Flynn
A quick caution touched Frank. He met Hans-bro’s stare, wondering if the man had some covert knowledge of Alec Waggoman’s sight. Smiling, he said, “Always interested in the health of friends.” The vague bristle of warning persisted, and Frank brought into sharp focus all he’d ever heard about Hansbro.
Moodily Dave reached for his bottle, and Hans-bro spoke under his breath warningly, “Slow there.”
“Tend to your own drinking,” Dave retorted sulkily.
“Alec’s in town.” Hansbro had gone quietly persuasive. “We oughta take on some grub. He’ll want us to ride back with him.”
Indecisively Dave eyed the bottle, and said irritably, “I’ll have this one first.” He did so, and tossed a gold eagle on the bar, scooped up his change, and said irritably, “Well, let’s eat.”
As the two men walked out, Frank considered an astonishing fact: Dave didn’t want to—Hansbro made him—
He paid and moved toward the door, pondering this new, important knowledge, and an unexpected handclap on the back almost drove an annoyed oath from him.
“My boy, ’tis a miracle, no less!”
Frank thought dismally, How much will this cost me? His smile was an effort as he turned. “Hello, Jubal.”
Barbara’s father had a bush of rumpled hair—Irish-black hair—and a clean-shaven look of raffish, ingenious charm. Jubal was chewing a clove; his hand had dropped to Frank’s arm with a proprietary grip. Knowing grins along the bar made Frank’s smile more strained.
Jubal Kirby always reduced Frank Darrah to a smolder. The man was worthless, unreliable, good-for-nothing. Yet everyone liked Jubal. His raffish twinkle usually started other men smiling. The completely flamboyant and airy lack of responsibility in the man became, against all reason, a kind of virtue. Jubal’s humor and anecdotes were inexhaustible. He’d been the gayest of blades, prodigal with money. Now he had no money—and Jubal seemed to enjoy life even more.
Smoldering now, Frank thought, No wonder Alec Waggoman hasn’t any use for him. And because of Barbara, Frank knew he must stand smiling, ignoring the grins at the bar.
He said significantly, “Barbara’s back. She came by way of the salt lakes. Fortunately nothing happened to her.”
Slowly Jubal put another clove between his lips. A vague unease seemed to touch him briefly. “Barbara see any trouble at the lakes?”
“She didn’t speak of it.”
Jubal’s lingering gaze became blandly innocent. At times Jubal seemed to have an oddly smiling, Buddhalike understanding which made Frank vaguely uncomfortable. He had the feeling now. Holding the false smile was an increasing effort.
“I’m needed back at the store,” Frank said bluntly. Jubal moved with him, holding Frank’s arm in the irritating, proprietary way. All Jubal’s smiling and raffish geniality had returned.
“As I said, my boy, miracles are with us. Would you believe when I stepped away from the table back there, a trifle short of cash at the moment, I held jacks-up and three in the hole?”
Frank muttered, “Hardly a miracle.”
Jubal chortled. “The miracle, my boy, was in seeing you at that exact, heart-rending moment. There you stood, a fine handsome young man of tact and generous understanding—”
Frank wanted to swear and pull away. He muttered instead, helplessly, “How much, Jubal?” And he almost groaned at the amused, assured calculation Jubal turned on him.
Moments later, outside on the boardwalk, Frank did curse softly, helplessly. His hand touched, almost unbelievingly, the new leanness of the leather wallet inside his coat. His thought was spiteful. If he weren’t Barbara’s father—
Then, with dismal acceptance, Frank decided once again that this sort of thing was business. Money lent Jubal was a business loss against the time Frank Darrah was married to Barbara, and Jubal no longer needed to be cultivated. Then—
Frank was relishing the thought as he stalked across the street intersection. And then Frank stopped in the street dust, staring ahead with startled surprise.
Kate Canaday had backed her old buggy away from the hitchrack at Darrah’s store. She’d halted there, and from the buggy seat was talking with a big, sun-blackened man on a bareback mule.
Frank moved slowly forward to the boardwalk. Lockhart’s wagons had been burned. His mules had been shot. He’d been warned out of the Coronado country by Dave Waggoman and Vic Hans-bro. Yet, there was Lockhart now, dropping off his mule as Frank watched, and crossing the street toward a group of men loitering on the boardwalk in front of Kitty’s Home Café.
Dave Waggoman and Hansbro were in the group, their backs to the street.
Frank opened his mouth to warn Dave. Then he remembered Dave’s wild temper—Dave’s present surly mood—
In complete and silent fascination, tense with sudden hope, Frank Darrah stood there on the street corner and watched Lockhart’s advance toward Dave and Vic Hansbro.
Chapter Five
Will Lockhart had been listening to the big woman with the lumpy, weathered face say bitterly, “Friend, I got skunked worse’n you!” And his roving glance had halted across the street on two men emerging from Kitty’s Café, joining a group of ranchmen and townsmen there on the boardwalk.
A deep wrath had flared in Will’s stare. Kate Canaday had seen the fury take hold of this un-shaven stranger in salt-stiffened overall pants and faded gray shirt. He’d been talking quietly, reflectively; now, with abrupt but odd courtesy for a mule skinner, he said, “Pardon, madam,” and dropped lightly off the bareback mule.
Kate had turned hastily on the buggy seat and looked across the street. Her involuntary “Slow down, friend!” had burst out as Lockhart rounded the back of the buggy.
Lockhart kept going.
Kate muttered, “The blamed mule-head ain’t even got a gun!”
She sat hatless and indecisive on the open buggy seat. Then, grimly, resignedly, Kate caught up the reins and hauled the team into a turn. Her work-roughened hand reached for the carbine in the scuffed leather scabbard lashed beside the whip socket.
Will Lockhart was aware he was being hasty and reckless. But the slaughtered mules by the glaring shore salt of the lagoons were too vivid in memory. His hair and clothes still reeked of the burning wagons. Ashes of the dead cook fire he’d been dragged through at a rope end were ground into his clothes as a reminder. Barb had done all that.
But Hansbro, the Barb foreman, had really decided it. And a cooler calculation backed Will’s anger. He’d be run off the Coronado range now, he suspected, if Hansbro’s virulence was allowed to dominate. And he had to stay, watching for those cases of fine new rifles from New Orleans.
Hansbro’s gun sagged carelessly in its holster. The man would use it, and have help, too, from Dave Waggoman and other Barb men. Will made a calculated gamble that even Barb might hesitate to kill an unarmed stranger openly here in town. A bearded man looked inquiringly as Will stepped up on the boardwalk. A second man glanced idly as Will said, “Hansbro—”
The Barb foreman turned. His look narrowed in recognition. His rough “I told you—” got that far when Will hit him.
Hansbro could never have been struck so brutally. He’d tried to dodge, and the blow smashed the bearded corner of his mouth. The sound was meaty, squashy. Hansbro’s head was driven far over to the opposite shoulder. Incredibly, almost, the immense, muscular bulk of the man staggered back on high boot heels and pitched backward off the boardwalk.
Hansbro’s wide shoulders and broad back slammed down hard on the street and skidded in a gray roil of dust. Will went after him as stunned incredulity held every witness. Most of them were unaware the drop-off at the walk edge had partly betrayed Hansbro.
The Barb foreman was tremendously powerful. Even now, wind knocked out and half-stunned, Hansbro groped for the holstered gun. Will kicked mercilessly at the wrist. His instep and bootheel smashed into the back of Hansbro’s large hand, and Will callously drove the foot down hard, grinding the sharp heel.
Hansbro screamed as flesh and bone were savaged between hard leather and sun-baked earth. He tore the hand away, losing skin and releasing the drawn gun.
Hansbro rolled violently as Will kicked the heavy revolver far out in the street. This was something Hansbro could understand. This sort of cruelty was Barb’s own language, and the town could read it, too.
Hansbro slapped palms on the earth and thrust upright, scrambling to his feet, reeling away. He shook the right hand and red droplets flew off the mauled flesh. Hansbro was fouled with street dirt and had lost his hat. His dark hair and chopped-off beard had taken on a wild, bristly look.
Will glimpsed Dave Waggoman stepping off the boardwalk, hand on his gun. Then a rifle laid its flat slapping report on the scene. The bullet spattered dirt near Dave’s feet and Dave leaped back. Kate Canaday’s gusty voice boomed genially, “You think I can’t chip off a toe, Davey boy, try again! Let ’em alone!”
Kate stood in the open buggy, her iron-gray pompadour wind-blown above the broad face, the carbine held carelessly ready. She looked big and bellicose now.
Fleeting humor touched Will’s mouth. The big blunt-spoken woman was like bugles arriving as a skirmish grew sticky. With better spirit Will ran at Vic Hansbro’s bristling frenzy and dodged Hans-bro’s wild blow. The huge bleeding knuckles skidded over Will’s left ear. Even that close miss caused a numb feeling, as if the ear had almost been torn away.
Close to the man now, Will struck right fist, left fist into Hansbro’s middle. It was like battering a wall. Hansbro grunted explosively, grabbed him, and started a knee kick, and Will stamped viciously on the man’s instep.
The new agony made Hansbro gasp. Will shoved fists together and drove them together into Hansbro’s belly. He leaned against Hansbro’s great pumping chest and took a frenzied clouting of Hansbro’s hamlike fists on head, neck, shoulders. Arching his back, Will brought up both fists, up fast in a sledging strike into Hansbro’s beard and throat and underjaw.
He never guessed it, Will thought unbelievingly. All his cording wrath had backed that sledging strike into Hansbro’s throat. It flung Hansbro tottering again, gasping, strangling.
Will was sweating. His chest sucked great breaths as he stalked the man with malignant calculation, knowing now that Hansbro thought slowly. But the man was durable and dangerous. Certainly Hansbro was merciless. With a kind of chill satisfaction, Will gauged him fully. Give Hansbro an exact order and he’d do well enough. But hide the plan, move fast, strike fast, unexpectedly, and Hansbro erupted in sheer fury of mass and muscle.
Now, gagging from the throat blow, Hansbro plunged forward in a kind of berserk frenzy. Will dodged fast and struck the bearded cheekbone. Hansbro’s wide-swinging fist slammed Will’s chest with paralyzing shock. The fast-pounding heart inside seemed to flutter and stop. The sensation was dismaying.
Will staggered back, and somehow kept going back on his feet, back into the middle of the wide street. He saw Hansbro’s bearded mouth, bloody and frenzied, open in a kind of confident snarl. Hansbro ducked his head and rushed to finish it.
The paralyzed feeling ebbed with agonizing slowness. Rubbery weakness loosened Will’s knees. He let the knees buckle and saw Hansbro’s exultation blaze as Hansbro swung a tremendous, looping blow—
Will’s wobbly crouch barely slid aside. Then, desperately, he came up, striking up more desperately, and Vic Hansbro’s bearded jaw ran squarely into the blow. The impact shuddered back through Will, and Hansbro’s bulk veered away from the blow, dropping forward in a heavy, clumsy-looking dive. The man’s big hands and arms were not breaking the fall.
Will dropped his hands and watched in fascination. The bearded face struck first. Hansbro’s huge body drove the face plowing through the street dirt, and then Hansbro lay there, sacklike, unmoving.
Wet with sweat, panting heavily, Will stepped close, noticing now the crowd gathering from both sides of the street. He bent and hauled the limp figure over and silently looked down at it. The face was a caricature of Vic Hansbro. Mouth, nose, and forehead were cut and abraded. Red droplets oozed through dark beard hairs matted with dirt.
Will felt no pleasure. Wrath had burned away in the fight’s fury. A beating, he knew soberly now, could not right what Hansbro had done. And Hansbro would remain the same man. Had to do it, Will argued to himself.
Hansbro would probably try to kill him for this. But, Will guessed, even a killing wouldn’t exorcise Hansbro’s lasting humiliation at being mauled and beaten barehanded while much of Coronado watched. In this glassy hour of early twilight, here on Palace Street, in Coronado, the myth of Vic Hansbro had suffered irreparably.
What it would do to Vic Hansbro inside was anyone’s guess.
Will glanced around as Kate Canaday’s amiable jeer reached along the street from the buggy where Kate stood holding the rifle.
“How’s that, Alec, for lettin’ gas outa a big, whiskered balloon? Shoulda been you, ye horn-faced old connivin’ bull!”
Chapter Six
Kate Canaday had said, “Alec!” Alec Waggoman?
Will’s narrowing gaze went to the broad-shouldered man with impressive white mustaches who was stepping off the boardwalk past Dave Waggoman.
This, then, was the rather fabulous Alec Waggoman—this big man who ignored Kate Canaday and walked leisurely, solidly out into the street. Spectators had quieted. The same tight interest caught Will Lockhart as he studied Alec Waggoman’s uneven and powerful and bold-nosed face. A man, was Will’s instinctive thought.
The hard, calm look of power was there. And much more, Will saw immediately. All the delegated power of Barb had never given Vic Hansbro’s bearded ruthlessness that almost majestic look of shadowed serenity and assurance, that look of strength taken for granted.
Waggoman’s gaze touched Will briefly with an odd, peculiar, baffling blankness. Will waited then, watchfully, his sweat-beaded chest sucking great breaths.
Silently Waggoman looked down at Hansbro’s mauled face. He turned and considered Will’s sweating exhaustion. His question was evenly put. “Why?”
“You’re Waggoman, of Barb?”
“I am.”
Will said with rough disinterest, “Ask your son. Ask your foreman.”
Alec Waggoman said evenly, “I’m asking you.”
Will said then, coldly, “For twenty-six mules of mine they had shot at the salt lakes today. For four wagons of mine they had burned. For a rope that dragged me on the ground. Any other questions?”
A flick of emotion touched the rocklike face. Dryness entered Waggoman’s comment. “Handled you roughly, I take it. Do I know your name?”
“Do you? I’m Will Lockhart.”
“No,” Waggoman denied. “Never heard of you.” He stood for another silent moment, and again Will had the puzzled feeling this man existed behind the veiled opaque gaze which completely hid the real man.
Calmly Waggoman said, “A mistake has been made. In the morning, tell George Freall at the bank the fair value of your wagons and mules. He’ll pay you.” Another flicker touched the craggy face. A slight gesture indicated Hansbro. “I see you’ve already collected interest,” Alec Waggoman said dryly.
Will heard it with a kind of disbelief. He saw spectators look startled and unbelieving as Alec Waggoman walked back to Dave Waggoman, who was watching sullenly. Waggoman’s brief order to his son was obviously meant to be overheard.
“Get Hansbro and the men back to the ranch without more trouble. Anyone who doesn’t make it peacefully is fired.”
Waggoman stepped up on the boardwalk, and Will noted how men made way for the tall, white-mustached figure. None attempted to halt Alec Waggoman for talk or argument, and Waggoman ignored them. He had the look of a man who moved alone—a big, isolated figure.
Will walked slowly to the buggy, noting amazement also on Kate Canaday’s broad face. Something had just happened, Will guessed, which not even Kate Canaday could understand in Alec Waggoman. He was breathing easier now
, and he spoke gratefully to the big woman.
“Ma’am, I thank you.”
The buggy creaked as Kate sat down hard on the seat. Under her breath, Kate muttered, “Climb on your mule, young man, an’ ride a ways with me. There’s talkin’ we need to do!”
Frank Darrah had watched the fight from the boardwalk across the street. Its fury had been breath-taking with promise. For tight seconds Lockhart had seemed beaten by Hansbro’s sledging fists. Now, in the amazing aftermath, Frank watched Will Lockhart walk unchallenged to the bareback mule, tiredly haul himself up, and accompany Kate Canaday’s old buggy and scatter of hound dogs out of town.
Nothing about Lockhart had suggested the merciless reduction of Vic Hansbro. When Lockhart’s four wagons had brought freight from Colfax a few days ago, Lockhart had seemed only a quiet, readily smiling stranger. Now Frank remembered the steady gray eyes and to-the-point orders Lockhart had given his drivers. Frowning, Frank speculated on why the man was accompanying Kate Canaday.
The small crowd was dispersing. Dave Waggoman and several Barb men had gathered in the street around Vic Hansbro. Watching them, Frank remembered that Barbara Kirby had brought mail from Roxton Springs. He crossed the street to the post office.
Others had thought of the mail, too. Waiting in a line before the wicket, Frank heard the further astounding news that Alec Waggoman was paying Lockhart for the dead mules and burned wagons.
After a moment, Frank thought he understood. The idea brought a kind of heady elation. Paying Lockhart was clear indication of Alec Waggoman’s new helplessness. A legend was toppling. A giant was falling. Else why should Alec Waggoman placate a strange jackleg teamster?
Frank’s turn came at the wicket. Aaron Sadler gave him a small bundle of newspapers and letters, and Frank walked out, preoccupied with his thoughts. Vic Hansbro would be in a killing mood now. Dave Waggoman’s temper would be smoldering.
The top newspaper Frank idly unfolded as he crossed the street was the Silver City Globe. He read: Indians Massacre Family on Upper Gila. Almost violently Frank rammed the newspaper in his side coat pocket.
