The Lawbringers 4

by Brian Garfield

  “You,” she said, and gave him the same sour little laugh again. “You had a piece of bad luck and you’ve been crying about it ever since. What good are you?”

  “That’s not very fair,” he complained.

  “Fair? What’s fair? Who said anything about being fair? Nobody’s interested in being fair, chico—maybe when you get that much figured out, you’ll have a start on the kind of answers you’re looking for.”

  “When you’re a pariah like me,” he answered, “you don’t worry much about answers. What you worry about is staying alive.” He finally lit the cigarette he had been toying with, but the smoke had a dry, bitter taste and he immediately crushed it out.

  “In that case,” Michaela said, “why bother to try and stay alive?”

  It brought his attention up, made him consider her more closely, made him become aware of her presence and her humanity and her singularity. She sat across the table from him, leaning on her elbows with her back a little bent and her dark eyes watching him with earnest levelness.

  McCasford said quietly, “That’s right. Why should I?”

  “Oh, no,” she said drily, shaking her head. “I don’t want it on my conscience for putting that idea in your head. Listen—what’s so wrong with you, anyway? You get up in the morning, you put your clothes on, you shave, you eat. You can handle a gun and ride a horse. A little practice and you could train a horse to knee-rein so you could keep your hand free for a rope. Hell, chico, there’s a million things you could do. Trap, guide, push cows, tend bar.”

  He said nothing, and she added, “And rob banks, too. But I guess you figured that out already, you and your scar-faced friend.”

  “I never robbed any banks,” he said petulantly like a small boy.

  “All right,” she said. “I don’t much care what you really did.”

  McCasford stood and walked to the bar, where he picked up Andrew’s bottle and took a swig from it. After a moment’s thought he brought it back to the table and pushed it suggestively toward the girl. She shook her head; he pulled it back to him, sitting down, and idly rotated the bottle on the table between thumb and fingers.

  A strong gust of the storm sent a long blast of sound and a creaking of wood down through the building and for a moment it sounded almost as though the wind were tearing the roof away. The gust went on, to do damage elsewhere, and Michaela spoke:

  “To tell the truth, I want to enlist a soldier.”

  “What?”

  “The storm’s not dying down,” she said.

  “I can see that for myself.”

  “It will last another day, maybe another three days.”

  “All right,” he said. “What about it?”

  “When cabin fever settles down and these various gentlemen get restless, I’m going to want somebody on my own side.”

  “What about your old man?”

  She laughed shortly. “I owe him a lot, but he’s not good for much.”

  McCasford frowned. “I don’t get this yet.”

  “You don’t?” She looked surprised. “Mister, do you know what can happen to a woman when she’s penned up for a few days with a crowd of jumpy men?”

  “I see,” he said, and thought about it. “Why me?”

  “Who else?”

  “What about Brand?”

  “He’s a nose-clean type,” she said. “You wouldn’t catch him and his fancy pants standing up for a breed girl.”

  “You might be wrong there.”

  “Maybe I am,” she said, and added, “In fact, I hope I am. But I don’t believe this is the time to find out.”

  “Well,” he said, and stopped. He put the whiskey bottle to his mouth, threw his head back and drank, and put the bottle down, and said again, “Why me?”

  “Because I think there’s still a streak of honor in you that a few weeks or months on the trail with Elias can’t kill.”

  “Honor,” he said with a brittle laugh. “That’s just a word and it’s pretty empty.”

  “It you really believe that, forget I ever spoke to you. I’ll load a gun and fort myself up.”

  “Look—why don’t you go to Lutz? He’s big enough to look out for you. And he’s sweet on you, even if he does make insults now and then.”

  “No, thanks,” she said with a bitter, washed-out tone. She got up and turned toward the stairs.

  He let her get halfway to the steps before he said, “Wait,” and his voice stopped her, turned her slowly around. He said nothing; he only met her eyes evenly and openly and briefly nodded his head.

  “Obliged,” she said, and went on.

  She turned in her course to toss more wood on the fire, and during that interval McCasford went to the bar with the bottle, which was not empty. Andrews must have consumed a powerful amount of liquor; this was the second empty bottle on the bar now, and there was also the partly-emptied one that Lutz had smashed.

  Out of simple idle curiosity—he had never been behind a bar before—McCasford went around the end and walked slowly along the bar trough, looking at the shelves under the bar and seeing nothing but dust. There was an old warped cashbox beneath the bar at its center; he opened the stiff lid and found nothing but a few old empty shell-cases inside. Perhaps the old man had put them there, intending someday to reload them, and had subsequently forgotten.

  The girl was on her way from the fireplace to the stair, and at that moment the hall door opened and Wayne Lutz came through, his big body filling the dark opening, his head lowered to clear the top. He had not boots on and no gun belt; he must have been asleep, for his hair was tousled. The shirt had been hastily stuffed into his trousers and one flap of it hung out over the back of his belt.

  Lutz was facing the other way and had not seen McCasford behind the bar; he was looking at Michaela, who had her foot on the first step, and he said, “Who’s that you were talking to?”

  The girl gave him a disgusted expression and turned to mount the staircase. Lutz tramped forward in his socks and said, “Hold it, girl. I’m talking to you.”

  “Go to bed, Wayne,” she told him, not turning and not stopping.

  “Goddamn you,” Lutz said, and walked toward the stairs.

  That was when, calmly, Billy McCasford drew his gun and aimed at a spot on the floor in front of Lutz’s feet and fired a bullet into the wood.

  CHAPTER XV

  CRACKLING ECHOES OF the single gunshot brought Jim Brand’s eyes open, closed his hand instinctively over the butt of the gun under his blanket-pillow, and tensed all his muscles.

  He was in darkness. Tossing the blanket aside, he rolled to his feet and jerked the door open. Nothing was in sight in the hallway. He cocked the revolver. Wind howled around the building and then, abruptly, Lutz’s leather-throated roar of curses burst forth from the barroom.

  Brand pointed himself and his gun that way and trotted on silent feet down the corridor while a couple of hallway doors popped open and heads came out—Andrews and Elias. Brand reached the end of the corridor and stopped.

  His view was blocked by the half-closed door; all he could see was the fireplace and the long puncheon table, and no people were in sight. He pushed the door back with his toe and stepped forward. All the while, Lutz’s torrid stream of curses had continued unabated.

  When he stepped into the room, Brand saw Lutz standing near the foot of the stairs. Michaela was halfway up the staircase, but Lutz was looking back across Brand, and when he turned that way he saw Billy McCasford behind the bar with a gun in his fist.

  Lutz kept right on mouthing oaths, and Brand said sharply, “Shut up, damn it.”

  Lutz was not a man given to taking orders. He continued to curse, only now Brand heard his own name mentioned in the run of it; the targets of Lutz’s abuse included both McCasford and the girl.

  Brand turned and trained his own gun on Lutz’s wide chest and said, “Shut up.”

  Looking down the muzzle of the revolver, Lutz quieted down.

  Brand said, “All
right. Anybody hurt?”

  “Just Wayne’s feelings,” Michaela said. There was a cold smile on her cheeks.

  “What happened?”

  McCasford holstered his gun and came around from behind the bar. “Lutz went after the girl.”

  “Who appointed you her protector?”

  “I did,” Michaela said.

  Brand looked up at her and felt an instant stinging disappointment in his bowels; he said nothing of it. “Judas,” he said disgustedly. “I didn’t figure it to start this soon. Lutz, go on back to your room.”

  “Not until I take care of a little matter.”

  “Such as?”

  “That hairpin took a shot at me.”

  “If I’d been shooting at you,” McCasford said heatedly, “I wouldn’t have missed. It was a warning, friend—leave the girl be.”

  Behind him, Brand felt weight in the doorway. Elias was there, in his pants and long-handled underwear, armed with his omnipresent knife. Elias looked around and grinned, turned away and went back down the corridor. His door slammed.

  Brand said to Lutz, “I’d like to live through this storm in one piece, if you don’t mind. It won’t help any of us to start chewing on each other. McCasford, you keep your gun in leather from now on—and, Lutz, stay clear of the girl unless she asks for you.”

  “Who are you to be givin’ orders?” Lutz blustered.

  “A man with a gun,” Brand drawled.

  “That don’t swing too much weight in this part of the Territory, Brand.”

  “Your power won’t buy you much in this house,” Brand answered. “Not tonight, anyway. Get back to bed.”

  A dismal gleam of hatred grew and lay steady behind Lutz’s flashing eyes. It didn’t take much to make an enemy of him. He wheeled abruptly and stamped back into the corridor. “You, too,” Brand said to McCasford.

  McCasford threw a questioning glance at the girl, and when after a moment’s thought she nodded. McCasford took his hand away from his gun and turned through the doorway. In a moment two doors closed.

  Brand regarded the girl bleakly. “You can cause a lot of grief,” he said. “Maybe it would be better if you stayed put in your room until this blows over.”

  “Not in my own house,” she said flatly. She hesitated a moment, then came down the stairs to face him from six feet distant. “Give orders to the others if you want. I’m not one of your command, Jim.”

  It was the first time she had used his Christian name. Puzzled, he regarded her with brow-lowered eyes. He said, “You’ve put your drug in that kid. You knew he was soft on you to begin with—now you’ve set him up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s willing to stand between you and anything, if it’s what you want. All it took was the right word from you. You’ve put him in a spot. Don’t you care what happens to him?”

  “I care,” she said. “That’s one reason I did this. He’s got to learn to stand up on his hind legs again. If it takes guts to stand up for me, then so much the better—he’ll remember quick enough how to take care of himself, when he has to. It might do him a lot of good.”

  “And it might get him killed,” Brand said.

  She shrugged her supple shoulders. “We all take that chance, every day. By the way, I notice in all your concern for the kid you didn’t mention the spot I put you in—I saw the way Lutz looked at you.”

  “I can look out for myself,” he said gruffly, still watching her with a steady speculation.

  She matched the even quality of his glance and in a moment she said, “Maybe I made a mistake.”

  “About what?”

  “Maybe I could have trusted you, after all, instead of pulling the kid into this. It can get dirty, maybe, and there’s no sense in dragging him into it. He’s got enough to worry about.”

  “But you thought you couldn’t trust me, and you turned to him. Is that it?”

  “That’s it.” Her head tilted a little to one side. “Tell me something.”

  “All right.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  He looked down and away. “I wish you hadn’t asked me that one.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been trying to find the answer to it myself.”

  “Well,” she observed, “if you’re still looking for it, then it’s not too late.”

  “You’re a pretty wise lady,” he told her.

  She grinned brashly. “It’s the Indian in me.”

  “Yeah,” he said absent-mindedly. “All the way up here through the storm I was trying to figure out the answer to that question—why was I fighting like a cornered cougar? It would have been easy to he down and freeze to death. It’s a comfortable way to die. But I didn’t want it that way. I wanted to live—and now I’ve got to figure out what I wanted to live for, you see?”

  “Maybe you’ll figure it out,” she said. Abruptly, then, she swayed forward. “Do you want to kiss me?”

  He recognized the coquette in her and in spite of the swift change between them he played the game. “Why should I want to kiss you?”

  Her reaction was unexpected; her eyes darkened and her frown lowered and suddenly her hand whipped up and slapped his face, rocking his head back.

  Surprised, he said, “What’s that for?”

  “I’ve wanted to do it all day.”

  He laughed. “All right,” he said, and pulled her forward and kissed her, at first savagely and then gently, as a new feeling swept through him. His hands slid slowly down to the small of her back and he pressed her to him.

  When she drew her head back she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

  “Maybe it was the smart thing to do. Nobody’s certain I’m good for anything.”

  “I’m certain,” she said, “now.”

  Wind rattled something above. The fire was a big red warmth. He glanced at the doorway to the corridor and, just then, a new mystery occurred to him. The girl must have noticed his frown; she asked him a question and in answer he said, “When the kid fired that shot, I came down the hall. Andrews and Elias put their heads out—but George Zane didn’t. Why not?”

  “Maybe he’s a sound sleeper.”

  Thinking of the marshal’s face—the look of an old gray wolf—Brand doubted it. “I’d better have a look,” he said, and turned back toward the door. The girl followed him that far and waited.

  He went down the hall to the second door, which was Zane’s, and knocked softly. There was no response. Not wishing to wake the others, he pushed the door and found it open. He stepped inside and said quietly, “Zane?”

  After a silent interval he found a match and scratched in a light on the wall. Zane was lying rolled in his blankets, his face toward the ceiling, eyes closed.

  In a suspicious frame of mind, Brand walked forward and knelt by the man. Zane’s breathing was steady but very shallow; his flesh was pale in the flickering match-light. Presently Brand found the swelling of a large bruise on his forehead at the hairline.

  The man had obviously been struck a vicious blow on the head, and left for dead.

  CHAPTER XVI

  MICHAELA BENT OVER the injured man, gently pressing hot damp towels to his head. Having lighted the lamp, Brand closed the door and hunkered down to gaze at the unconscious man and puzzle it out. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

  “What doesn’t?”

  He decided, in that brisk moment, to trust her entirely. It was not really a matter of decision; it was a feeling that had come to him. He watched the graceful way her slim body moved and he said, “McCasford was in the bar with you all the time, wasn’t he?”

  “Until he left a little while ago.”

  “Zane’s been out longer than that. And if it had been Elias, it would have been a knife wound, not a club on the head.”

  “Why would it be those two?”

  “Zane’s a marshal,” he said. “He was after two men who held up a mail-carrying stagecoach. Elias and McCasford.”


  “You’re sure ”

  “It all seems to fit in.”

  “Well,” she said without emotion coloring her voice, “I expected it was something like that.”

  “So,” he said, “those two would be the only ones with a reason to try and kill Zane.”

  “How would they know he was a marshal?”

  “Elias seemed to partway recognize him. Or maybe he gave himself away somehow. Still, it doesn’t add up. McCasford couldn’t have done it, and it’s not Elias’ way.”

  “Maybe he can tell us,” she said, “when he comes around.”

  “If he comes around. That was a hard sock.”

  “He’s got a good chance.”

  “I hope so,” Brand said. He owned strong respect for men like George Zane, who daily pitted themselves against hostile men and guns and defended the principle of law against all attackers, and all for a meager salary at best. He said, “Of course, as far as everybody else is concerned, I might have been the one who hit him. My gun butt’s as solid as any, and for all you know about me I might have had a reason to dispatch him.”

  “No,” she said. “I know more than that.”

  “You do?”

  She dipped the towel into the bucket of hot water and pressed it to Zane’s head. “This is enough hot compresses—I’ll need cold ones now. See if you can make a sack out of a towel and bring me a load of snow.”

  He picked up one of the towels, squeezed excess moisture out of it into the bucket, and turned through the door. As he entered the hallway, a movement down the hall arrested him and his hand flicked up with the black-barreled gun.

  Then McCasford stepped out of his door and came forward, regarding Brand’s gun curiously. “What’s wrong?”

  “Somebody belted Zane.”

  “What for?”

  Brand gave the one-armed youth a searching stare and found nothing revealing in McCasford’s expression; he took the towel toward the front of the corridor, holstering his gun.

  After a brief look into Zane’s room, McCasford followed him. “I’m getting spooky. There’s a lot of things going on I don’t understand. Why would anybody poke the stranger?”