Feud at Broken Man

by Frank Callan

  Just as Elias Hole had discovered that a tin cup smashed against iron bars could make a sound enough to wake the dead, Chet began his harangue.

  ‘Now see, Squint McCoy, we’re here, your own folk, the people you’re paid to protect, and a short while back, one of us – a young woman called Lydia Santo – was gunned down in plain daylight. Where is the culprit? He’s back at Itch Carney’s ranch scoffing pie and soaking up whiskey. Yep, he’s Will Ringo, and he’s scum. Where should he be? Why, in your jail, waitin’ for the judge to order a spell behind bars. Come on out, you spineless excuse for a man . . . come out and explain yourself!’

  McCoy realized that the girl was Hole’s girl, and he seized the moment to take advantage. His deputies were all out in a posse searching for some renegade with a rifle and no morality, bent on making hell settle in Colorado. The answer for now was Elias, who was sober and full of hatred for Carney, who had fired him twice and refused to give him a good name with anyone else, seeming to be content to see the entire Hole family starve.

  ‘Elias, you want to be a deputy?’

  ‘You serious, McCoy? With pay and such?’

  ‘A trainee first. Probationary period of one month. Two bucks a day and chow. I mean, you’re usually on the wrong side of the law, but the truth is, I’d prefer a man like you to be on my side . . . you see my thinking?’

  ‘I do, boss, I sure do. You’re serious? I mean, you would give me a star?’

  ‘You know, Elias, I always believed that a man painted bad is misunderstood. Give a rebel some discipline and some responsibility, why that man can turn to do good, just feelin’ important. I think it’s your turn to be tested, Elias.’

  ‘You mean, I could be Deputy Elias Hole, of Broken Man . . . instead of the town nuisance? Why, my family’s gonna think some spirit had slipped into their pappy and taken over. . . .’

  ‘One condition. You help me disperse this crowd out there and you help me rub out the Carney boys.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure. Open the damned cage, boss!’

  Elias was freed, and his huge frame now had a deputy’s star pinned on, at the most solid part of his broad chest. McCoy led him out and they faced the crowd.

  Chet saw this unlikely sight and guffawed so loudly that the box beneath him almost gave way. ‘So, sheriff, you’re so desperate that you’re employing drunks and brawlers!’ The crowd jeered.

  McCoy waved his arms for quiet and eventually he got it. ‘Folks, this is my new deputy and you will respect him. Now I sympathize with the young girl, and I’m sure that Mr Hole, her adopted Pa, will want to see her. . . .’

  Elias’ face suddenly went a deep red as he realized what had been said. ‘You mean, my Lydia . . . she’s been shot?’

  ‘Afraid so, but she’s fine . . . with the Doc,’ Chet said.

  Elias was soon running down the street, sweating and panting, determined to see how his girl was doing.

  In fact, she was doing well, and Harry had been sitting with her. The Doc had given her all the treatment she needed, and she was bandaged and quiet. She had even tolerated his special golden medicine to please him. Now she lay still, looking into the face of Harry Lacey, and thinking she saw her Bonneville.

  ‘Did you save my life, mister?’

  ‘No. The bleeding was not so bad that you would have died, but we have to be sure.’

  Harry held her hand at first, and then gave her a few sips of brandy.

  ‘Mister, is it true that you’re an English Lord?’

  ‘Sure. Lord Harry Lacey, at your service. I think you’re Lydia Santo, right?’

  ‘Well, not for long. See, I’m going to be a singer and an actress. I’m going to be Liza di Buco, the entertainer. That’s the plan, sir.’

  ‘Call me Harry.’

  She didn’t tell him, but as she looked at him, again she could see her Bonneville. An aristocrat, holding her hand, in Broken Man, Colorado! Was this all a dream? The words were running through her mind already – the words that would be in her journal: Liza di Buco, gunned down in the wild border town, found herself looking up into the brooding face of an English aristocrat, a man who was notably above the barbaric denizens of the town where nobody was safe after dark, and where a woman’s lot was sheer drudgery from dawn till dusk. . . .

  She felt light-headed and sleep took over. Harry stroked her long hair from her face and left her to rest.

  ‘You have children, my Lord?’ asked Doc Potworthy, who was standing near, checking the patient was doing well. Lydia was shaken from her dreaming, and listened to every word her new hero uttered.

  ‘No, sir. Please call me Harry.’

  ‘Sure. Now, you did well today. You seem to have some medical know-how, Harry.’

  ‘Some. I seen some people dead and some just missin’ death’s clutches.’

  ‘Well, I reckon you might have saved her young life, my friend.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s all one big balance sheet, I think . . . after all, I took a few.’

  He walked out, a wry smile on his face as he saw the Doc take in that last assertion. Harry couldn’t know it, but for the rest of that day, the Doc was chewing over that remark. At around seven, when he was dressing ready to attend Harry’s talk, with his wife, he had the thought running through his head that their genteel English speaker had been a killer of some kind. As the literary club gathered and sipped their sherry, waiting for Harry to arrive, he whispered to Hal Bornless and to Hoyt, ‘You know, there’s more to Lord Harry Lacey than meets the eye.’

  ‘What are you saying, Doc?’ Preacher Hoyt asked, puzzled.

  ‘I think he’s more than the surface lets you think, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Word went around. Gossip and rumour ran through Broken Man’s more cultured citizens as they took their seats in the special entertainment back room of The False Start. By the time this talk had percolated around the place, the general opinion was that their guest was a bounty hunter or a robber, and the man in the stage, who had suspected this from the beginning, persuaded everyone that the speaker was a killer, here in disguise. That escalated again, so that folk started speculating about who he was in town to murder.

  Strangers to the town were ordinarily ignored. They were fine as long as they paid for their drinks, kept their guns in their holsters and avoided robbing the locals. But every so often one of this constant train of wanderers stood out and attracted everyone’s glances and enquiries. Such a one was Lord Harry Lacey. The man who was at first a drifting killer was soon something far more, once it was observed that he dressed well, washed frequently, spoke civilly and took his hat off when he walked past a lady. After some hours of this kind of behaviour, rumour made him an aspiring politician; then he became the owner of a new silver mine up the valley; some discussed his name and felt sure that they had read about Laceys who owned most of San Francisco.

  Harry, sitting with Lydia, soon grasped the reality of what was in her mind: she had romantic love in her blood and bones, and he knew that he would have to press down hard on such nonsense. In fact, being admired and adored by women of any age was almost unknown to him. Of course, heads turned to acknowledge his height and his presence, but there it ended. That is, until he determined his new identity. In his past, he had been so deeply coloured by the smells and juices of the wilderness that he seemed tanned with waste-land living, as other men were imbued with oils and lotions. The former Harry Lacey had been something that drifted in like sagebrush, and he could have carried on being wind-swept till he reached the western ocean or lodged somewhere under the shoulder of a mountain.

  But Lord Harry Lacey had been cultivated, shaped by his will to live afresh. He had thought back to the educated men of his mother country, back in the heathlands of Norfolk, and he had made himself into a traditional gentleman. His friends had found all this highly amusing, and he had been mercilessly ribbed for his well styled hair and moustache, and his cleaned and ironed attire. But eventually, what had started as exhaustion and disil
lusion, living on his wits and with barrels and blades, had now become something he was comfortable with – almost as if a double of himself had appeared.

  All he had to do now was talk about the new beliefs that had led him to the transformation. That sounded so simple. But the truth was, he was more nervous about facing a well suited and educated audience than he was the six-guns of the men he had faced in order to kill instead of being killed.

  Chapter 8

  The real hired killer, Joe Dane, had headed straight from Carney’s place to the Hole homestead, a way out of town. There he had been greeted by Ma Lil and the barrel of a Winchester. She was alone with the children, and there was a good stretch of earth between her home and any help. There was a stranger, astride one of the most solid mounts she had ever seen, a big, broad-chested bay.

  On his way there from Carney’s place, Dane had been thinking over what to say. It wasn’t easy. When he had last been here with Lydia, she had been just fifteen and he had eight years on her. It had all been promises and kisses, and Elias had hated the sight of him. Now here he was again, and with marriage in mind. They had talked about that, and she had dreamed of being a wife, but mainly to escape the drudgery of being second Ma to the bunch of children who filled that chaotic home.

  ‘Who are ye, mister?’ Ma Lil asked, with the rifle pointed at Dane’s chest.

  ‘Don’t you remember me, ma’am? I’m Joe Dane. I was once real welcome under this roof. I growed some, and I lost a lot of weight. But look again . . . you see me?’

  She searched through her memory, and then finally she recalled the man. ‘Oh hell and old timbers! You’re the seducer of our Lydie. By God you are! Now git, or I’ll lay you flat and drag you to the cemetery.’

  Dane’s inner urge was to draw a pistol and rub her out of existence before she could flicker her eyelid. But he wanted the girl, and that needed patience. He was going to have enough dollars from Carney to set up on his own land, and he needed Lydia to be his woman.

  Ma Lil had a good view now, as Dane moved out of the sun, and she saw the gun-belt. It was unmistakably an armoury she associated with a chancer, a man who lived by death.

  ‘Joe Dane, well, blow me son, you used to be welcome here, but then, why, you turned the head of a mere child. For a while she could talk of nothin’ but you. Smooth talker I guess?’

  ‘When I need to be. But I’m as honest as a silver dollar. I been away, and I changed. I want to settle down, and this is the place I want to settle in. You see ma’am, Lydia is all I been thinking about. My intentions are to marry her. I have nothing improper in mind, believe me. . . .’

  The Winchester was still pointed at him, though now he swung a leg to dismount. But Ma Lil was not having him in the house. She fired so that earth shot up and into the man’s boot-tops, and he swung his leg up again. Then she fired again and this time, the bay snorted and shot backwards, almost dislodging Joe Dane. ‘Now git out and stay away, Dane, you’re bad news. Elias will be comin’ looking for you, son, and if I was you I’d run like a prairie dog who’s seen the hunter!’

  For a second, Dane thought about gunning her down, but he restrained himself and turned away, riding off with a last few words, ‘I’ll be back, ma’am. Count on that!’ He had been struggling to maintain the veneer of good manners and affability, but in his heart he was cursing and damning the woman. Who the hell was she, the old whore, to be threatening Joe Dane? He had a plot ready in the graveyard for her, and a bullet with her name on it. Damned old bitch. . . . He cursed and damned her. But it was time to get the job done. Jim Squint McCoy had a date with death first, then the old lady could follow.

  Harry was sitting now, on a little makeshift stage that was used for comedy acts touring the area or for small musical groups. He had dressed for the part, every inch of him showing the elegance of a man from back East. He had wanted to use his aristocratic background to push into his new career, and he dressed the part, with time taken to wash hair, moustache and beard; the jacket and waistcoat were pressed, and the trousers also; and then there was the jewellery – some gold rings and a special shiny pendant with crossed swords and a Latin motto, which folk always asked about and he answered, with the only Latin he actually knew: semper fidelis – always faithful.

  They were all sitting in front of him, expecting to hear wisdom, and maybe with heads full of knowledge and questions. They most likely had lines of bookshelves in their homes, and pianos, and paintings. Was he up to it? He did what he always did when he needed strength and confidence: he smiled and covered over the worries eating at him.

  Preacher Hoyt was elected to introduce him, and he raised a hand to quieten the hubbub across the hall, before saying, ‘Good folk of Broken Man, I thank you for turning out tonight to welcome our very special guest from England, a real true blue blood from back home, Lord Harry Lacey of Norfolk.’ He turned to look at Harry as the audience applauded with enthusiasm. ‘Now, you know me, good people, and you know that I speak direct and I never digress into homilies and lectures . . . (there were groans at the irony of that) and so I have to tell you simply that Lord Harry is to speak on justice this evening, something dear to our hearts.’

  He shook Harry’s hand as his speaker walked across to him, and then Hoyt sat down and left Harry to stand before the locals. He thought of the vicar back home, and how he always started his sermons with a humorous little line or two, and totally thinking on his feet, he said, ‘I sincerely hope you all meant to be here tonight, but if you’re in the wrong place, do leave now so I won’t be hurt!’

  They liked it. There was laughter. The faces of the literary club members looked relaxed. He warmed to his real topic for the night.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, good people of Colorado . . . I know that the notion of justice is something that tends to float around and take on different colours. It’s not one constant item, something anyone may define in a slick and easy way. In fact, it runs through your fingers every time you try to understand how it works. But I’d like to try, and first I want to tell you about a young woman, a mere girl, just fourteen years old, the daughter of my best friend back in Illinois. Now, this little girl was unfortunate enough to be in a family that another family felt some hatred for. In fact, she lived in a place when one bunch of kin wanted another bunch of kin out of the world. The rift began when someone was accused of stealing land. Then it all grew, and the hatred ran like poison through the veins of near on a hundred people. One day, this little girl was riding with her brothers when there was an ambush. Good people, I have to tell you that she was shot dead. Three others died that day, but it didn’t stop the hatred.’

  He paused and looked around. In the silence, the people in the crowd examined Lord Harry’s face, which was showing emotion welling up in him. Then he went to the lectern that Hoyt had set in place for him; he put both hands firmly on the edge and leaned forward, so that he could look the front row in the eyes, and he scanned them all as he said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . . I fired the bullet that killed her.’

  There was a sudden groan from the mass of people in front of him. A few voices called out words which were unclear. Harry then added, ‘I did some time for it. I walked to the law myself. I see her face every day. Since then, good folk of Broken Man, I have never carried a gun. If I am attacked, these two fists will protect me . . . nothing more!’

  ‘God bless a sinner!’ Preacher Hoyt yelled out, and a chorus of voices imitated him.

  ‘No, no, I wish to say to you, that justice is not the same as retribution. Now I see, since I arrived here, that once again there is hatred in your streets. I have been told that your officers of law do not have your faith and trust. Well, find new ones, make justice sit with fairness, like the court of Solomon, and siphon off the bad blood. It’s the only way to cleanse the spite and the despising of man to man. . . . Justice lies in the very heart of that affection and understanding that man should have for man . . . the affection he felt for the world when he was a child, and innoce
nt before his Maker . . . ’Course, I’m not here to give a sermon. I’m here because I know, in my fairly short life, that we all face adversity, and that we overcome that with moral courage, not with a will to destroy the person we perceive as our enemy. Now I hope that all makes sense to you good folk of Broken Man!’

  There was a general applause after those words. Preacher Hoyt came out to him and shook his hand. Then he called for quiet and asked for questions. ‘Lord Harry will be pleased to answer any questions you have. . . .’

  At first there was quiet again, but then a voice from the back called out, ‘Lord Harry, would you be surprised to know that we was told you was a killer . . . that under your fancy long coat you got pistols, and that Carney or McCoy is paying you for some evil. What do you say to that?’ There was a universal sound of offence and shock. ‘Some of us was informed that under that smart suit of clothes, there’s a hired gun, waiting for the victim to come along. What do you say to that?’

  Alby Groot, who had been keeping out of things since the stranger arrived, thinking that his popularity with the club was on the decline, decided to join in. ‘Yes sir . . . could you explain yourself? We are respectable folk here.’

  ‘I say that it’s nonsense.’ Then Lord Harry Lacey started taking off his long coat, and threw it on the stage floor. The he took off his waistcoat. There was no gunbelt, not around the waist or the shoulders. He then took off his boots and threw them on the stage. ‘No guns hidden in these . . . no guns anywhere at all. Just these.’ He put up both his fists.