“How many men in that gang out in them trees?”
“Close to forty.”
Dundee whistled. “That’s a passel of bad men!”
“Will you throw in?”
“Hell, yes, we’ll throw in!” said Dundee, as though it weren’t even a question. “Hell, I rode in the Tenth Cavalry, the Buffalo soldiers, and I can blow a man out of his saddle, Injun or white, from two hundred yards. I done learned my boy Jonathon to shoot like his old man.”
Dundee clamped a hand under his son’s shoulder and grinned proudly.
The boy looked a little skeptically at his father.
“All right, then.”
As Mercy propped the saloon’s front, shot-up door open with her boot, Sartain strode inside. He headed for the stairs at the back of the room.
The eight men he’d coaxed into forming a small army of town defenders stood in a loose, nervous-looking group near the door. Nearly all were shopkeepers. One, who was sitting down against the wall to Sartain’s right, was the town drunk, Bernie Burnfield, who stared dreamily down at the beer schooner on the table before him. An old Confederate Griswold & Gunnison cap-and-ball pistol was on the table before him, along with a cap box for cartridges.
The thin, hollow-cheeked man was the only one of the bunch who’d volunteered his services. The others would have preferred holing up in their cellars with their families, but Sartain had managed to shame them, telling them that their town wouldn’t be a town much longer if they didn’t stand up for it.
A man needed to stand up for his town, or he was as barbaric as the men threatening it. Only, he was a cowardly barbarian.
Sartain hurried upstairs and pushed open the first door he came to. Someone gasped, and a girl’s voice said, “No!”
He saw her sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, beneath a window through which the murky gray light washed. She scuttled down the floor, as if trying to flee but crawled against a chair.
She was a plump brunette, not wearing much. What she was wearing was badly torn. One of her eyes was swollen, and so was her lower lip—one of the doxies the gang had abused before they’d been forced to leave.
“It’s all right, honey,” Sartain said, gentling the groaning deputy down onto the bed. “I’m not one of them.”
He walked over to her, dropped to a knee before her. She was a plain-faced girl with pale blue eyes. Her hair was a mess, partly pinned up, partly hanging around one shoulder. She held an arm across her partly exposed breasts.
Sartain placed a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“You...you’re not one of them?”
“No, I’m not one of them.”
“Will they be back?”
“I’m afraid so. But we’re not going to let them hurt you this time. There’s enough of us now to make a stand. Everybody has to do his part. Can you help that young man up on the bed? He’s bad hurt, and he needs a fresh bandage.”
“I’m so scared I’m not sure I can move,” the girl stressed in a small voice.
“What’s your name?”
“Clarabelle.”
“Everybody’s scared, Clarabelle, but we have to work together. Have you ever tended an injury before?”
Running the back of each hand across each cheek in turn, she nodded. “Plenty of times.”
“He’s been wounded, and I think one of his wounds has opened. If you’d try to get the blood stopped and put a fresh bandage on that wound, I’d be obliged. I know he will, too.”
Clarabelle nodded again. “I’ll see to him.”
“Thanks,” The Revenger said, taking her hands and pulling her to her feet.
As Clarabelle walked over to the bed, Sartain stared down at young Fieldhouse. His eyes were open, and he was staring back at Sartain. For a second, the Cajun thought the boy was dead, but then his lips moved, and he said, “I got one of ‘em.”
Sartain let out a short breath of relief. “Figured as much.”
“I’m sorry if I brought the trouble sooner, but I...I just kept seein’ Ellen, and...I just couldn’t help myself.”
“I know how you feel.” Sartain squeezed the young man’s arm. “This is Clarabelle.” He glanced at the girl standing beside him. “She’s gonna take care of you.”
“Pretty,” Abner said.
The girl blushed.
As Clarabelle sat down at the edge of the bed to begin tending Abner’s wound, Sartain went back downstairs. The main drinking hall was shrouded in a murky twilight. The breeze blew through the breaks in the windows. Several men sat in chairs near the front, looking out through the broken glass, Winchesters resting across their knees. The Dundees sat alone at their table, their old rifles on the table before them. Cable had a beer in front of him.
Others sat at tables or stood along the bar, sipping drinks to soothe their nerves.
Lazaro sat on the floor, his back to a ceiling support post, near the stoked and ticking potbelly stove around which a good supply of firewood had been stacked. He sat with his bare legs peeking out beneath the brown wool blanket he held over his shoulders. He glared silently at Sartain, bald rage in his eyes. George Randolph sat at the table near Lazaro, the gun Sartain had given him on the table before him.
As he glumly smoked a cigarette, both his elbows on the table, Randolph glanced down at the gun with a faintly repelled expression, and then returned his eyes to Sartain.
Mercy stood against the far-right wall at the front of the room, cradling her rifle and canting her head toward the broken glass, casting her wary gaze up the street on her left.
“Trouble,” she said, glancing quickly back at Sartain.
“Ah, crap,” said one of the townsmen standing along the bar. He threw his drink back.
Sartain strode quickly forward, boots thumping loudly on the wooden floor. The others moved closer to the windows, as well, looking around anxiously.
Sartain stood at the window right of the door and followed Mercy’s gaze to the left. Three horseback riders were moving slowly toward the saloon. All three held rifles with white handkerchiefs tied to the barrels.
“Well, well, well,” sang the Cajun. “What do we have here?”
“Looks like they want to give themselves up,” reported Cable Dundee, standing beside Sartain at the window.
The Revenger gave a caustic snort.
“Could be a trap,” he said. “Everybody stay inside and keep your guns close. I’ll go out and see what they want.”
“Be careful, Mike,” Mercy urged, holding her position against the far-left wall.
His rifle in hand, Sartain pulled the door open and stepped outside.
The three riders stopped their horses in the street before the saloon and turned to face Sartain. They all wore snow-flecked beards. Bandoliers were crisscrossed on the outsides of their heavy coats. They had their hats tied to their heads with wool scarves.
Their breath and their horses’ breath jetted in the growing darkness. There was only a little pale light left in the low-hovering clouds.
Sartain stepped forward, spread his feet, and set his rifle stock on his right hip.
“You three come to give yourselves up, did you?” he asked ironically.
“Not even close,” replied the man in the middle, sitting a strawberry roan. He wore a long, dirty blond beard. Chaw bulged in his right cheek.
He raised his voice to say loudly, “We come to give you folks an ultimatum.”
His voice echoed. His horse jerked its head up with a start.
“An ultimatum, eh?” said Sartain.
The blond-bearded gent said, “You either turn Lazaro loose tonight, or we’re gonna burn the town to the ground, and kill every last one of you come mornin’. We’re gonna cut your damn ears off. We’re gonna rape your women and hang ‘em from trees naked. We know you don’t have near enough men in there to hold off nearly forty. You don’t have a chance. Not gonna happen! Why, I can smell piss dribblin’ down pants legs from way out here!”
“Is that all?” Sartain asked.
“Ain’t that enough?” said the blond-bearded gent. “Turn our boss loose tonight, and we’ll leave town without harmin’ one more hair on anyone’s head. We’ll just ride out, and you’ll never see us again. You got our word on that, and our word’s bond.”
He shook his head darkly. “You keep him in there, you’re all gonna die nasty.” He and the others turned their horses away and gigged them back in the direction from which they’d come. “Think about it!”
Chapter 16
“I already done thought about it,” Sartain muttered as he walked back inside and closed the door.
He turned to where Lazaro sat on the floor, smiling. “You got them boys well trained.
The others were looking at him as though he were a judge about to render a verdict. He scowled. “Don’t even think about it. We turn him loose we’ll just be giving the snake back its head.”
“Just like Bobby Mandrake said, amigos,” said Lazaro, “our word is as good as bond!”
“Bullcrap!” Sartain said.
The saloon owner, Bill Donleavy, Doc Winter, and Preacher Bradshaw were standing the closest to the Cajun.
“Look, Sartain,” Donleavy said, “we don’t have a chance against those men, and you know it. We’re far outnumbered, and most of us haven’t fired at anything except deer and sage hens in fifteen years!”
“That’s not the point,” said Preacher Bradshaw.
“Then, what is the point?” Sartain wanted to know.
Doc Winter removed his glasses to run them down the front of his shirt, cleaning the lenses. “The point is you want war, Mr. Sartain. But the rest of us don’t want war. And it’s our town. You’re a stranger here. The decision is not yours!”
He punctuated the statement by ramming his glasses back onto his face and twisting the bows over his ears.
“If it weren’t for Mike, you all be dead.” Mercy was standing against the wall near the window, her rifle cradled in her arms. “He took down Lazaro—”
“We did, sweetheart!” the Cajun corrected her, and she blew him a kiss.
“We took down Lazaro. If that hadn’t happened, you’d all be dead, and every woman in this town would likely still be satisfying those savages’ desires. We have as much say in the decision as you do.”
“Bullcrap!” said one of the townsmen standing at the bar.
“Forget it,” Sartain said. “It ain’t gonna happen. A half-hour after that cutthroat walked out that door, they’d all be back to finish what they started. Do you really think they’d just turn tail and ride out of here?”
“To keep a promise,” Lazaro said, “you bet!” He turned to the other men standing in a broad, ragged semicircle around Sartain. “If you release me, I give you my word that no more harm will come to this town. But I assure you, señores...and señorita,” he added with a cordial nod to Mercy, “if you don’t let me go, my men will do just as they promised they would. Their word is good as bond!”
Sartain didn’t say anything. He looked around the room. Judging by expressions, the only four in the room who hadn’t already made up their mind to release Lazaro were Mercy, the Dundees, and possibly the town drunk. He just sat sideways in his chair, grinning.
Cable Dundee was running his tongue slowly along his lower lip and shaking his head. The boy just looked skeptical, worried.
After Sartain’s eyes had rested on him, Dundee said, “I’m with Sartain. No point in returning a rogue wolf to its pack, makin’ ‘em one wolf stronger.”
“Shut up, nigger!” shouted the same man at the bar who’d spouted off at Mercy—a rawboned man with a pitted face named Oscar Radigan. He was an odd-jobber who hunted meat for the settlement. “You got no say in this because, number one, you’re a nigger, and number two, you don’t even live here!”
Dundee widened his eyes and started walking forward. “I buy supplies and pay taxes here, sir!”
“Pa, no!” Jonathon said, pulling back on his father’s arm.
Silence fell over the saloon save for the moaning of the wind through the broken windows, sweeping dead leaves and brush around the tables. The stove ticked, and occasionally a burning log dropped through the grate with a thud.
“I have an idea,” Lazaro said, raising his voice whimsically and grinning. “Why don’t you just shoot that big, shaggy-headed son of a bitch, and be done with him. Then turn me loose and save yourselves from very slow and bloody deaths.”
“Anyone shoots Mike, they’re gonna have to shoot a girl, too.” Mercy loudly racked a round into her Winchester’s breach and leveled the rifle on the room from her side. “Because I’ll kill any man who makes a play!”
“Thanks, sweetheart!” Sartain said.
She blew him another kiss.
“That can be done,” said Radigan. “You’re far too mouthy for a girl!” He thrust an arm out angrily. “And I won’t have no girl aimin’ a rifle at me!”
“You’re about to have one blow your ugly head off!” returned Mercy, raising the carbine.
Sartain threw up his hands placatingly. “All right, all right, that’s enough, all of you. This discussion is over. It might not be my place to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Lazaro isn’t goin’ anywhere. Anyone who tries to free him gets a bullet. And when the gang comes for him in the morning, he’s gonna take one between the eyes. Because my word is bond!”
He glared that home at the Mexican gang leader, who hardened his jaws.
* * *
A tense silence reigned over the saloon that night.
When the townsmen conversed, they did so in low voices, casting frequent, dark glances toward Sartain, who sat with Mercy and the Dundees at a table near the window. The two men played cards. Mercy played dominoes with the boy.
The other dozen men were scattered about the room in groups. Donleavy and Clarabelle, the whore who’d tended Abner, fixed a hearty stew and served it with bread.
Much later, around midnight, the Dundees slept in their chairs. Mercy slept in hers, as well. She was leaning back against the wall, boots flat on the floor, Winchester resting across her thighs.
Sartain stared out through a broken window at the cold dark night, his coat buttoned to his throat. In an unbroken pane before him, he could see the reflection of the other men, the townsmen, rising from their chairs and gathering quietly at a table near the back of the room.
A private conversation ensued. It lasted for about five minutes.
Lazaro watched them, occasionally turning to smile at Sartain.
The barman, Donleavy, cleared his throat as he scraped his chair back from the table, and rose. The others rose, too, not saying anything. They followed the stocky barman across the saloon to gather in a semicircle behind the Cajun. They were all carrying their weapons negligently down by their sides.
Cable Dundee gave a startled snort and poked his hat brim off his forehead, tensing as he stared at the group.
Jonathon jerked his head off the table with a grunt.
Mercy opened her eyes to stare grimly at the congregation.
“Mister Sartain, we’d like a word,” Donleavy said, standing at the head of the pack.
“You voted, I take it?”
“That’s right. We took a vote. We all agree that Lazaro should be turned loose.”
“And if I say no?”
“Let’s not let it go that far,” said Preacher Bradshaw. His old Remington pistol was wedged down behind the waistband of his broadcloth trousers.
“You don’t want it to go that far,” warned Radigan.
Sartain studied the group for a time. He turned to where Lazaro had his head turned toward him, a wolfish grin tugging at his mouth corners.
Sartain sighed and shrugged. “All right. Have it your way.”
“Mike!” Mercy said, sitting up in her chair. “You can’t let them turn that savage loose. He killed my pa, burned our ranch!”
Sartain turned to her. “What can we do, darli
n’? A vote is a vote. The town has spoken.” He turned to Lazaro. “Besides, I got me a feelin’ we’ll be seein’ him again real soon.”
“No, amigo,” Lazaro said. “I gave my word, and—”
“I know, I know,” the Cajun said. “Your word is bond. Okay, all right. Turn him loose.”
Donleavy looked at the others then back at Sartain. “Just like that?”
“No!” Mercy lurched to her feet, cocked her Winchester, and aimed the rifle from her shoulder. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!”
With “bitch,” the rifle roared.
Lazaro screamed and jerked his head down. The bullet spanged off an iron pot hanging from the support post. It ricocheted wickedly off the potbelly stove, sparking, and then crashed into the back-bar mirror.
“Holy hellfire!” yelled Cable Dundee. “That girl means business!”
“She’s crazy!” Radigan shouted. “She’s gonna get us all burned down!”
Mercy was sobbing and fumbling with the rifle, trying to get another round seated. Sartain strode over to her and jerked the Winchester out of her hands.
She glared at him, made a grab for the rifle, which he held out away from her. “Mike, dammit!”
“It’ll be all right.”
She stared at him, breathing hard, flushed. But she made no more fuss. She just slacked down into her chair in defeat, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, hands entwined, and sobbed.
“Forgive her, Mr. Lazaro,” said George Saunders, pulling a pocketknife out of his pants. “She’s just a child.”
“Of course, of course. All will be forgiven, amigos...as soon as you have cut these ropes and brought me my clothes. They’re upstairs, third door on the left.”
“I’ll get ‘em,” said Donleavy, striding toward the stairs.
Lazaro looked at the others. They were still gathered near the front of the room with edgy, sheepish airs.
They watched as Saunders cut through the ropes binding the outlaw to the post. They resembled a circus audience watching in wary anticipation as a wildcat was let out of its cage.
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