“That’s funny,” Bones said.
Wes Marriner felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. “What’s funny?”
“The way you sling your fists and gun around, I’d have thought we’d have heard of you. But I never heard that name before.”
“Names don’t mean anything,” Wes Marriner said.
“Maybe so,” Bones Riley said; his eyes were not altogether innocent of suspicion. The atmosphere of general distrust, which Marriner had felt earlier, seemed stronger than before. Made irritable by it, he moved toward the edge of the porch, feeling the numerous hurts in his body and moving gingerly because of them. His cheekbone ached and there was a steady painful throb in his belly where Rube’s ham of a fist had slugged his drum-taut stomach muscles. All he wanted to do was go up the street to the tonsorial parlor and soak in a hot bath for an hour, to ease the stiffness that the fight had bequeathed him. But he couldn’t do that yet, not while Ma Marriner’s name echoed around in his skull and there were too many questions that needed answers. And so he turned at the edge of the porch and faced Tracy Chavis, and spoke:
“Maybe you’d better tell me about this Matador business. Or is it a private party?”
Chavis was chewing on a matchstick. He considered Marriner gravely before he eventually took the match out of his mouth and said, “There’s a chance you might find yourself in the middle of some shooting here. That being the case, I reckon you’ve got a right to know what it’s about.”
“Go on.”
“Ever heard of Buel Marriner?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Wes Marriner said.
Bones Riley rode right in on him. “Then it’s kind of funny you ain’t heard of the Matador.”
“Is it?” Wes Marriner asked. “I didn’t say I hadn’t heard of it, did I?”
“Let it pass, Bones,” said Chavis. “He’s heard of old Buel, and that’s enough.”
It was quite some time since the water wagon had passed. The westering sun had baked the street to powder; a small wind, spinning down the street, carried a dust-devil. It passed, turned the corner as if on wheels, and went out of sight, carrying loose paper and leaves with it.
Chavis said, “Old Buel Marriner brought his son Cleve and a crew of gunnies into town last week. Partly to have a try at our bank, but mainly because they wanted to settle an old score with the town marshal.”
Marriner said, “Who’s the marshal here?”
“Jeremy Six.”
Wes Marriner’s mouth formed a soundless whistle, and he grinned broadly. “Now, think of that. Funny I haven’t seen him. Where is he?” His face became solemn. “They didn’t gun him, did they?”
“No. I’ll get to that. You acquainted with Jeremy Six?”
There was a time, Wes Marriner thought, when Jeremy and I were like brothers. What he said was, “I know him.”
Bones Riley growled, “Seems to me Jeremy used to have some fast and fancy friends. Getting so it ain’t no recommendation at all to say you used to be a friend of his. Cleve Marriner used to be another one, too.”
Cleve, Wes Marriner thought. My son-of-a-bitch cousin Cleve. What’s his piece of this?
Chavis told him, “Old Buel and Cleve came after Jeremy. Jeremy was a little faster.”
He always was faster than Cleve, Wes Marriner remembered.
“Killed old Buel and broke Cleve’s elbow. We had Cleve in jail until this morning.”
Wes Marriner said, “He got out?”
“Jeremy took him out. Buel’s widow sent a crowd of border-jumpers this way, maybe to bust Cleve out of jail and make boiled hash out of Jeremy. Jeremy’s taken Cleve north with him, mainly to keep the Matador crew from starting a war with Spanish Flat. But they may yet. If that gang busts in here, they’ll have a fight on their hands.”
Marriner said cautiously, “Where’d he take Cleve?”
Bones Riley opened his mouth to speak but Chavis shot a warning glance at him. Chavis said, “Aztec. The county seat.”
There was something in the bland way Chavis spoke that convinced Marriner immediately that Chavis wasn’t telling the truth; he said as much. “If Matador sends a scout into town, is that what you intend to tell him?”
Bones Riley stirred angrily. “You’re too smart by half, Mayo.”
“I don’t mean any harm,” said Marriner, “but if you figure to lay that story on Matador, you’d better pick somebody who’s a better liar than Chavis, here.” He added mildly, “No reason why you should trust me—I don’t mind if you don’t tell me where they really went. But it might be a good idea to think up a better story to tell these Matador people when they show up.”
“Which looks like it won’t be long at all,” said Bones Riley. He was squinting up the street, where a ragtag rider was trotting into town, trying hard to look as if he had nothing at all on his mind.
Six
Leading Cleve’s horse with the prisoner riding manacled to the saddle horn, Jeremy Six reached the fork in the coach road and stopped in the intersection long enough to unstrap his canteen and offer it to Cleve Marriner. Cleve poked his chin toward his hands—one handcuffed to the horn, the other suspended in bandage and sling. He said, “This your idea of a torture or a joke, Jeremy?”
Six held the canteen up to Cleve’s lips and let him drink. Afterward he wiped the mouth of the canteen with the heel of his palm, threw his head back, and took a single swallow; he corked the canteen, tied it on the saddle, and led off.
He took the left fork—toward Aztec.
“Hey,” Cleve said. “I thought you said we were heading up to Dragoon. Across the Reservation.”
“That’s what I told everybody,” Chavis agreed imperturbably. He went on up the road at an easy pace, conserving the horses.
Cleve gigged his mount with his heels until it caught up, alongside Six. Cleve said, “I don’t get it.”
Six gave him a dry, sidewise glance. “I’ve got a lot of friends in Spanish Flat, Cleve, and I know them as well as you know that useless crew of bravos on the Matador. Maybe better.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Chavis and the rest of them—they’re good men, Cleve, but they’re God-awful liars. They’ll make a point of letting your crew ‘overhear’ how I took you to Aztec, and if your people have got a grain of sense they’ll know the story was planted.”
Cleve threw his head back and laughed. “You sly bastard!”
A touch of humor tilted up the edges of Six’s mouth. Cleve said, “So we’re headed for Aztec after all, are we?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Hell—what harm can it do to tell me?”
“Just say I like to play my cards close to the chest,” Six said.
Cleve frowned. “Maybe it’s about time to play them face up on the table, Jeremy.”
When he didn’t say more than that, he drew Six’s careful attention. Six said, “All right. Say what you’ve got to say.”
Bit chains jingled and saddle-leather squeaked; the hoofs of their horses thudded softly in the road’s thick dust. It curled, the coach road, through a country of big hills studded with catclaw and creosote and a spindle tracery of yucca and ocotillo. It was semi-desert country—lizard country, rattlesnake and cactus wren country. A sudden land where the dead were the only men who could afford to be careless.
Cleve said, “I know why you brought me out here. Why keep playing the game? You and I were always friends, Jeremy. I know damn well you ain’t going to take me up to the county seat and put me on trial. You just took me out of jail today so you could get us out here alone. Now you can turn me loose, and tell everybody I broke away and escaped. Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
Six halted his horse abruptly; he turned around, leading Cleve’s horse, and rode back along the ruts for almost a hundred yards before he stopped and dismounted, holding the reins of both horses in his left hand. He bent down and picked up from the dust a small red-and-yellow wad. It was a plaid handker
chief, tied into a knot so that it would not blow away.
He straightened, stuffing the knotted handkerchief into his pocket. “Nice try,” he remarked; he got back up on his horse and hauled on the reins.
Cleve said, “Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been fiddling with that handkerchief ever since we passed the road fork. You dropped it in the road as a signal to your crew, to let them know we came this way.”
Cleve said, “God damn it, you keep needlin’ me. We’re friends, remember?”
“You pull another stunt like that one,” Six told him, “and one of us may be a dead friend. Understand me?”
For the first time, the realization of the truth seemed to strike Cleve. It was as if he had absolutely refused to believe all the evidence of his senses up to this moment. His jaw slacked. He said, “You mean, you ain’t going to turn me loose?”
“If you really thought I’d turn you loose, then why did you drop that handkerchief?” Six turned and leveled his index finger at Cleve. “You didn’t care whether I turned you loose or not, Cleve. You want that gang to find me and kill me. That’s why you left a sign for them.”
“Honest to God, that ain’t it! I swear to you, Jeremy, I was only coppering my bet. What the hell, if you were in my boots, wouldn’t you make a try too? I’m facing life on the Yuma rock pile. I got to figure all the possibilities, don’t I?”
Six said, “All right.”
“Look, untie my hand, will you? I get nervous as hell in all this cactus. Be a hell of a way to get killed, dragged through all those spines handcuffed to a runaway horse. Suppose a snake spooks him?”
Six gave him a sharp study. “I’ll take the handcuffs off,” he said, “if I have your word not to try to escape or jump me.”
“My word?” Cleve said. His mouth made a crooked smile. “You ought to know my word ain’t worth the powder to blow it to hell.”
“Suit yourself, then.”
“You’ve got the guns, ain’t you? I’ll ride ahead of you, if that’s what you want.”
“What I want,” Six said, “is to keep it just the way it is. I’ll see to it your horse doesn’t run away. Just sit back and relax. We’ve got a long ride ahead.”
“To where?”
Six made no answer. He gigged the horse to a canter and swept on up the road, leading the prisoner’s horse. Without the use of his hands and arms for balance, Cleve bobbed awkwardly in the saddle, like a straw dummy tied there. Overhead, the sun slid westward and the shadows grew long.
Wes Marriner climbed out of the steaming tub and rubbed himself dry with careful slow swipes of the towel; bruises were turning dark all over his body. But the bath had revived him, softened his hurts and limbered his muscles, and when he put his clothes on and walked outside he felt a good deal better than he had when he’d come in. He paid the barber and walked to the door, ramming the shirt tails into his waistband; he unslung the gunbelt from his shoulder, buckled it on, and went outside onto the sidewalk.
Up the street at the Drover’s Rest, the cattlemen still occupied the porch. Marriner turned his steps that way. When he reached the place, Chavis and Riley were deep in conversation, and a ragtag horseman was riding out of town, down at the far end of the street. All of them were watching the rider.
Marriner climbed the steps and said, “What’d you tell him?”
Bones Riley glanced at him. “We let the word drop that Jeremy’d taken Cleve to Aztec.”
“Think he bought the story?” Marriner asked.
Bones Riley said, “Hard to tell.”
Chavis was grinding a fist into a palm. “Damn it, gents, I don’t think he did buy it.”
Marriner’s eyes were half-shuttered; for a moment he stood deep in thought. Finally he said, “What happens if they didn’t believe the story?”
Chavis elevated his shoulders; Bones Riley turned both palms up, Indian-fashion. Chavis said, “Jeremy’s got five hours’ head start on them. With a little luck he’ll beat them into Dragoon.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then they’ll carpet that desert with his hide,” Chavis said. “They’ve got thirty or forty guns.” His eyes came up to meet Marriner’s. “I let that slip, where Jeremy’s headed. If that changes the odds against him, Mayo, then you’d better figure to come looking for me before I come looking for you. Understand?”
Bones Riley said, “Maybe we ought to hold him here until Jeremy’s had time to get to Dragoon.”
Marriner’s grin was taut and small. “Suit yourselves. I hadn’t planned on leaving town—not up to now, anyway.”
“Meaning?” Riley asked flatly.
Marriner only shook his head; he turned back to Chavis. “Look, I want to talk to you. Alone.”
Chavis’ glance moved from face to face. Finally he said, “All right,” and turned with a snap of his big frame, in through the saloon door. Marriner went in with him. A few customers rattled around in the place. Chavis led the way across the room to the back office and turned inside.
Marriner came in and shut the door behind him, and spoke immediately:
“You seem to be running the show around here.”
“Jeremy Six runs it. I’m just keeping my eyes open.”
“No,” Marriner said. “You know what I mean. What about that deputy?”
“Dominguez? He’s a good man.”
“But too easygoing, is that it?”
“Maybe.” Chavis shifted his stance and brooded toward Marriner. “What do you want?”
Marriner countered with a question of his own: “You married?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Then you’re a fool to mix in this kind of trouble.”
“Did you haul me in here to tell me that?”
Marriner shook his head. “I’m just trying to figure out who to count on.”
“Count on for what?”
“Somebody’s got to give him a hand,” Marriner said. He held up his hand. “Let me finish. I know Jeremy Six pretty damn well, even if I haven’t seen him in a few years. He’s got a lot of wisdom for a fighting man. He might have lied to you gents deliberately about where he aimed to take Cleve.”
“Why should he?”
Marriner said dryly, “It only took me about ten seconds to figure out that you were lying. Remember? Couldn’t it be that Jeremy worked up that yarn to tell you boys, because he knew the Matador people would see right through you? Couldn’t it be that he really did go to Aztec?”
A long, thin breath escaped from Chavis’ chest, at the end of which he said, “That could be—it could be. But we don’t know, do we?”
“We don’t,” said Marriner. “And neither does the Matador crew. But think about this, Chavis. If Matador is riding forty guns, then they’ve got enough to split their part in half and cover both roads.”
It made Chavis tilt his hip down onto the corner of Hal Craycroft’s desk; Chavis scraped the back of his hand across his mouth. His stare was troubled. “I don’t want to say this, but you might have something, Mayo.”
“I’ve been giving it some thought,” Marriner told him, “and it seems to me there are three possibilities: he went to Aztec, or he went to Dragoon, or maybe he went off somewhere else altogether. Either way, he’s got a prisoner who’s bound to try slowing him down, and he’s got forty toughs on his trail. I can’t believe that none of those forty men knows how to read trail sign. Chances are better than even they’ll pick up his tracks. Cleve Marriner’s likely to try leaving signs for them to follow. He’s likely to make a try at crippling the horses or some other damn fool stunt that will slow Jeremy down. He’s likely to do just about anything—and Jeremy’s out there with the whole deck stacked against him, every card except one, which is pretty meager—his five-hour head start.”
Chavis nodded. “He’s taking a hell of a risk for the sake of this town.” He looked up slowly. “Maybe we’d better quit wasting time. I don’t know how many riders we can get together on short
notice, but if you’re right about this, we’d better hit the trail as fast as we can.”
“What for?” Marriner said softly. “A blood bath? How many fighting guns can you muster, Chavis? Three or four? Six or seven? Anyhow, not enough to stop Matador.”
“Then what have you got in mind?”
“A stunt that will only work if you’ll trust me all the way down the line,” Marriner told him.
Chavis gave him a long study. “Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Friend,” said Chavis, “I don’t even know you.”
“The only way to find out if you can trust a man,” Marriner replied, “is to trust him. Are you willing to gamble on me?”
“Tell me what you’ve got in mind, and then I’ll let you know.”
Marriner shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Decide, and you’ll find that out.”
Chavis waved his arm as if batting away fog. “For God’s sake, man, quit dancing with me.”
Marriner said mildly, “Every minute you spend making up your mind is a minute that may be putting Matador closer to Jeremy Six’s rump.”
Chavis stirred angrily, but in the end he said, “I don’t seem to have too much choice.”
“A man’s always got a choice,” Marriner said. “Sometimes the alternative isn’t too appealing. But you can always tell me to go to hell.”
“No,” Chavis decided. “We’ve got to risk it. I’ll stand by you, Mayo—if you give me a place to stand.”
“Then here it is,” Marriner said. “I’ll lay it on the line for you, Chavis. My name’s not Mayo. It’s Marriner. Wes Marriner.”
Chavis shot bolt upright. A hard flame burned in his eyes. His fist locked around the grip of his revolver.
Marriner hadn’t moved. “Go ahead,” he murmured.
Chavis regarded him with features as guarded as those of a stone mask. He said in a dead-flat voice, “Let’s hear it, then. And make sure you tell it straight the first time, because you may never get another chance.”
Marriner, always slightly cocky, was watching Chavis’ gun hand with half-contemptuous amusement; but he spoke with complete seriousness. “I’m a nephew of old Buel Marriner’s, but I’ve never laid eyes on that side of the clan, and they’ve never seen me. Back where I come from, we run to big families, and it’s pretty hard for one branch of the clan to keep the lid on another one. I don’t hold myself responsible for what old Buel’s gang does, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t either. That’s why I brought you in here alone. I’d never have convinced all of you at once.”
Marshal Jeremy Six #5 Page 6
