The Home of Great Western Fiction!
“I’ll have your guts for guitar strings, Jeremy Six!”
If you’ve ever seen a she-bear defend her cub against a pack of wolves, you’ll know what Ma Marriner was like, only maybe she was bigger and meaner and the wolves were on her side.
What the marshal of Spanish Flat had done was to shoot Ma’s husband, Buel, while he was going about his business of robbing the town’s bank. And neither Ma nor her ornery son Cleve were going to let that go unavenged. Especially when Jeremy Six had added insult to injury by tossing Cleve into the calaboose.
So Ma gathered up the clan and all their thirty or more border-rider friends, and the whole pack of them set out for Spanish Flat to skin Jeremy’s hide once and for all.
MARSHAL JEREMY SIX #5: A BADGE FOR A BADMAN
By Brian Garfield writing as Brian Wynne
First Published by Ace Books in 1967
Copyright © 1967, 2019 by Brian Garfield
First Digital Edition: August 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Cover Art by Gordon Crabb
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
One
A figure of no small reputation, Jeremy Six stalked the streets of Spanish Flat with a hip-hung revolver and a tin badge that had a few dents and a dull shine. His eyes, occasionally warm but never careless, flickered with an alert brilliance and missed almost nothing.
It was rumored that the sight of one face, Clarissa Vane’s, could soften the craggy angles of Six’s face; but if that was true it only occurred when they were alone.
Spanish Flat’s town marshal earned one thousand dollars a year and fines. For that remuneration he kept the store open seven days a week and went to war every day. His crew consisted of one man, a big barrel-chested deputy who went by the name of Dominguez and had never been heard to utter a complaint about anything.
There was a part-time staff man, Bill Dealing, who filled in as night marshal during the hours between four in the morning and noon, on weekends and at other times when the jail had a full house or the town was heavy with traffic.
The population of Spanish Flat included a few men who had cut their teeth on gunsights. On the rare occasions when it seemed called for, two or three of these men might take a hand, partly because they liked Marshal Six and he liked them, but mainly because Spanish Flat was their town and they felt they had a vested interest in the fortunes of the community.
One of those rare occasions was the night Buel Marriner decided to rob the Bank of Spanish Flat.
It had become customary for a poker game to take place Thursday nights in the Drover’s Rest saloon. The game ordinarily began precisely at seven-thirty and broke up precisely at eleven, for the men had full days’ work ahead of them. The usual participants were five: Hal Craycroft, who owned the Drover’s Rest; Bill Dealing, who was a dispatcher for the Overland Stage Line when not filling in as night marshal; Larry Keene, lanky owner of the big Spur ranch; his foreman, Bones Riley; and Tracy Chavis, the big former gunfighter who owned Chainlink Ranch north of town.
All five men had had their differences with Jeremy Six at one time or another, but all five were Six’s friends, and it was a time and place where friendship meant a good deal.
It was a Thursday evening in September, with a late-summer zephyr softly stirring the dust in the streets of town. Spanish Flat was quiet, though it was not dead to the world; at seven-fifteen Marshal Six arrested a teamster in the Tres Candelas cantina for disturbing the peace by hurling furniture around. But that was ordinary.
At seven-twenty-five Jeremy Six was seen leaving the jail and walking back toward Cat Town, toward the Glad Hand saloon which was owned and operated by Clarissa Vane. He walked the boardwalks without hurry under a dusky sky that cooled rapidly after the sun’s passage; turned right, crossing a dusty street and going down the narrow sidewalk, where he stopped for a moment to exchange friendly insults with Fat Annie, the madam. Larry Keene, in the yawning mouth of a livery stable down the street, set his watch by Six’s arrival at the Glad Hand. Bones Riley emerged waddling from the stable, and together Riley and Keene went uptown to the Drover’s Rest.
A handful of sodbusters from the flats below town rattled around in the big saloon; otherwise the evening was slow. Hal Craycroft, owner of the prestigious saloon and head of the town council, sat at his usual place at the usual table in the front corner of the room; Riley and Keene threaded a path among empty tables to join him, while Bill Dealing paused near the door to hang his hat and bottle-green coat on the rack. Winter and summer Dealing was never seen on the streets of Spanish Flat without his coat.
Hal Craycroft said to the sodbusters, “Yell if you want anything.” His carelessly discarded bar apron lay across the back of a chair.
Always last to arrive, Tracy Chavis swung in from the street at seven-thirty-five, a big rugged man in stovepipe chaps and soft-ringing spurs. “Bunch of Rafter Cross cows got bogged down in Devil’s Sink. We had to help pull them out.”
Bones Riley shook his fat cheeks and chuckled. “Now, listen to that. He’s got his excuse out before we even tell him he’s late.”
“Man’s got to cover his bets,” Chavis admitted, laughing softly. “How are you, gents?”
Hal Craycroft broke the seal on a fresh pack of cards and fanned the deck across the table; each man extracted a card, turned it face-up and flashed for the deal.
Desultory talk and easy card-playing filled the time until ten o’clock, by which time the crowd in the saloon had grown; it forced Craycroft to leave the game and tend bar, and his place at the poker table was filled by big Garth Hatwell, owner of the hardware store. Outside, the moon lifted over the sawtooth peaks of the Yellows and bathed the cliff of the high Mogul in a silver soft light. Lamplight bloomed out of windows along the streets and the press clattered in the Sentinel printing room, preparing Friday’s weekly edition.
They must have drifted in one or two at a time, for later on no one could recollect having seen them in a bunch. They were short and fat and bearded, and they were tall and thin and clean-shaven. They wore range clothes, most of them; one man wore army britches with the side-stripes off. What identified them as a group was their horses, all branded with Buel Marriner’s Matador mark, and the way each man had of wearing his revolver in a tied-down, open topped holster.
Working late at the hotel desk, the clerk noticed several unfamiliar horses tied at the rack out front. In the Sentinel office, the editor saw two men ride leisurely by; what arrested the editor’s attention was the way both men’s faces pivoted constantly to survey the town and the way their hands rested on the butts of their guns.
It was Dominguez, the deputy marshal, who brought word to the Drover’s Rest. Standing by the jailhouse door he had seen a single rider pass whose face was known to him well.
To avoid drawing attention, Dominguez unpinned his badge and slipped it into his pocket, and left the sheriff’s office with a casual stride. His hooded glance took note of the number of strange ponies racked at the hotel, the cafe, the hardware and dry goods stores. He slipped off the walk, ducked under the hitch rail, and paused near one of the horses to cup hi
s hands around a match and light a cigarette. By the brief flare of the match he picked out the Matador brand on the horse’s sorrel flank.
It took Dominguez’s long legs little time to cross the intersection and move, seemingly indolent, into the glow of the saloon; he pushed through the quiet traffic of customers, nodded to the players at the table and, when he caught Bill Dealing’s glance, lifted his head significantly.
Bill Dealing said, “’Scuse me a minute, gents,” and rose to follow Dominguez to a spot at the bar.
Dominguez leaned forward on his elbows and spoke in a murmur intended to reach no farther than Dealing’s ear: “Buel Marriner just rode in, packing plenty of hardware. And I count nine Matador ponies on the street.”
Light rippled across Dealing’s eyes. “Buel Marriner—and a gang big enough to tree this town. Now, what do you think of that?”
“You seen the marshal, Bill?”
“What time is it?”
Both men glanced at the Seth Thomas clock above the end of the bar. Ten-forty. Dealing said, “Right now he’d be on his rounds. On his way down from Fat Annie’s.”
“Sure. I should have thought that out. Reckon I’m more rattled than I let on.”
Dealing said, “Maybe they just want a night’s fun.”
“Not at our expense,” Dominguez said. “No, I don’t figure they rode eighty miles across the malpais for a night of deviltry. Not with all the guns Marriner’s packing. You reckon they’ve heard about the Reservation express shipment?”
“That consignment at the bank?”
“Uh-huh.”
Dealing nodded. “Could be.” When Dominguez turned slowly from the bar, Dealing’s fingers touched his elbow. “Listen, I saw one of the crew tying his horse up at the hotel.”
Dominguez’s glance came back and rested on him. “Cleve Marriner?”
“Yes.”
Dominguez’s expression did not break. “The marshal prob’ly won’t be too happy to hear that.”
“I guess not.”
“I’d better find him. Right now.”
“Keep your powder dry,” Dealing advised, and watched the outsize deputy’s tall head bob through the crowd to the front door, and go out. No sooner had Dominguez disappeared than Hal Craycroft, who had made a point of overhearing, leaned forward over the bar. “Jeremy and Cleve Marriner used to be close.”
“Good friends,” Bill Dealing answered, and went back to the card game. He looked at his cards and spoke without lifting his eyes or his voice:
“Buel Marriner’s in town with eight or nine toughs. One of them’s his son. Let’s not jump to conclusions, but it just could be they’re after the express consignment at the bank, and it just could be Jeremy’s going to need a few extra hands to see this through.”
Tracy Chavis said, “Cleve with them?”
“Cleve’s with them.”
“Then that will make it tougher.”
Larry Keene said, “Cleve who?”
Chavis said, “Cleve Marriner—old Buel Marriner’s son. Back in the days when Jeremy was on the Circuit, he and Cleve were close friends.”
Bones Riley murmured, “Kind of makes the hill high to climb, don’t it?”
Chavis glanced at Bill Dealing. “I guess we just sit tight until we see Jeremy.”
Dealing nodded gravely and pushed two chips into the pot. “My bet.”
Dominguez found Jeremy Six at Fry’s billiard parlor; the marshal had paused on his rounds to watch a cue contest between two players on the green-felt table. Dominguez took the marshal aside and spoke in a few terse sentences, at the end of which Six’s jaw crept forward sternly and he said, “All right. Pick up a ten-gauge at the office and post yourself where you’ve got a good view of the bank.”
Dominguez moved away without comment, and a moment later Marshal Six was observed to walk the block between Mogul and Border streets, and turn right on Border. He walked without stealth, without hesitation, and it was a mark of the man that, with a dozen enemies abroad in the town, he kept to the exposed edge of the boardwalk. The marshal turned into the Glad Hand, went straight through to the back office, and shut the door behind him; it was ten minutes before he reappeared, and when the door again opened it was the trim figure of Clarissa Vane that appeared first. She blew out the lamp before Six came forward through the shadows into the saloon, thereby having avoided silhouetting himself in the office’s lamplight. He went out through the saloon, and long after he was gone, Clarissa Vane stood in the open door.
At the Drover’s Rest, several sets of eyes swung to watch the door. Six’s big shoulders filled the open top half of the corner-set doorway and his deep-set eyes plied the crowd. The marshal had the unmistakable manner of his profession draped about him. He strode into the room, paused once to speak softly to Hal Craycroft at the bar, and went into the saloon’s office behind the corner of the bar. Craycroft circulated through the crowd, dropping a word here and a word there; and certain individuals excused themselves quietly and drifted toward that back office. Among these were Bones Riley and Larry Keene and Tracy Chavis. Craycroft himself came into the office and closed the door on the little gathering. Talk around the bar room ran subdued and quietly anxious.
It was natural that Dominguez, the deputy, would not have been the only one to notice the convergence of the toughs so quietly. Others had not missed the significance of their arrival; rumors crisscrossed in the Drover’s Rest, moving on light suppressed tones; questions mingled with speculation and the main query was not whether Buel Marriner & Co. were here on business; the main query was, what kind of business?
Few who observed the night’s eddying activities doubted that a council of war was being held in Craycroft’s office. At the bar a sod-buster said, “If it comes to a showdown between the marshal and Cleve Marriner, what do you think will come of it?”
“God knows,” said his companion.
First to leave Craycroft’s office, Bones Riley opened the door shortly after eleven-thirty and looked over the crowd of men, still ample, that filled the saloon; Bones was heard to murmur, “Long past these folks’ bedtime. Marriner must know the fat’s in the fire.”
“Can’t help that,” said Larry Keene.
“Question is, what will he do about it?”
Bones Riley’s portly shape cruised through the room and left by the front door. Hal Craycroft came forward and held up his hands for attention. “Drink up, folks; I’m closing in ten minutes. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”
A swift grumble coursed through the crowd. Then the marshal came into view and said, “Stay open, Hal. They’ll only stand the risk of trouble on the streets if you turn them out.”
The lines of Six’s face seemed to congeal. Having made his speech, he walked with clipped paces the length of the room.
It was Henry Zimmer, owner of the general mercantile, who met Six on the corner outside the saloon. “Marshal, I have a gun. I’d like to throw in.”
“Not your line of work, Henry. I appreciate the offer.”
“Your power’s only as big as the men who stand behind you,” Zimmer said.
“No. My power is as big as my gun. Get indoors, Henry.”
Having ended the interview, Six moved on into the shadows. Lamplight, spilling from windows and doorways, illuminated him at intervals along the walk. His eyes quested the deep shadows of alleys and passages.
Henry Zimmer stood a moment by the saloon, watching the marshal go down the street, and presently turned inside; he found Craycroft loading a shotgun and said, “Tell me what’s going on, Hal.”
“Sure. We aim to bust it up before it starts, that’s all.”
“How?”
“We figure Marriner will have at the bank soon as the town goes to sleep. The consignment for the Reservation’s being held in the vault over the weekend. We’ll corral the toughs before they can make their play—one at a time, without noise if possible. Too much ruckus would warn the rest of them. They’re lyi
ng in wait, I guess, all over town, and it’s our problem to find all of them in time.”
When Jeremy Six turned the corner toward the Glad Hand, a slim shape stood yet in the door: as he approached, Clarissa Vane’s breasts rose with her intake of breath. Her voice was low.
“He’s in my office—he wants to see you.”
“All right,” Six answered.
He moved through the nearly deserted saloon. It was a long narrow room with a low ceiling; the walls were of yard-thick adobe, the floor sawdusted, the lamplight very low. By the office door he spoke in a clear voice:
“Coming in.”
He opened the door. A lamp on the desk cast an ominous glow upward against the sharp features of Cleve Marriner. Cleve wore no hat; he raised his hand weakly, as if in benediction, with a slow sad smile. His hair was thick and stiff, standing straight up from his head like a curry brush, and his narrow handsome face seemed ageless; he was probably thirty years old. He said, “How’ve you been, Jeremy?”
The marshal’s graven face turned, picked up a little lamplight and seemed remotely bitter. He swung aside to shut the door. “There are a good many towns in Arizona Territory,” he said.
“And why the hell did I go and pick this one,” Cleve Marriner said. “All right, Jeremy, you’ve done your duty. You’ve warned me off. Now sit down and tell me how the hell you’ve been.”
Six did not move. His cheeks showed no feelings when he said, “You’re posted out of town, Cleve.”
“I’ve broken no law.”
Six made no reply; and Cleve’s head described a slow arc, demonstrating his puzzlement. “Damn it, Jeremy, you’re not the same man.”
“Neither are you.”
“The hell.” Cleve sat back in the hardwood chair, tilting its front legs back off the floor. “I don’t like having to look up at you.”
Six reached for the door latch. “This is my town, Cleve. Nobody trees it. Understand that.” He began to open the door.
“Wait.” Cleve unfolded his slim length, rising to his feet; the chair-legs banged down. He regarded Six for some length of time, with his eyes burning with a strange brilliant intensity. He said slowly, “Jeremy, I believe I can beat your draw. Don’t ask me to.”
Marshal Jeremy Six #5 Page 1
