He stretched and rolled over, pulling his head down deep onto his chest and listening to the night sounds.
He sighed. Perkins' words came back to him: "Ain't it funny how ideas will get hold of people. . ." Funny was not the word for it, Wyoming thought. He remembered the faces he had seen outside when the Cheyenne were attacking. Hard, determined men, unafraid, but not knowing what to do. They had put a lot of faith and trust in their one-armed leader.
It was reasonable, he thought, that everyone should want to go to a man's funeral if he had been a friend of theirs. And Wyoming had noticed there was particular respect when they spoke of Tinker Flynn. He would have liked to know a man who could command such respect and authority over these people. How had he died? He wondered? A man with one arm had two strikes against him in this country.
Wyoming got up and pulled on his boots. He checked his Colt and carbine and cleaned them thoroughly before leaving the wagon.
The camp was quiet. There were a few cookfires, but most of the camp was asleep. He saw a guard near one of the fires and walked over slowly.
"Have some coffee, Wyoming," the guard said. On closer inspection Wyoming saw that it was Jesse.
Wyoming studied the heavens for a moment "Must be getting pretty close to daylight."
"About another hour, I reckon," Jesse said.
"Got a question to ask you, Jesse."
There was a rustle of brush outside the edge of the wagons. Jesse stiffened. "Just a minute while I take a look at that wagon."
"It's just a coyote," Wyoming said.
Jesse sat back down and shook his head. "That's the way Tink was. He could see a shadow and it would look like any other shadow to me—but Tink would tell if it was a wolf or a coyote."
"You thought a lot of him, didn't you?"
"More than I ever thought of any man before or ever will again."
"How did he die?" Wyoming asked softly.
Jesse didn't answer for a long time. He stirred the fire, studying the flames. He cleared his throat. "He was shot—murdered. By someone Tink had taken in and given rest and food to."
"What happened to the man?"
"Got away."
"Was it an argument?" Wyoming asked.
"No, robbery. The man killed and robbed Tink."
"It must make you people feel bad to know that someone you've traveled with turns out to be a rotter like that."
Jesse turned. "He wasn't one of us. He drifted in here last week about dead from hunger, riding a crippled horse."
"What was his name?" Wyoming asked, feeling the tightening in his stomach grow painful.
"Steel," Jesse said.
Wyoming breathed easier. "And you say he just drifted in? Where had he been?"
"Out there somewheres," Jesse said, pointing to the west. "He didn't talk much. He stayed with us a few days and didn't seem to want to work for his grub and didn't mention anything about moving on. So Tink asked him."
"What did he look like?" The pain in Wyoming's stomach became more intense.
"Kinda slight—not too tall, with yellow hair," Jesse said. He watched Wyoming closely. "Why you asking?"
"Did he ride a dappled gray?"
"Yes." Jesse's voice was hard.
Wyoming stared into the fire before him. "Two guns?"
"Two guns, mister." Jesse's voice was harsh now.
"Was his first name Arky?"
Jesse threw a shell into the carbine and stood up, leveling it. "Get up real slow, mister," he said.
Wyoming turned his head slowly and looked down the barrel of the carbine aimed at his head. "I'm looking for Steel," he said. "He killed my pa."
"Your pa?"
Wyoming jerked the gun barrel and pulled hard on it. Jesse slipped forward. Wyoming was up and had the Colt two inches deep into Jesse's gut before the man had regained his balance.
"Where did he go?" Wyoming demanded.
"You a friend of his?" Jesse asked. "If you are, you won't get out of here alive—"
"What direction did he ride off in?" Wyoming demanded.
"Southeast. Three of the men have gone to Dodge City thinking he might be there."
"How long ago was this?" Wyoming demanded.
"Day before you rode in—" Jesse was softening a bit now. The big cowman with the Colt stuck in his gut meant business.
"That would be three days. Did he ride the gray or a fresh horse?"
"He rode the gray—he had only stoned the hoof."
"Jesse," Wyoming said, "you better believe me, because I don't want any trouble with you people. You've had enough already. I'm going to put my gun away and then I'm going to saddle my horse and ride out of here. Don't try to stop me, and don't tell anyone I'm leaving."
Wyoming released the big man and stepped back. Slowly and deliberately he slipped the Colt back into the leather and stared the farmer in the eye. "Your three friends won't stand a chance of getting the money back. They'll be lucky if they get back at all. Steel is a killer who'd sell his own mother down the river."
Jesse took a few steps after him. Wyoming whirled and drew the Colt. "Don't make me shoot, Jesse," he said.
"I want to go with you."
"No."
"You can't stop me."
"No, I can't. But you'll be wasting your time. I'll get to him first." He spun on his heel and hurried away to find his stallion. Jesse remained by the fire staring after him.
Saddled, Wyoming glanced back at the awakening community and saw Jesse talking to Perkins and several others. They waved. He kicked the stallion in the flanks and raised dust in the early morning as he headed for Dodge City.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wyoming reached the outskirts of Dodge City and stood for a moment resting his pony and watching the lights. He shivered. A light breeze had sprung up and his buckskins were not yet dry where he had swum the stallion across a stream late in the day.
He sat down on the ground. Working by touch and watching the flickering lantern lights of the cattle town, he cleaned and reloaded his Colt and then turned to the carbine. He had not needed either of the guns during his ride down from the Platte.
He knew Dodge City. He had been there several times with Curly, and each time Curly had made sure he avoided arguments with strangers. The cattle town, with its women, saloons and easy money, was the center of attraction for hundreds of miles. On this visit, Wyoming was looking for trouble.
"I hope the next man that gets you appreciates you as much as I do, Boss," he said to the palomino as he slipped back into the saddle. "There may be an itchy finger resting on a trigger in that town right now. All right, Boss, let's go."
The animal stepped out and Wyoming swung down toward the lights.
He rode up and down every street in Dodge City, examining every horse at the racks, and finally turning to the livery stables. There was no dappled gray—but there had been several days before, the talkative livery man told him.
Wyoming stepped off the stallion. "I'd like to find the owner of that horse, friend," he said to the man.
"Your horse?"
"No," Wyoming said. "But if it's the man I'm looking for he'd better be wearing two guns and have yellow hair."
"That's the man for the horse, mister. He rode out of town three days ago."
"Don't know where he was heading?"
"He didn't tell me and I didn't ask," the livery man said. "He paid in gold and it rang solid. That's all there is."
Wyoming handed over the reins of the stallion. "I'll be back."
The livery man hesitated, glanced at the low-slung Colt and the carbine. "You going up to ask questions about your blond friend?"
"That's right," Wyoming said.
"That's two dollars in advance."
"If I don't come back, you can have the horse."
"Then I don't mind saying I hope you don't come back." He slapped the horse on the neck. "Fine animal."
Wyoming grinned at the practical livery owner and turned toward the street. So Steel
had been here and drifted on. Steel had money he had taken from Tink Flynn and he would spend some of it. People would notice him.
Wyoming Jones walked toward the lights steadily. Somewhere in Dodge City there was someone who would tell him where Arky Steel had gone.
He wheeled into the batwing doors of a saloon, entering a world of pale golden light, the stale smell of beer, cheap perfume and sweating bodies, and over it all the reek of raw whisky.
He walked to the bar. "Whisky," he said.
He turned slowly to survey the room. A half dozen men and women were dancing in the middle of the side room. A few more dancehall girls sat at tables with men. A side room, with wide double doors and a beaded curtain held the gambling tables.
"One dollar," the bartender said.
Wyoming put a dollar on the counter, then placed two more beside it, "I'm looking for a yellow-haired man, short and skinny who wears two Colts and answers to the name of Arky Steel."
"He ain't here," the bartender said and picked up the silver. He started to turn away. Wyoming reached over and pulled him by the arm. "I said he ain't here, cowboy."
The bartender dropped his hand below the edge of the bar.
"You pull a gun and I'll take out both of your eyes," Wyoming said with a grin. "Now either tell me something about my friend Steel, or put the two dollars back on the bar."
"Take the two dollars and get out!" The bartender threw the silver and bounced it past Wyoming to the floor.
Wyoming grinned. "See that mirror you got back there?" he nodded to a heavy beveled mirror beyond the stacks of eggs, sandwiches and whisky bottles. "If you don't pick up those two dollars, you're going to need a lot more to buy you a new mirror."
"You mess with that mirror, cowboy, and you won't get out of that door alive."
Wyoming dropped his hand on the Colt. He would hate like hell to ruin the mirror, but that was the way things were done in Dodge City.
The bartender, a thick-chested man in his late forties, hesitated. He moved suddenly and walked around the bar, stooped over and picked up the silver. He put them on the bar, turned his back on Wyoming and walked back around the bar and faced him. "You would have shot up the mirror, wouldn't you?" he said, staring Wyoming in the eye.
"I sure as hell would."
The bartender shook his head. "And if I'd pulled a gun you'd have killed me."
"Yeah."
"There are plenty of other places in Dodge City."
"But I like yours," Wyoming said. "Get another glass."
"Who's drinking with you?"
"You are, if you will," Wyoming said.
"You got a lot of sand, stranger."
"About all I've got left."
"Steel have anything to do with it?"
"Yeah."
Wyoming poured the drinks. "Well, here's to success."
"What kind?" the bartender asked.
"Killing kind. I'm going to shoot his head off."
"Why?"
"Killed my pa up north."
"He was around for a while, but he drifted on. He looks mean, and I seen him fight. He can use his guns."
"Figured he can."
"You go see a woman named Clara, over at the Star Hotel. She hung out with him for a few days. She might know. And there's a kid, a young punk named Cracker, who talked with him a lot."
"Thanks," Wyoming said. He raised the drink.
The bartender hesitated. "You ain't going to drink with me?"
"It's not that." The barman hesitated. "Wait a minute," he said with a glance around. "Don't drink that." He reached under the bar and poured large shots for both of them. They raised their glasses and drank.
"That's real whisky, son," the bartender said, "Napoleon brandy."
"Woman named Clara, and a kid named Cracker."
"But you didn't get the information here."
"No, I didn't." Wyoming nodded and started away. "Would you have shot up my mirror?"
"On the Bible."
"You don't look that mean."
"I ain't, until I'm riled."
"You riled now?"
"Have been since Curly died."
"Curly?"
"My pa."
Wyoming turned away, pushed the batwing doors and vanished into the darkness.
Behind him, the bartender put the brandy away and carefully poured Wyoming's whisky back into the bottle. He picked up the three dollars and rattled them in his hand, his eyes thoughtful. He motioned for an old man to come over. "Go tell Cracker I want to see him in a hurry," he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was very little movement on the streets as Wyoming left the saloon. He walked down the sides of the dark and empty buildings slowly, his eyes moving left and right. The economy and life of a town strung together along the wooden boardwalk, and all dark and empty. He saw no sign of the Star Hotel.
He stopped at a corner and waited in the shadows for a rider to swing past before stepping out into the street. He did not hurry to get out of the exposed position, but he did not keep to the same slow pace as before. He made the opposite side of the street and stopped before a corner bank. He waited, turned and looked in back of him.
There was movement to his right. Wyoming turned quickly and dropped his hand on the Colt. The shadows along the edge of the bank moved.
"No need to get jumpy, mister," a voice said. "I'm just walking for my constitutional."
"Then walk over this way, and walk slowly." Wyoming said.
He heard the footsteps come toward him, saw the shadow move along the side of the bank. A thin man in a frock coat and stovepipe hat emerged into the dim light of the saloon across the street.
"Good evening." the man said.
"Evenin'," Wyoming replied.
The man walked on past Wyoming with a slight nod of his head and was fully exposed in the street before Wyoming called to him.
"Where's the Star Hotel, mister?"
The man stopped still and turned slowly, moving his whole body. "There isn't any hotel in Dodge City called the Star."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," the man said and turned, continuing to walk across the street.
Wyoming stood perfectly still in the darkness, his back to the wall of the bank, and watched the slight unhurried movement of men's shadows as they drifted from one saloon to another. He remained in one spot for two hours and watched the lights of one and then another of the Dodge City saloons give up for the night. Then he moved hugging the shadows, his eyes intent on the doors of the first saloon he had entered. He stood perfectly still and pressed back into a doorway when someone walked past him.
He stood before the doors of the saloon and looked in. Technically the saloon was closed. The cleaning man was busy sweeping up the sawdust, stacking chairs and his mops and pails near at hand. The bartender sat near the bar eating and talking to several other men. Wyoming stepped inside.
The men looked up and the bartender stopped eating.
"I never did find that hotel, bartender," he said, moving across the floor. "Didn't find any woman named Clara or a kid named Cracker," Wyoming continued.
No one at the table moved. The cleaner put his broom down carefully and backed out of the room. He had been in Dodge City a long time and knew the smell of a gun-fight when he smelled it. And many of the gunfighters, he knew, couldn't hit the side of a barn if they were inside. Bullets buried themselves in innocent bystanders as well as the bodies of the intended victims.
No one noticed him as he put his broom down and slipped out of the door.
Wyoming advanced toward the table of men, his carbine held loosely in his hands, not brought to bear on the table, but alert to that possibility. He moved in closer and sat down. "Any particular reason you lied to me?" Wyoming asked the bartender.
To accuse a man of lying in the presence of others was not something a man could take. But Wyoming's handling of the carbine was not to be dismissed.
"I don't like you, cowboy," the bartende
r said coldly.
"Didn't ask you to. All I asked—and paid for—was information about Arky Steel."
He watched the other men at the table, four of them with their hands plainly visible on the table. The sudden change in their facial expressions told Wyoming they knew Steel.
"You think you can come in here waving a gun and demand information—" the bartender said, waving his fork at Wyoming.
"You know anything about Steel?" Wyoming asked.
"Go to hell," the bartender said and turned to cut his steak.
Wyoming fired, knocking the fork out of the man's hand. He grinned. "I told you, mister, Steel killed my pa. Family killing is a mean thing. You going to protect that kind?"
"You won't do anything to me," the bartender said.
Wyoming fired again. The man's ear lobe disappeared. The others at the table began to move restlessly. "Sit still, gents. No harm intended. Just want to know where Arky Steel was heading when he left town."
"If you didn't have that gun—" the bartender snarled.
"You might try," Wyoming replied. "But I got the gun, and that makes the difference."
"I don't believe you want Steel because he killed your pa. You don't look like you ever had a pa," the bartender replied.
Wyoming grinned. "You're a silver-tongued bastard yourself, mister." He fired again, taking the diamond stick pin off the front of the man's tie, blasting the pea-sized stone into dust.
The bartender looked down at his chest and then up at Wyoming, his face turning red.
"Where'd he go?" Wyoming demanded. "You'd better tell me."
"I'll tell you where he went," a voice said behind Wyoming.
Wyoming remained still. He stared at the table full of men and grinned. "Yeah, where'd he go?" he asked the voice.
"He's headed for San Antone—had to run from the law right quick."
"You a friend of his?" Wyoming asked, the carbine still leveled at the bartender.
"I am."
"Why should he run from the law?" Wyoming asked carefully.
"Three others just like you were down here looking for him."
"Others?"
"Dirt farmers." The man laughed. "Sodbusters. They're busting sod right now," the voice snapped. "Six feet of it apiece."
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