by Frank Callan
Joe Dane stood up and walked across to the window. He saw a melancholy dusk settling on the open plain, and all he could hear was the lowing and complaining of the steers, with a few shouts from the hands. He let some silence settle for a while, before turning around and looking Carney straight in the eyes. ‘Mr Carney, there’s the law, and there’s the law of the gun. I got the latter. There’s the law of the state, and there’s my law. I got the latter. See, justice tends to step in to help the strong ones, am I right?’ He smiled, and the broad smile broke into a laugh.
Carney liked it. He held out a glass of whiskey. ‘Will, I like this young feller . . . he’s my type. Now, I have a proposition above and beyond this little job of removing the bastard McCoy from his life . . . Joe, how about you take over the star round here? The McCoy brothers been tradin’ like this for years. Course, two of ’em is now dead as last year’s corn, but for a while they worked the system to suit themselves. We could do the same. You’ll be my lawman and I’ll make sure you have an easy time. Shake on it?’
Dane was stone-faced now. He was thinking it over. ‘Mr Carney, it would be an honour! You do know that I’m here for another reason, not just for your job? I’m here to propose marriage. Yep, my first girl . . . I’ve come back for her . . . Lydia Santo!’
The others wished him good luck and raised their glasses again. ‘I figured it was time I put down some roots. She’s always been my girl, Carney, you know that.’
‘Sure. You mentioned her in your letter. Good luck son. But I can’t see you leaving your trade for good. Hard to see a married man living by his gun, Joe.’
‘No. You’re right. The resolution man will hang up his holster . . . McCoy is the last job, sir!’
Will Ringo, being young and impressionable, had been dying to ask a question of the newcomer. ‘Joe . . . how many have you done away with . . . you and that there Colt?’
‘How many times have I been asked that question! Will, I can tell you that Sheriff McCoy will be the nineteenth victim.’
‘The nineteenth victim! I like that. I like that a lot . . . you know, I’m gonna scrawl them words on his tombstone, what do you say, Boss?’
Itch Carney and Joe Dane were laughing again. ‘The nineteenth victim . . . Sheriff Bastard McCoy . . . I love it, Will my boy, I love it!’ There was so much noise that Carney’s two great dogs came in to join the frolic. They were beasts that could have hunted wolves, and he loved them better than anything else on his land.
He fussed them and slapped them playfully, saying to anyone who would listen, ‘You know, my boys, when we’ve done this, I’ll have to give this God-forsaken wasteland another name . . . maybe Carneyville, eh?’ They laughed again, clinked glasses, and the dogs howled.
As for Harry, he was tired but found it hard to sleep. The literary folk had arranged accommodation in a room at Mrs Hoyt’s place, at the end of a street that seemed at first to have a degree of peace and quiet – but sometime after midnight he was awake and nervous, as outside there was trouble. He heard a familiar name being called: Hole.
He rubbed his eyes and went to the window. There below was the sheriff again, and a few yards from him and holding a dagger in a threatening way, was Elias Hole.
‘Now Elias, we had a run-in over that damned hound. You should be home with the family. I don’t want to have to arrest you man, because they need you.’
Elias was swaying, clearly the worse for drink, and this became obvious as he spoke. ‘See Mr Lawman, I know this town thinks I’m crazy. Yes, they do, right? So, yes, I know I have my little ways. Maybe strange little ways, but I don’t do no harm unless I’m provoked, and you know what, McCoy? You provoke me.’
‘Elias, sure you have some odd ways. What with your booze and your tempers and the damned animals you collect . . . I mean, that’s strange. But deep down you’re a good father, and I don’t want to see you mixed up with Carney’s boys. I want you on the side of law.’
A crowd began to gather. Windows opened and shouts bellowed out, demanding that peace and quiet were required. The good folk of Broken Man went out on to the street and stood behind their sheriff. ‘Lock him up, McCoy,’ one voice prompted. Another said, ‘He’s loco. He’s a danger to the community, McCoy.’
For a moment there was a static stand-off, with nobody doing anything. Then this was broken by the shriek of a woman’s voice, and from somewhere there came Lydia Santo, and she went to Elias and wrapped her arms around him, ignoring the danger of the knife.
‘Pa, come home! I need you, and we all need you . . . come home!’
Sheriff McCoy wanted to let him go with her, but the pressure of the crowd weighed heavy and he needed to push his authority.
‘Elias, I’m sorry but I’ll have to take you in. You wounded a man back in the bar. There were plenty of witnesses. Come over here and be a good man, let the law take its course.’
‘Sure . . . so I can die in your jail. That’s what happens when the law takes its course!’ McCoy nodded to a man who had arrived and who stood with the crowd. This was a command for the man and several others to rush Elias, as he had his arm around Lydia. They came at him, one pushing the woman away, and the other grabbed their man and forced him into the dust. He was sat on and hand-cuffed. The crowd applauded and gradually dispersed.
‘Justice ought to operate on a one-to-one mindset, McCoy. It didn’t ought to gang up on a fellow!’ Elias whined.
Harry saw McCoy being patted on the back, being told that was good work. But as he was led away, Elias shouted his threat. ‘Carney’s going to see to this, you wait and see. I’m his man, and he’ll stand by me . . . you cheap excuse for a lawman. Your days are numbered, McCoy!’
Everyone walked off, except for the sheriff, who stood and looked around, seeming to be thinking about the threat. Then his eyes caught the curtain of Harry’s room being moved and he looked up. McCoy gave a wry smile, dusted off his hat against his trousers, and turned around, following his prisoner.
Chapter 6
Happen Boodle was stuck with his name because nobody could pronounce his real name, which was so German that it had presented insuperable difficulties to the locals when he first settled in Broken Man six years back, as he brought his considerable business acumen to the development of the frontier town. He and his friends Doc Potworthy and Hal Bornless had allied themselves with Hoyt and the churchmen for common benefits as they dug in some civilization where there had previously been only sagebrush and dirt with some ramshackle wooden huts strung along the track.
Boodle had become the cornerstone of civilized life; he had tried hard to introduce something more than card tables and dancing girls showing bare legs. He had quartets and tenors, comedians and actors, and any number of entertainers booked to come out to Colorado over the years, and the literary club supported everything he organized. He and Perdy were known and valued by everyone in town, though he had his eccentricities, and came to expect a little teasing from time to time.
On the morning after the altercation with Elias Hole and the mad dog, he had been reassured by the arrival of the cultured visitor from back East and was doing his best to gather support for the speech that evening in his best back room, where special dances and theatricals were usually presented. By mid-day he and Perdy Candle were sitting by the long bar, planning ways of ensuring there was a good crowd for the English lord.
‘He really an aristocrat, Happen?’ Perdy asked, with her usual tone of dubious implication.
‘Perdita my darlin’, you have to know the man’s credentials. He’s a son of Lord Kelpie, who, I am reliably informed, owns the county of Norfolk – a big place by British standards, about the size of Rackwell County across the river.’
Perdy was ‘Perdita’ whenever Happen was feeling comfortable and easy with life, and that was not too often these days. He was solid and square, with oil-flattened dark hair and a double chin below his elbow-moustache. The German accent was still there, and he always looked for opportunities to talk
about Vienna, where he had been born forty odd years back. He had enjoyed several fortieth birthdays, and only Perdy, who was like a little sister to him, knew his real age. She was slim, elegant and blonde: every inch a lady, all the locals agreed, and lately she had been the subject of universal gossip regarding Henry Carney. ‘Itch is wanting her for a wife’ had been whispered in a dozen conversations, all overheard by Perdy as she poured beer and whisky at the bar.
‘Now, Perdita my darlin’, I want you to put one of these here sheets of quality paper into every hand that holds out a dollar to you today, right?’
She looked at it and then read out the words, ‘ “Lord Harry Lacey will speak on law and justice. He is a legal expert with qualifications from England’s most esteemed university of Oxford.” Impressive, Happen. You must be on your best behaviour. No panics . . . no bad moods. Keep the mad-stone in the drawer.’
‘My mad-stone has settled more drunken arguments than any pistol. I can knock a man flat out with it, quicker than you can say hallelujah.’
‘Fine. I’ll tell every customer how wonderful the Lord is. Though in my experience a man lies as naturally as he sinks whiskey. It just comes natural like. That’s why I’m still not hitched to any man’s wagon in this life . . . not even yours, Happen. How many times have I turned you down, my love?’
‘Four. I’m not trying again. I know when I’m beat.’
At that moment, the doors swung open and most of the town literary society walked in, with a very tall man in the midst of their gaggle of noise. This was Lord Harry, and his fair hair, now washed and combed, made him look more distinguished than he had as the stage passenger. Perdy picked him out right away. ‘Well, this must be the man!’ she said, standing up and with her arms akimbo, looking right at him, as he was introduced by Doc Potworthy. ‘Mr Boodle . . . Miss Candle . . . may I introduce our speaker for this evening, Lord Harry Lacey.’
Happen stepped forward and shook Harry’s hand. He had to look a long way up so he could speak face-to-face, and then Perdy did the same. She gave a curtsey.
‘Lord Harry . . . real pleasure, my Lord . . . could I ask, are you related to the Queen of England?’
‘Way back in the family tree, I guess. My father always said so! But who cares about that?’
‘Please everyone, sit down . . . I’ll have coffee brought.’
Happen clicked a finger, and then, as his barman ignored him, he clapped his hands loudly and snapped out, ‘Coffee for the Lord!’ The barman, still with a sore head from the previous night, thought Jesus was in the bar, and had to be told that this was a real English lord, and he and the literary folk needed coffee.
Happen sat Harry at one end of a long table and the literary folk sat around, admiring their guest in his smart dark suit and fancy waistcoat. Mrs Hoyt had dressed up her guest immaculately, and had even provided some eau de cologne.
As coffee arrived, Harry decided to deflect any further talk of himself and asked Happen, ‘Mr Boodle, do I detect a German accent?’
‘You do sir, and let me tell you that I am from Vienna, the mother of all culture and the fine arts. A little of that will be sprinkled around here tonight, yes? Now you come at a significant moment, my Lord, because I’m hoping that I shall be the first mayor of this town. My friends and I, around this table, have resolved to make Broken Man a place where good folk may walk along the street without fear. It will be a place formed and forged by respect for the law. . . .’
Before he could complete the sentence, there was the sound of a voice yelling out in the street, and the customers in the bar, all weary cowboys and assorted drifters, stood up to a man and scrambled to the door and windows to see what was happening. Someone called out, ‘It’s Sheriff McCoy . . . one of the Carney boys is resisting arrest!’
The literary club sat firm at first, refusing to show any interest in a street altercation. But then Chet Two Winds stood up and strode to the door, saying, ‘Never could resist a scrap!’
Out in the street, McCoy was facing Will Ringo, who was standing over the prostrate body of a man, with his foot on the victim’s chest.
‘Now, Ringo, come along with me, son. I saw you assault this man. This is a visitor to our town . . . what’s he done to offend?’
‘What he’s done is pick my pocket, you see, Squint, and I hit him maybe a little harder than I meant.’
He lifted his foot away and the man in the dust squirmed and grunted, struggling to his feet. ‘Sheriff, I want this man arrested. I never took no cash and he came at me. It was an unprovoked attack.’
‘Fine, well, I saw you hit him Will, that’s all I can say. Seems we have no witnesses.’
The man was now on his feet, flapping the dirt from his coat. Will said he would let the matter go, as he had the money back, if the sheriff would forget it.
‘You can’t forget it, lawman. You’re to do your job and arrest this scum!’ The stranger snapped, stepping towards the sheriff and prodding his chest with a finger.
McCoy didn’t like that at all. ‘Sir, till you started irritating the hell out of me, I was going to take your word for it, but now, well you can just move on. I got some coffee going cold in my office.’ He strode away, leaving Will Ringo smiling at the stranger. The smile became a laugh, something full of ridicule. The stranger walked away, back towards the stables. Then, just as the audience in the saloon were about to return to their drinking and cards, the stranger turned and shouted again. The crowd surged to their places by the window and the door.
At that moment Lydia, who had been shopping for her pa, Elias, walked out of the store, carrying a heavy basket of provisions, going towards the stranger, and this was just as he fired at Will Ringo. The bullet whistled past Will’s head, and Will turned, aimed and fired. The stranger dived for cover, and the bullet hit Lydia in her arm. With a squeal of pain, she fell down, her basket spraying its contents across the street.
There was a dark silence, in which all eyes turned to the girl, lying on the boards by the stables. Someone called, ‘The girl’s been shot!’ and in a matter of seconds, Harry was on his feet and racing outside shouting out ‘Where is she?’
He soon found her and saw the wound. The bullet had gone through her upper arm. She was whimpering but holding an expression of toughness on her face. The blood had seeped into a shirt she wore, and Harry saw that a tourniquet was needed. His bandana was soon tight around the wound. ‘You’ll be fine, miss . . . just lie still. Help is coming.’
‘My Pa . . . he’s in jail over there. I was taking him some bread.’
‘Never mind him, miss. Try to take it real easy now.’ His broad, firm hand lay on her forehead and then she felt it move and go to the pulse at her wrist. His soothing words continued. Then the crowd arrived, and Harry had to urge them to stand back, out of the way.
Doc Potworthy was finally at the scene and he took over. Lydia gave Harry a smile before she was lifted and taken inside the nearest store, where there was no crowd and little noise.
Harry stayed by the door, watching and listening. It was some time before the literary club gathered again, without the Doc, and as they sat again in The False Start, the talk was all about the trouble.
‘It goes on, this stupid war. Now we have a casualty who leans neither way!’ Hal said.
Mrs Hoyt tutted and moaned, then said, ‘I can’t see how it’s ever going to end, except in a few deaths!’
Chet Two Winds, always abrupt and direct, turned to Harry and asked, ‘Lord Harry, you’re talking about justice tonight. How does it apply here, sir?’
I wish I knew he said to himself. Then he spoke, ‘All I know is, guns and fists don’t resolve anything. They just make for more killing.’
The Doc came into the saloon, managing a smile. ‘She’s gonna be all right. This time, anyway! But who’s able to stop these Carney men? The bad blood between Carney and McCoy is likely to ruin this town unless somebody does something!’
Hal Bornless had a reply: ‘Let’s face it,
folks, the law stops at Bedford County . . . two hundred miles east!’
Chapter 7
Squint McCoy had retreated to his office. The shooting had been only one more in a tiresome list of daily violent incidents. The only problem was that it was one of Carney’s boys who had fired the shot. It was an accident, that’s all, and some bystander had been hurt, but he wasn’t clear about who that was. Elias Hole, now virtually sober again, was hammering against the jail wall with his massive fists and the cell was shaking. Then there was Aby Silvera, the Mexie, a man who knew the inside of the Broken Man jailhouse better than his own chin, which was usually smeared with blood from his latest fracas with the locals.
It had always been a tight, manageable, toe-the-line kind of town, barely earning the right to be placed on a map. But that was fine: he dreaded the thought of any expansion. At the current size, a man could watch every movement, from a new arrival in town to the good lady who put her nose into everyone’s business, shaking out a rug outside her domain. That was Alby Groot’s wife, and she kept well out of things since he gave her a scare. That was the secret: let the boys do some frightening in the case of anything that stood in the way of the McCoy empire.
For McCoy, the law was there to preserve the peace – his peace. As for the general peace of his patch of Colorado, well that could wait indefinitely. If he could wipe out the Carney lot, the whole damned tribe, he might just win some feet-up drinking and thinking time, undisturbed by knife work and gun shots.
But on this particular day, he was about to be under siege. The townsfolk were more than tolerant when drifters and criminals were casualties of street fights, but now a young woman lay in Doc Potworthy’s surgery with a bullet hole in her arm. That was unacceptable, and the members of the literary club complained so loudly and noisily that Chet Two Winds decided to act.
Now, the whole extent of Broken Man, from hotels to sod houses, knew that Chet was all talk, a rambling, unreliable tale-teller, but his one use was in leading some kind of riot – so no sooner had he shouted, ‘To the sheriff!’ than a crowd of restless types, drunks and riff-raff gathered and stuck to him like burrs to a steer’s backside. Soon around sixty rowdies were standing outside the sheriff’s office, and Chet was given a wooden crate to stand on, so he could be seen by all as he gave his speech and spoke for them all, after such an outrage.
