By the time Martin reached the physician’s building, J. T. Buchanan, Lars Halversen, Gus Brunswick, and Charles Marley were among the procession of townspeople.
Cranston had heard the noisy, murmuring crowd approach and met them outside. He knew exactly what had happened to Martin without being told. “Come on in, Martin.” He signaled to the others to wait outside.
Martin had to give in to the pain when he finally got to the treatment room. He doubled over and moaned softly as he made his way unsteadily to a nearby chair. He slowly settled down.
Cranston went to his medicine cabinet. “Kicked you in the ribs, did they?”
“Yes.”
“And it looks like some lacerations to the face,” the doctor added, bringing a bottle of carbolic acid and some cloth bandages over. “You’re, not too surprised, are you?”
Martin displayed a forced grin. “I am a little. I don’t suppose I really let the reality of Riley’s reaction settle in.”
Cranston went to work on his face. “Your nose is broken, but not smashed. And you’re going to have a swollen lip.”
“Tad Perkins did that,” Martin said, wincing. “He took my insults personally.” He smiled again. “Jake Donner had to read the editorial to him.”
“You know their names?” Cranston asked. “Let’s get that shirt off.”
“They introduced themselves,” Martin said. “Being a journalist, I made quick and permanent note of the gentlemen’s appellations in my mind.” He slipped his apron over his head, then tried to help the doctor remove his shirt.
“I’ll do it,” Cranston said. “Just stand there.” It took him a full five minutes to strip Martin down to his bare skin. “For the love of God! That must hurt like hell!”
“It does,” Martin said. He looked down at the large bruises and scrapes. “That’s where they did their worst. Jake didn’t want my face messed up too much.”
“I’m sure that was Culhane Riley’s idea,” Cranston said, “he’s an intelligent, cunning man. I don’t think he wants a martyr—living or dead—walking the streets.”
“You don’t think he’ll kill me, then?” Martin asked.
“You misunderstood what I meant,” Cranston said. “If he considers himself better off with you in the hereafter, he’ll certainly have you dispatched there.” The physician gently placed his open hands over Martin’s ribs. “Take a deep breath.”
Martin inhaled. “Ow!”
“Do it again.”
“Do I have to?” Martin groaned.
“I want to see if you have any broken ribs,” Cranston said. “Now breath in again.”
Martin complied several more times. He was glad when the doctor signaled him to stop and sit down once again. “Ooooh!”
“No fractures, but I’ll have to bind you up,” Cranston said. “And it’s going to be painful —exceedingly painful.”
Martin steeled himself as the doctor fetched some bandages. Cranston helped him stand up. The first wrap was pulled around and tightened. Martin had to clamp his teeth tightly to keep from crying out.
“Well, Martin, this is something you’ll have to get used to,” the doctor said. “Grit your teeth, Crusader!”
Eighteen
The newspaper was crumpled in Culhane Riley’s crushing hands, and he flung the ruined journal across his desk at Jake Donner. “I thought I told you to scare that goddamned kid!” he shouted.
“We did, boss. Honest,” Jake protested. “Hell, Tad got so mad he tried to kick the skinny little twerp to a bloody pile o’ shit. He even went for his gun. If me and Frank hadn’t jumped on him, he’d’ve plugged that Martin Blazer as sure as hell’s hot. As it was, it took all I could do to keep Tad from beating him to death. Even then, when we was finished the kid must’ve been sore as a boil.”
“I’ll bet!” Riley scoffed.
“We’re good at this game,” Jake said.
“You sure as hell didn’t seem to put the fear of Culhane Riley into that Blazer fellow,” the gang leader insisted.
It was barely an hour after sunrise, and Jake had been plenty worried by the hurried summons to Riley’s presence. “We went as far as we could. I swear to God, boss!” he said.
Riley laughed without humor. “It is ironic that you would swear to any deity, Jake. Except Saint Whiskey, perhaps.”
Jake ignored the sarcasm he could barely understand. “Anyhow, you told us not to mess up his face,” Jake said. “You just wanted him roughed up some. That’s what you said.”
Riley hit the top of his desk. “Yes. That is exactly what I said. But there was a certain degree to reach that you fell short of, Jake. It’s obvious from this latest edition of the Lighthorse Creek Sentinel.” Jake picked the newspaper off the floor. “He done it again, huh?”
“Yes,” Riley said. “Young Mr. Blazer wrote another editorial. He named names—mine, yours, Tad’s, and Frank’s—and seems to revel in the fact you kicked him around. Which shows how effective you three were.” He held out his hand. “Give me that back.”
“Sure, boss,” Jake said, handing over the wrinkled copy of the Sentinel. “What do you want with if?”
“I want to read some of this to you,” Riley said. “It might put you in the right frame of mind for really teaching Martin Blazer a lesson.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Jake said interested. “Read on.”
Riley’s eyes scanned the page. “Here we go. ‘Three villainous cowards visited our offices yesterday. These harbingers of corruption and evil had been dispatched by their odious employer to give us instructions on how this newspaper should be run.’”
Jake scratched his head. “What’s ‘odious’ mean, boss?”
“It connotes something that doesn’t smell very good!” Riley snapped. “In other words, so you can understand exactly, it means stinking.”
“Jesus, boss! He said you stunk?”
“That’s right, Jake,” Riley said “And he called you, Frank, and Tad—” he looked against the editorial, “‘villainous cowards.’”
“I know what a coward is, but what’s that other word?”
“It means bad, evil, or treacherous,” Riley answered. “It is not considered complimentary in most circles, though among your friends and associates it might well be appreciated.”
“Oh.” Jake was silent for several moments. “What does treacherous mean?”
“Goddamn it!” Riley yelled. “The little son of a bitch said you three idiots were yellow-bellied skunks! Can you understand that?”
Jake swallowed uneasily. “Yeah, boss. When I tell Tad and Frank, they’re really gonna be riled.”
“Well, you can tell them that, Jake,” Riley ordered. “And you make sure they understand perfectly that the skinny little bastard that runs the newspaper called them dirty names.”
“I’ll sure tell ’em, all right.” Jake hesitated. “I got another question, boss.”
Riley sighed. “Sure. What is it?”
“When you was reading that to me, Blazer was saying ‘us’ and ‘our’ in it. Hell, they was only him alone.”
“That’s called the editorial ‘we,’ Jake,” Riley explained patiently. “It is a common and accepted form of writing in journalism.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have any more questions?” Riley asked. “I reckon not, boss, except that I was wondering if you was gonna talk to Martin Blazer again.”
“I have given the matter some further thought. As of now, I have no desire for another useless conversation with him, Jake. It would be demeaning to me to trot over there again. He might judge such actions on my part as a sign of nervousness. I fear it might even encourage his impertinence toward me.”
“Right, boss. You don’t want that,” Jake said, wondering what had just been said.
“I have some very precise orders for you,” Riley said. “And you will like them. I want you to take Tad and Frank to pay another call on Blazer at his newspaper. But this time I want you to really— really—teac
h him a lesson. But I don’t want him killed. That very possibly might make a martyr out of him, and that could prove terribly disadvantageous to our cause.”
Jake didn’t know what a martyr was, but he certainly wasn’t going to-ask any more questions. “Right, boss.”
“So, you’ll beat the living hell out of him.”
“Can we punch him in the face?” Jake asked. “You sure can,” Riley said. “I also want you to tear the hell out of his place. Break up his furniture, equipment, or anything else that’s handy in there.”
“Right, boss. Should we burn him out?”
Riley shook his head. “No! The fire could spread over here. Just beat him half to death and tear up his place of business. Can you handle that?”
“You bet, boss!”
“But let me warn you! If he dies from it, I’ll have your hide,” Riley warned.
Jake wasn’t worried. “This ain’t the first time we’ve kicked somebody around.”
“Go to it, then.”
“I’m on my way to fetch Tad and Frank,” Jake said. He wasted no time in exiting the office.
Riley lit a fresh cigar. He walked to the window and looked down at the offices of the Sentinel as he had been doing since clashing with the newspaper’s intrepid editor.
“Young Mr. Blazer,” Riley said, taking a pull on his smoke. “You are about to become a member of my organization by way of an invitation delivered through fists and boots!”
~*~
J. T. Buchanan stood up from the breakfast table. “I’m gonna get on down to the store.” He looked over at his daughter. “Don’t you tarry now, hear? Saturday’s our busiest day.”
Martin took a sip of the coffee that Abbie had just poured him. “I’ll be able to help you uncrate that St. Louis shipment. There won’t be much for me to do today.”
J. T. pointed to the copy of the Sentinel that lay beside the plate holding the remnants of his breakfast. “I’d say you done pretty much already, boy. That was the worstest thing you’ve wrote about Culhane Riley to date. You’ve even included some of his boys in it too.”
Martin smiled. “And I meant every word of it.” J. T. shook his head. “You’re ramrodding us straight into a big showdown. But you know that, don’t you?”
“I sure do,” Martin answered.
J. T. looked once more at Abbie. “Remember to hurry, daughter.”
“Yes, Papa,” Abbie said. She began clearing the meal’s dishes as J. T. left them to go down to the store.
Martin treated himself to another drink of coffee. “You were unusually quiet this morning.”
Abbie nodded as she worked quickly at her task. “I’m a little on the nervous side, Martin.”
“Now, don’t you worry a bit,” Martin said. “What we’re doing now will make us famous in this territory. Why, a year from now we’ll—”
“A year from now,” Abbie interrupted, “you might just be dead!” She fought back sobs. “Or a week or even a day!” Abbie fled for the kitchen with her burden of dishes.
Martin leaped up from his chair and went after her. When he reached the kitchen, she was leaning against the counter weeping. “Oh, Abbie, dear. Please don’t cry!” He stood beside her and slipped his arm around her shoulders.
“I can’t help it,” she snuffled.
“You must be brave, Abbie,” Martin said. “This is a job that I must stick with to the end.” Abbie turned and faced him. “I don’t like that word, Martin. Because we don’t know how it will all end, do we?”
“Of course not,” Martin said. “No one can look into the future. But I sincerely feel that I will triumph. I honestly do! This is really no different than the dangers our parents faced when they came out here.”
“It is a lot different,” Abbie argued. “Fighting bandits and Indians to protect your property is one thing. It’s quite another to use a newspaper to bait a gang of criminals.”
“Someday people will thank me for this,” Martin insisted.
“Oh, Martin, nobody appreciates the risks you’re taking,” Abbie said. “You should realize that yourself. At the meeting we had here, none of the people even seemed to care very much. Can’t you realize that their personal lives aren’t affected that much by Riley’s bunch. It doesn’t seem worth the jeopardy you’re putting yourself into.”
“But it most certainly is,” Martin said. “I.T. will be a state someday, Abbie. Or perhaps an independent Indian nation. Who knows? But either way, we don’t want the likes of Culhane Riley in our midst.” He paused. “I’ll admit there’s a bit of ego play here on my part. My name will be printed in future history books in acknowledgment of my achievements here.”
But Abbie was in no mood for community spirit. “Martin, dearest, Riley has already had you beaten. He was just warning you to back off. The next time will be a lot worse. I don’t think you understand that.”
Martin affected a laugh. “I understand it, Abbie. I also understand that this is going to be a long, difficult struggle. It’s only begun. Once the fight is in full swing, you’ll see that the rest of the town will be behind me a hundred percent. Culhane Riley can never stand up to all that.” He became more serious. “You must stick by me, Abbie. Since we’ve declared our love for each other, I couldn’t bear to be without your support. Can I count on you?”
Abbie turned back to her dishes. “Do what you must, Martin. You know I will stand by you.” He smiled. “It seems I’m hearing that from just about everybody.”
Abbie wanted to change the subject. “Did you say you were going to help Papa down at the store today?”
“A bit later,” Martin answered. “I want to kill a couple of the pages and distribute the type.” He pulled his pocket watch out. “As a matter of fact, I should be going.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
“Take care, Martin,” Abbie said.
~*~
The sign was crude but informative. The arrow painted on it and the words LIGHTHORSE CREEK 5 MILES were welcome to Tom Deacon.
He had been avoiding inhabited areas so long that his supplies had dwindled dangerously low. Even the gelding sensed the comforts ahead, and the horse picked up the pace.
Tom rode easily, then drew back on the reins and stood in the stirrups. He saw two men lounging at the side of the road.
His sharp eyes scanned the area around them, and he sighted nothing else that alarmed him. Also, the duo ahead were easy to see, and made no obvious attempts to conceal themselves. Tom urged his mount forward once again.
As he approached, the men walked toward him but kept on the same side of the road. They waved him down as he rode up. Tom nodded. “Howdy.”
“Howdy.” The man’s expression was insolent. He pointed to Tom’s saddlebags. “Whatcha got in there, pard?”
“None o’ your business,” Tom said matter-of-factly. “And you ain’t my pard.”
The man smirked. “Now, you ain’t friendly, are you?”
“Nope,” Tom answered.
“You ain’t got any likker there you’re gonna sell to Injuns, have you?” the first asked.
Tom began to think the men were U.S. marshals. “Nope. And if I did, I’d take a hell of a lot more than I could pack in them bags.”
“How about tobaccy or guns or bullets?” the man persisted. “You got any stuff like ’at for redskins?”
“Who are you?” Tom asked. He looked sharply at both men to see if there were badges under their vests. But he could see no sign they were law-enforcement officers.
“We’re tax collectors,” the second man informed him. “For the town o’ Lighthorse Creek.”
“I don’t live here, so I don’t pay no taxes,” Tom said. Their insolence had finally become intolerable to him. His temper snapped. “And I don’t like a coupla shitheads thinking I’m as stupid as they are.”
The second man went for his gun, but his hand had only hit the butt of his Colt when he looked into the muzzle of Tom’s pistol.
Tom’s voice was col
d. “Step back and hold your hands out.”
The two did as they were told.
“Now”—he motioned to the first man—“easy like. Use one hand and drop that gunbelt.” After the man had complied, Tom had the second do the same thing. “Both o’ you turn around and start walking.”
“I better not see you in Lighthorse Creek!” the first man threatened.
“Hold it!” Tom shouted. “Both o’ you bastards. Turn around again and walk back here.” When they were in front of him, Tom swung easily off the horse and stepped lightly to the ground. He reached up into his saddlebags and pulled his handcuffs out. He walked around the men, and without wasting another word or even a breath of air, he exploded into action, expertly slapping the restraints on the second man.
“Shit!”
“How come y’all want to spoil my day?” Tom asked.
The second man, trussed up, only scowled. But his friend, still with his hands free, began to get extremely nervous. “Who’re you anyhow?”
“Now, I asked you that question before,” Tom said. “You said you was tax collectors. Well, I’m a tax collector too. And you’re about to pay off.” He stepped forward and faked a movement with his pistol barrel. When the man ducked one way, he met Tom’s heavy fist straight on. The force of the blow spun him around and he collapsed heavily to the ground.
The man’s partner swallowed hard, and looked nervously at Tom. He started to speak, but wisely clammed up.
Tom walked over. “Turn around.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Don’t worry. If I was gonna punch you, I wouldn’t do it to the back o’ your head. All I want is to get my handcuffs back,” Tom said. He removed them and gave the fellow a shove. “I don’t know what kind o’ stupid game you two shit-for-brains are playing out here, but I’d better not see you again. Start walking.”
“Which way?”
“Straight ahead.” Tom watched him move away. After he’d gone a hundred yards, the ex-lawman remounted the gelding and swung the animal back onto the road. “I’ve sure been having my share of run-ins lately,” he said both to himself and to the horse. “It’s damn near enough to upset me.”
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