by J. T. Edson
“Huh?” grunted Gartree.
“Do you want him walking, or slung across his saddle?” Latter inquired. “It all comes the same to me, but you’re paying for it.”
“You know how I feel about such things,” Gartree replied, ignoring the last part of his hired man’s speech. “I always say that a lawman should use the minimum amount of force possible when making an arrest.”
“That’s what you always say,” Latter grinned. “I’ll go tend to him. Mind what we was talking about this morning. I’d admire to be marshal of an up-and-coming town like this.”
While speaking, the killer removed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. He acted with complete confidence, more like a social equal than an employee—and an undesirable employee at that. After loosening the Adams in its holster, Latter directed a contemptuous leer at the marshal, nodded cheerfully to Gartree and walked from the room.
Two pairs of hate-filled eyes followed the killer until the door closed behind him, and neither of the remaining men spoke for several seconds. Gartree spent the time in rapid thought, making plans and wondering how he might bring them to a successful conclusion.
“Latter was asking me this morning to use my influence and have him appointed town marshal in your place,” he finally told Gruber.
“Folks wouldn’t want a hired killer like him running the law,” scoffed Gruber, then thought what losing his post would mean to him. “Would they?”
“You know the ingratitude of the public,” Gartree answered. “They’re so fickle that they forget all the good things you’ve done if they think you’ve failed them.”
“I don’t follow you,” Gruber stated, knowing he had done little good while in office.
“If Latter arrests the Texan, the citizens are going to start asking why you didn’t do it. The ones who are discontented with you will start saying we need a new marshal, then begin asking why they elected you in the first place.”
Gruber could well imagine a number of people asking that question and coming up with the wrong answers from his point of view. “What should I do?” he moaned.
“It’s not for me to tell you how to do your duty, Marshal,” Gartree replied, picking out each word with care and pausing for emphasis before continuing, “but if I was in your place, I’d take serious exception to an outsider attempting to make a citizen’s arrest in my town.”
“You mean I should stop him?”
“That is up to you.”
“I thought he worked for you,” said Gruber in a puzzled tone, realizing what the stopping might entail.
“Him?” snorted Gartree. “He doesn’t work for me. Came to ask my assistance in obtaining justice for a cousin who’s been wrongly jailed. What would I need with the services of a man like him?”
“Nothing, I should reckon,” Gruber answered. “Won’t he be riled if I cut in, though?”
“He might be—if you give him the chance.”
“You mean I should—?”
Gartree was too old a hand at the political game to be caught in making a definite statement which might be used against him.
“I mean nothing,” he stated firmly. “All I say is there are times when a duly-appointed officer of the law must use force to oppose force, and take firm measures to keep the peace.” Seeing the marshal wavering, he continued, “I’ll back you in any action you find it necessary to take.”
A thoughtful gleam came into Gruber’s eyes at the last words. Although not a particularly intelligent man, he knew exactly what Gartree meant; and yet felt puzzled. For some reason or other, the politician did not want either Latter or the Texan alive at the end of the_ affair. While understanding Gartree’s feelings towards the Texan, Gruber failed to see why the other wanted the hired killer dead.
Although not willing to disclose it, Gartree possessed an excellent reason for wanting Latter out of his life. During a recent campaign, it had become necessary to remove a too-popular opponent. While Gartree had arranged such things before, he never met the hired killer personally and dealt always through a second party. In some, way or other Latter discovered that Gartree was behind the man who hired him. Presenting him to the politician, Latter announced his intention of taking full-time employment with Gartree—not a desirable arrangement for a man who drew many votes through preaching a policy of non-violence and tolerance. With Latter able to prove his statement, dismissing him was out of the question, as was refusing his suggestion. At last Gartree saw a way of removing the menace to his career—if only Gruber possessed the guts to do it.
Whichever way the affair went, Gartree stood to gain.
If the Texan proved lucky enough to kill Latter, all well and good. More likely the shooting would go the other way; after all, Latter earned his living by winning gunfights. In that case, fear of losing an easy way of earning his keep might give Gruber the necessary courage to finish Latter off. Having a low, if accurate, opinion of the marshal’s intelligence, Gartree figured he had nothing to fear from Gruber after the shooting. Gruber lacked the brains and reasoning power to try Latter’s tricks, or attempt to cash in on his knowledge.
“I reckon I’d best go tend to it, Mr. Gartree,” the marshal said, after some thought which got him nowhere.
“Good luck, marshal,” Gartree replied. “And don’t forget that I’m behind you all the way.”
Showing more geniality than the marshal could remember on previous meetings, Gartree ushered Gruber into the main hall and to the front door. After seeing the man out, Gartree turned, his face losing its friendly “I’ll-support-you-through-thick-and-thin” expression. He turned and crossed the hall, climbed the stairs and entered his son’s room. Halting just inside the door, Gartree looked across the darkened room to the still shape on the bed. Cold fury grew in the politician as his eyes went down to the raised blankets over the injured limb.
Give him his due, while an errant snob, an opportunist, bigot and hypocrite, Gartree loved his son. Secretly he knew that his own actions brought about Gavin’s injury. He had heard stories of his son’s behavior around town and, although he openly declared it to be no more than high spirits, knew just how viciously Gavin acted. Knowing that his lack of control lay at the back of the incident hurt and Gartree wanted to swing the blame anywhere but on himself. Everyone connected with the incident must suffer. Already he had sent Latter to kill the Texan, but that was not enough. The people whose presence in Bainesville led to his son being crippled must also pay. Staring down at his son, Gartree tried to decide how he should go about taking his revenge on the travelers.
The door opened behind Gartree and he turned to find his butler entering.
“Mr. Gavin’s friends are downstairs in the kitchen, sir,” the butler said.
Opening his mouth to order them sent away, Gartree stopped with the words unsaid. Ideas flashed into his head, clicking into place and meeting with his approval. Instead of replying, he threw another glance at his son and walked from the room. Entering the kitchen, he found the Coopers and Lanny Bulmer standing at the table and helping themselves to coffee. If they felt any embarrassment, none of them showed it.
“How’s Gav?” asked Turkey.
“Crippled for life!” Gartree gritted out. “Why didn’t you three do something to stop it?”
“We for sure tried,” Lanny answered. “Only that Texan, he wouldn’t let us.”
“He sure wouldn’t,” agreed Coop.
“Damn it to hell! There were three of you against him.”
“Four, mister,” Turkey corrected coldly. “Only your son didn’t show worth shucks when the fuss started.”
Gartree’s eyes went to Turkey’s face, fury glowing in them. Studying the young man, the politician read insolence and danger in the return stare. Ever since their first meeting, Turkey worried Gartree. The young man dearly wanted to gain the coveted title of killer and might not be choosy how he took the first step towards that end. One wrong word or action and Turkey, already smarting under the knowl
edge that he failed when put to the test, might strike blindly. So Gartree overlooked the other’s attitude, although it hardened his resolve, and went on with the plan formulated on the way downstairs.
“What do you intend to do about Gavin?” he asked. “I thought men like you would want to get evens for a friend.”
While Gartree saw that his emphasis on the word ‘men’ struck the right note, the trio failed to show any great enthusiasm.
“You reckon we should ought to take out after that Texan again?” asked Coop.
“No. He’s been taken care of—I mean, the marshal’s gone to arrest him.”
The whoops of laughter which followed Gartree’s words did not sound complimentary to Marshal Gruber.
“Him? Ole Tin Star?” scoffed Coop. “Why he couldn’t arrest a one-armed, one-legged, blind, deaf and white-haired Digger Injun without a posse to back him up.”
“Happen that lil Texas boy can shoot like he fist-fights,” Lanny went on, “this here town’s going to come shy a marshal real sudden.”
“Forget the Texan, he’s being dealt with,” Gartree growled. “It’s the other bunch, that girl who egged Gavin on, and her men folks that I’m thinking about.”
“And you want for us to go after them?” asked Turkey.
“Why not? Gavin was a good friend to you.”
“You want for us to go out after them folks and rough-handle them some?” Turkey went on, a calculating glint in his eyes.
“I didn’t say that. I’m leaving it to you men whether you let a bunch of strangers come into your town and get a good friend shot by their hired killer.”
“Was it my son, I’d come along and make sure it got done right.”
For a long time Gartree did not reply to Cooper’s words. He used the silence to think fast and reached certain conclusions. While he did not intend, in the first place, to take any active part in avenging his son, he decided it might be to his advantage to go along. When the shooting happened, he should be out of town and in a position later to deny all knowledge of why Latter went after the Texan. He also felt a desire to see the travelers suffer, that might ease the nagging guilt which filled him.
“Get the horses, I’ll come with you,” he said and read surprise on the three young faces. “You’re right, Gavin’s my son and I should be there.”
“They’ve a good two hours start,” Coop commented. “But happen we push the hosses, we ought to catch up with them easy enough.”
“And close to town,” Turkey growled. “Like hell we do. We’ll follow those pilgrims until nightfall. Even if they don’t know the country, they’ll have reached Tuliptree Springs just afore dark and they’ll make camp there, or I don’t know their kind. That’s where we’ll jump them—well clear of town.”
Although the arrangement did not fit into Gartree’s plans, he could see the two young men agreed to it. So he raised no arguments, merely changing the details of his first idea to fit the new circumstances.
“That’s the best idea,” he said. “Let’s make a start.” On leaving the room Gartree found his butler waiting. The Negro fetched out his employer’s gunbelt as requested and looked the politician over with expressionless eyes.
“Will you-all be gone long, sir?”
“I may be away all night.”
“Yes, sir,” said the butler, his eyes drifting to the stairs.
“I know I can rely on you to see to Mr. Gavin for me,” Gartree said, guessing at the other’s thoughts. “And my business is urgent.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to go after those people and tell them that I don’t hold any grudge against them for what happened to Gavin.”
“That sure is the Christian way, sir.”
Throwing a long, searching glance at the butler, in an attempt to see if veiled sarcasm lay behind the comment, Gartree read nothing in the impassive black face. He felt that he had achieved his object and possessed a witness to testify to the purity of his intentions in visiting the travelers. After ordering that his son was not to be left unattended, Gartree left the house.
The three young men had known that their free-meal-and-drink times were over and only called at the house in the hope of picking up a grub-stake—a thing Coop, cynical by nature, claimed to be as likely as catching sun-stroke in the middle of a blizzard. So their horses stood saddled and waiting outside the rear of the Gartree house. That only left Gartree to collect a horse, saddle it and mount. He did so in a fair time, considering that he usually left such details to a servant, and the party turned their horses in the direction of the southern trail.
Before they had gone a hundred yards, the four men heard the crackle of shots from the poorer section of town. First came the flat barking of revolvers; three shots in all, one heavy and a lighter crack very close together followed by a second heavy crack. Then they heard a yell, too distant for them to understand the words, echoed by the deep boom of a shotgun and an instant later the deep bark of the revolver jarred the air again. Silence followed for a few seconds before shouts rose from Cresset Street.
“Sounds like the Texan’s been taken care of,” Turkey commented, glancing at Gartree as he spoke.
“Tolerable amount of shooting to take care of just one man though,” Coop went on.
Gartree did not reply, seeing no point in mentioning that he hoped more than one man died. If it came to a point, he hoped that at least three men went under; for he had no desire to have Gruber around knowing what he did. While the marshal might lack the brains to utilize his knowledge, he could fall into the hands of somebody who could. So, on the whole, Gartree preferred that Gruber died doing his “duty” rather than lived as a menace to a promising political career.
Suddenly Gartree became aware of a restlessness among his young companions. All sat looking in the direction of the shooting and worry-lines creased their faces. Turkey turned and looked at Gartree.
“That hired gun of your’n packed an Adams, didn’t he?”
“If you mean Mr. Latter, he’s nothing ” Gartree began, but the young man ignored him.
“And the Texan toted a brace of Army Colts,” Turkey continued.
“Man don’t miss with a scatter too often,” Lanny commented.
“Not often,” agreed Coop. “You wanting to stay and see what happened, Mr. Gartree?”
“No. The marshal can handle things. We’ll go after those pilgrims and teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
Four – Bainesville’s Blacksmith Shows Caution
“You sure live right, friend,” Clint Morley, the blacksmith, told the small Texan as they walked along the main street in the direction of his forge. “If you hadn’t turned when you did—” He shook his head before continuing. “I’m not saying that young Gartree would have shot you in the back; but a man’d need to be real brave—or plumb foolish—to rely on it.”
“You could be right at that,” admitted the Texan. “It’s lucky for me that that girl yelled for me to watch him.”
“She yelled?”
“Sure. Why else do you think I’d’ve known to turn?” A puzzled frown crossed the burly blacksmith’s open, cheery face. Although he had not been close enough to take part in the fracas, he approached during its latter stages and could not remember hearing the girl shout any warning. Of course, he had been fully absorbed in studying the Texan’s unusual, highly effective, fighting techniques; but he doubted if he would miss such an important detail as the girl’s participation by warning the Texan of his danger.
Knowing better than appear to doubt the Texan’s word, Morley swung the conversation away from that aspect of the affair and decided that he should hand out a warning.
“Gartree’s father’s not going to forget or forgive you for what happened to his boy.”
“Would that be Baines Gartree, the politician?”
“The very same.”
“He’s a right big man in your State Legislature, they do tell. Got his eyes set on the Governor’s chair, or a
seat in the U.S. Congress.”
“Yeah,” grunted Morley, surprised that his companion should be so well informed about Kansas politics.
“Could even get one or the other.”
“He keeps saying out loud all the time that he doesn’t want either.”
“I never saw the politician who didn’t—when he wanted to be elected for something or other.”
Morley directed a searching glance at the Texan, wondering where such an insignificant young man met politicians—or learned to speak with such cynical certainty on the subject of their behavior. More than ever, the blacksmith came to wonder about the young man by his side, trying to decide who he might be. Whoever he was, that small Texan did not belong to the ordinary herd, no matter how he looked, or Morley sadly missed his guess.
“Sounds like you know politicians,” the blacksmith grinned.
“I’ve met some,” admitted the Texan. “They’re just like people.”
“Same being true, I’d put me some miles between me and Bainesville, was I you.”
“Not until my paint’s ready to ride.”
“Which’s why you’re coming with me. But when it’s done, I’d ride fast until I joined up with a Texas outfit. Baines Gartree won’t take kind to you crippling his son for no reason—and that’s how he’ll look at it, with never a thought to why you did what you did.”
“He’s a man of peace, they do tell me,” the Texan commented dryly.
“A dove’s the bird of peace, but they fight like hell,” answered Morley. “What I’ve said still goes.”
“I wasn’t fixing to set up home here, the winters’re too cold,” the Texan drawled. “Got to meet some of my amigos down in the Nations at Bent’s Ford by the end of the week. You don’t reckon that Gartree’d put the law on to me, do you?”
“It’s possible.”
“There were plenty of witnesses saw why I did it.”
“Sure.”
“Only you don’t think they’d admit I acted the only way I could?”
“Let’s say they might find trouble remembering just what did happen. ”
“Because I’m a Texan?”
