Lawless Town Page 11

  Dryden, Lake, Graham, and the others were standing in the hall. Sloan jerked his head in a curt gesture of admittance and stood aside while they filed in.

  Dryden said, “We’ve accepted your proposition. We have a contract here.”

  Sloan said, “Leave it. I’ll look it over and bring it to the bank.”

  Dryden said, “One thing …”

  Sloan stared at him, puzzled at the way his anger flared. He said, “Let’s get something straight right now. There are no conditions. I clean up this town just as I see fit. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think that drunk killed that little girl at all. I think you did. You watched this town turn wild and did nothing to stop it because you were afraid you might lose business if you did. I don’t want this job, and I’m taking it purely for reasons of my own. But I’ll do it my way or not at all.”

  He could see hostility growing in their faces, and he didn’t care. Better that they be hostile from the start. Better that they understand exactly where he stood because, after the first day on the job, the whole town was going to hate him anyhow. Nor could he expect support from anyone—save perhaps from Sylvia, from Merline Morris, from Doc, and from Sid. Before he was through, the things he would have to do might turn even them against him.

  Dryden nodded curtly and led the way into the hall. The delegation marched angrily down through the lobby and into the street.

  Sid stared at Sloan for a moment, his forehead touched with a puzzled frown. Sloan glanced up. He was beginning to understand his own anger, his own unpleasantness in the face of it. In the first place, he didn’t want the marshal’s job. The war had sickened him of killing and the stink of death. The months of hunting buffalo had compounded that sickness. In the second place, he understood how he would be feared and hated if he tackled the taming of the town in the only way it could be accomplished successfully. He said, “This town’s been wild too long to accept law and order now without a fight. There’s only one way to make it stick … knock the damned town flat on its ass, then kick it every time it starts to get up again. By the time I’m through, I’ll be lucky if there’s still one person in the whole place that has any use for me.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  Sloan’s face was sober. “Go over to Doc’s office and look at that little girl they killed. That might have been my daughter if it hadn’t been for the war. I was going to marry her mother.”

  He sat down and read the contract Dryden had left. He went over to the desk, dipped a pen in ink, and signed it. He got up and crammed his hat onto his head.

  Sid said abruptly, “I’ll take the deputy’s job.”

  “Good. Go get yourself some supper. We’ll start tonight.” He went out, down the stairs, through the lobby and into the street. He crossed to the bank and went inside. Dryden and the others were grouped in Dryden’s office. The place was blue with smoke.

  Sloan laid the contract on the desk. Dryden opened the drawer of his desk and took out a gleaming silver star upon which the word marshal was engraved. “I had this made today. I’m glad you’re taking the job, Mister Hewitt. You can count on us to back you all the way.”

  Sloan nodded.

  Dryden said, “I don’t know whether I’ve got the authority to administer an oath or not, but as long as there’s no one else to do it, I will. Raise your right hand.”

  Sloan did.

  Dryden said, “Do you solemnly swear to uphold the laws of this town and the State of Kansas to the best of your ability?”

  Sloan said, “I do.”

  “Good. We’ve got men working right now converting that empty building next to the hotel into an office and jail for you. I’ll serve as judge until we can get a real judge to take over.” He stepped around the desk and pinned the star to Sloan’s shirt front. “We’re indebted to you, Mister Hewitt.”

  Sloan grinned wryly. “Tell me that a week from now.”

  He went out and strode downstreet to the livery barn. He bought a horse and saddle, the tallest, blackest horse in the place, and rode out on the horse’s back. He had learned in the cavalry that there is a certain advantage inherent in looking down upon others from the back of a horse. He also knew he would need every advantage he could get.

  Dusk lay softly in the street. The voices of the barkers had raised in pitch, as each vied with the other for customers wandering along the street. At the upper end of town, storekeepers were locking up for the night and heading home. The day had ended for them, but down here it was just getting started. In the cattle pens a bull bellowed, and behind Sloan, in the corral behind the stable, a horse nickered shrilly.

  Sloan drew rein and stared at the town. He could feel tension mounting within himself, the same tension that had come to him during the war, just before an attack. He thought about Sylvia, sleeping in the house at the upper end of town. He wanted to see her, and yet he felt reluctance, too. The thing between them was over. He wondered at the reasons that had made her leave and disappear before he returned from the war. He thought of the little girl lying dead in Doc’s office over the bank and wondered if the child was his. It was a possibility chronologically, he knew.

  Sitting there, he saw a man come from one of the larger saloons and stand before it while he carefully bit the end off a cigar and lit it. The man watched him steadily for several moments, then crossed the street to him. He was not an exceptionally tall man, but there was something in the assurance of his walk that seemed to convey upon him a height he did not possess. He was broad through the shoulders, and his chest was so deep that his shirt stretched tight across it. There was a diamond stickpin in his tie that caught the light and gleamed yellow each time it did. He wore a sweeping mustache, and as he came up before Sloan, Sloan saw that his eyes caught the same yellow light as the stickpin did. The man said affably, “I’m Jeff Burle. You must be Hewitt, the marshal.”

  “I’m Hewitt.”

  “You’ve taken on a man-size job.”

  Sloan didn’t reply. He knew he shouldn’t start off disliking Burle, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Burle studied him carefully in the growing darkness. “How far are you going to go?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Burle’s voice grew a bit tight. “Nothing’s accomplished in a day. These things take time. I’d advise you to go a little slow.”

  Sloan said sourly, “Thanks for your advice.”

  Burle puffed thoughtfully on his cigar, studying Sloan. “The people in this town don’t want a clean town. They just want a nonviolent town. They’ll make you walk a narrow line.”

  “I’ll walk it then.” He stared down at Burle, trying to fathom him. What kind of man was it who could know that death had come to the daughter of the woman he was living with and not even go to her? An arrogant man, certainly, and an unfeeling one. He fished his watch from his pocket and looked at it. Three hours had passed since Doc had given Sylvia the sedative. She ought to be waking soon. He said, “Doc gave Sylvia a sedative to make her sleep, but she ought to be awake by now. Are you going to see her?”

  “You know Sylvia?”

  “I knew her before the war. I was going to marry her.”

  “Was Debbie your daughter?”

  “I don’t know. Are you going to see her?”

  “Not tonight. I’m afraid I just can’t abide a hysterical woman.”

  “Then I’ll go.” Watching Burle, he thought he sensed a change in the man.

  Burle turned his head and his eyes gleamed yellow. Burle said evenly, “I don’t think I’ll like you, Marshal.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to.”

  Burle stared up at him for a moment more, his face hidden in shadow. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away. There was a peculiar, catlike grace about the way he walked. There was animal power in him not concealed at all by the clothes he wore. Sloan sensed that Burle, wh
ile undoubtedly attractive to women, was completely ruthless, without gentleness, without concern for anyone but himself.

  Then, forgetting the man, he turned his horse, lifted him to a trot, and headed up the street toward Sylvia Flint’s small house.

  VI

  He dismounted before her house and tied his horse to the fence. There was a single lamp burning inside. He went up the graveled walk, onto the porch, and knocked lightly on the door.

  A woman answered it, a middle-aged, sour-faced, gaunt-bodied woman, who scowled at him. Sloan said, “I want to see Sylvia Flint. Is she awake?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Sloan Hewitt.”

  She opened the door a bit wider. The light apparently glinted from his badge, for her manner changed. “You’re the new marshal, ain’t you? Come on in.”

  News certainly traveled fast, thought Sloan. He went in, removing his hat as he did. The woman said, “Wondered what you’d look like. Wondered what kind of man would take on a job like that.”

  Sloan said, “Now you know. Is Sylvia awake?”

  “She’s awake.” She turned her head and called shrilly, “Marshal’s here to see you.”

  A door opened, and Sylvia came into the room. Her eyes were red, her face very pale. Her hair was disordered, and she put her hands up to smooth it. She had obviously wakened only a few moments before, because her face still showed signs of heavy sleeping. She said, “Marshal? Sloan, are you crazy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It would take a troop of cavalry to tame this town. I hope you didn’t … because of Debbie …”

  Sloan asked softly, “How are you now?”

  Her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “I’m all right, Sloan.”

  The woman said harshly, “Then I’ll be getting on. I got work to do.”

  Sylvia turned to her. “Thank you, Missus Pugh. Thank you for staying with me.”

  The woman grunted, but did not reply. She got her hat, put it on, and stood before the mirror while she pinned it to her piled-up hair with an eight-inch hatpin. She went out the door without further comment.

  Sylvia waited until the door had closed. Then she said, “Sit down, Sloan. Sit down a minute and let me look at you.”

  He went over and sat down on the sofa. She met his glance for a moment, then looked away. “You’re wondering why I left before you came home.”

  “Yes. I’m wondering. But you don’t have to tell me unless you want to.”

  “You have a right to know. But … Sloan … I just can’t talk about it now.” She turned her head and met his glance again. “You’ve changed. You’re bigger … older … you’re more handsome than ever.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes. Yes, it has.” Sloan thought she had twisted her face and brightened her eyes again. He asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not right now. But will you come … to the funeral, Sloan?”

  “Of course.”

  Dimly, he heard a faint burst of gunshots from the direction of the lower end of Texas Street. He got up quickly. “Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be all right. Be careful, Sloan. Please be careful.”

  He nodded and hurried to the door. He flashed a quick smile at her, then mounted his horse, and pounded away in the direction from which the shots had come. He was realizing as he rode that this would be a test in the eyes of the town. This would be the most important action he would take, however long he remained as marshal of the town.

  He passed the hotel at a hard gallop and thundered down Texas Street. He watched the entrance to each saloon closely, and swung down before the one belonging to Jeff Burle, the Cowman’s Pride, when he noticed that the barker was not in his accustomed place out front. He looped the reins of his horse over the rail and stepped through the swinging doors.

  Immediately every eye in the saloon was on him, almost as though they had been waiting for him to appear. In a small, cleared circle halfway to the bar, a man lay on the floor face down, a pool of blood leaking out from beneath his chest. Another man stood in the cleared area, a defiant look in his angry eyes. Jeff Burle was behind the bar, a shotgun in his hands. This was more or less what Sloan had expected, and yet there was something wrong. He sensed it, though he knew there was no basis for such a suspicion. He pushed his way through the crowd, reached the cleared circle, and stopped. “What happened?”

  The man stared at him truculently but did not reply. Burle spoke from behind the bar. “Only thing I know, Marshal, is that the dead man wasn’t armed.”

  Sloan stared hard at the truculent one, then let his eyes drift swiftly, appraisingly, over the faces of the waiting crowd. He said, “I’ll take your gun.”

  “By God, you’re goin’ to have to take it! Because I ain’t goin’ to give it to you!”

  Burle’s voice broke in. “Take it, Marshal. If he moves, I’ll blow him apart.”

  This was the jarring note that Sloan, without realizing it, had been waiting for. Now he saw others. The truculent man’s scowl was a bit too deep. The others seemed a shade too expectant. There was a nervous grin on one cowboy’s face, and his eyes fell away guiltily when Sloan’s touched them. Sloan understood. This play had been engineered by Burle. When he had disarmed the killer and placed him under arrest, the man on the floor would get up, and everyone in the place would roar with laughter at the marshal’s discomfiture. He would become an object of ridicule. Any chance he’d had of establishing authority would be gone. Clever. Easier than killing him. Everyone would have a good laugh, and the town could go on as lawlessly as before. Only it wasn’t going to work. Blood began to pound hard and fast through his veins. His stomach felt flat and empty, his hands as though every nerve in them was jumping.

  He approached the “killer,” circling as though wary, circling so that he had to pass the “corpse” on the floor. Passing, he swung a savage boot. The toe sank into the ribs of the man on the floor.

  He reacted as Sloan had expected. He yelled, rolled, and came to his feet. He charged furiously. Sloan side-stepped at the last instant and, drawing his gun, brought the barrel around with numbing force against the side of the man’s head. The man pitched forward into the crowd and fell as they scrambled to get away.

  Sloan’s action had startled the “killer,” and for an instant he was motionless. Then his hand streaked for his gun. Sloan shot without hesitation. The man drove back into the crowd, upon whose faces there was no humor now. Sloan swung toward the bar, very aware of that shotgun in Jeff Burle’s hands. In the act of raising it, Burle stopped. He froze, with the shotgun halfway to his shoulder. His face lost color, and his eyes took on the startled look of fear. Sloan said evenly, “Lay it on the bar. Easy.”

  Burle complied. The fear in his eyes faded, to be replaced by uncontrollable fury and hatred more vitriolic than Sloan had ever seen in the eyes of a man before. Sloan said, “Your saloon’s closed. You’re under arrest.” He waited, a wicked light growing in his eyes. He could see Burle’s thoughts through the changing expressions on his face. Incredulous disbelief. Then the raw fury again. Then recklessness that made his glance drop toward the shotgun on the bar.

  Sloan said softly, “Grab it, Burle. Go ahead. Then I can close your damned saloon for good.”

  Those in the crowd had been prepared to laugh. Taken by surprise, they had not yet recovered sufficiently to become dangerous. Burle, glancing at their faces, apparently understood their mood.

  Sloan stepped to the bar and picked up the shotgun. He turned his head and shouted, “This place is closed. You got ten minutes to finish your drinks and leave.” He glanced back at Burle. “Come on. Let’s go.” Burle was trembling with rage. His face was white. Sloan said harshly, with savage emphasis, “You son-of-a-bitch, I don’t care whether you walk out or whether I have you carried out on a door. Now move, before my patienc
e all runs out.”

  Burle came from behind the bar. Without looking at Sloan, he pushed his way angrily through the crowd to the doors. Sloan followed.

  There would be no more jokes. The lines were drawn, and the fight was in deadly earnest now. But that was the way he wanted it. That was the only way he could even hope to win.

  In front of the Cowman’s Pride, he paused to untie his horse, mounted, then followed Burle up the street. The man walked angrily, swiftly. Behind them, the saloon began to empty its occupants out onto the walk and into the street.

  Sloan had made an implacable and powerful enemy, but this episode tonight could not have worked out better from his own standpoint. While he regretted the necessity of killing the make-believe killer, he’d had no choice. The man had been trying for his gun and would have killed him without hesitation if he’d been able to get it out.

  He reached the bank and rode beyond to the new marshal’s office and jail. He swung down and tied his horse. There were lamps burning inside, and there was the sound of a hammer. Apparently the carpenters were still at work.

  He said coldly, “Go on in.”

  Burle turned his head. “What’s the charge?”

  Sloan gave him a savage push. “Don’t crowd me, Burle. I don’t need to charge you to hold you overnight.”

  “You’ll regret this, Hewitt.”

  “Sure. Sure I will. Why don’t you take a look at things the way they really are, Burle? You’re not the big man you think you are. You’re just a two-bit saloonkeeper.”

  Burle opened the door and stepped inside. Sloan followed, the shotgun still cradled on his arm. There were two carpenters working, one a middle-aged man in overalls, the other a boy, obviously an apprentice. Sloan asked, “Got any cells ready yet?”

  The man nodded. “All finished back there. It’s a wooden building, though, so I wouldn’t say it was very strong.”

  Sloan nodded. He gestured with his head to Burle. “Go on.”

  Burle glared at him, then stalked back to the rear of the building. There were four small cells, two on each side. The bars were made of iron pipe set in holes drilled in four-by-fours, which were spiked to ceiling and floor. A two-by-four, also drilled, made the bars rigid between ceiling and floor. It would take a powerful man to break out without tools, but anyone with a crowbar, an ax, or a sledge could break out in a matter of minutes.