Lawless Town Page 3

  Coe stepped into the breach. “Verona, this is Ben Rawlins. The man Street tried to kill last night.”

  Street had started forward. Now, suddenly, he caught himself. The time was not yet. Verona’s eyes held no welcome for him. Instead, they showed him a flash of pure hatred. Actress? Lord, she was that all right. She wanted the name of Walt Street buried with the body of Rawlins on the oaken table.

  Verona’s voice was low, filled with venom. She hissed, “He’s a liar! He killed Walt for the bounty.”

  As though she would attack Walt Street, she came gliding forward, her face a study of hate. Was this acting, too? Walt Street stepped backward involuntarily. Coe jumped forward and caught Verona’s arm. His wise old eyes held a certain puzzlement mingling with the warning he flashed at Street. He said swiftly, “Get out of here. I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure. Sure.” Street backed out the door and crossed the bare front office. He walked around the side of the building and leaned against the wagon dock. He fished the sack of tobacco from his pocket and built a cigarette, his hands trembling. He licked the paper thoughtfully, put it between his lips, and then forgot to light it.

  Was this the homecoming he had built in his mind for the past two years? He scowled with bleak despair. Verona had not been acting except as she failed to expose him, except as she accepted him as Rawlins. The hatred in her eyes could not have been feigned. Then, she thought, he had not changed. He had come to her after two years, again with blood on his hands, and she hated him for that. She’d waited for the two years to end just as he had, and her wild disappointment in him turned to hatred.

  Street felt a stir of pity for this woman who had been his wife, who, he hoped, was still his wife. The years had not been easy for her. She had built her hopes as he had built his and today her hopes were cruelly shattered by the belief that Street was still a killer. No wonder the hate in her eyes looked so real.

  He saw her come into view, closely followed by Coe and the other man. Coe glanced toward the dock, hesitated, spoke to the two, and then halted. Verona and her male companion went on. Street studied her companion, jealousy tingeing his study with dislike. The man was not as tall as Street, but he probably weighed as much. Without being stocky, there was still a blocky solidity about his body. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he moved with an odd grace unusual in men used to the saddle.

  Coe came slouching toward Street, his old eyes sleepily alert. He stopped before Street, silent for an instant, and then he said, “Don’t be too hard on her, Rawlins. Don’t be too hard. Seems she quit this Street two years ago, hoping he’d change his ways. She heard from her father last week saying Street had come looking for her. She thought he’d changed.” Coe shrugged wearily. “Guess a man doesn’t change much. Guess Street hadn’t. It was likely quite a blow to her.”

  Street felt the strangest urge to confide in this seemingly gentle old man. He restrained it with an inward smile. Probably the quality that made men want to confide in him was one of the sheriff’s most valuable assets. Besides, Street had not missed the puzzlement in Coe’s eyes back there in the room with Verona. Coe had sensed that something did not ring true in the meeting between Street and Verona. He had sensed that and in his gentle, tenacious way he’d keep worrying at it with his mind until he puzzled it out. Well, suppose he did? The truth had to come out sooner or later. Street had no intention of letting things ride indefinitely this way. He only wanted Rawlins’ identity long enough to convince Verona he had done what she asked. He had changed. He had put aside the gun. He had to convince her that the killing last night was as unavoidable as winter’s snow, as the change of seasons. But to do that, he had to see her.

  Coe said, “Been to see Hayden yet?”

  It was hard for Street to take his thoughts from Verona. He looked at Coe blankly for a moment. Hayden? Then he remembered. The name signed to the letter he had found in Rawlins’ wallet. He shook his head.

  Coe said, “He wants to see you right away. Something’s come up, he said.”

  Street shrugged. “Where will I find him?” There was an almost total lack of interest in his voice.

  Coe studied him. “Down toward the end of Cougar. His office is that little yellow building next to the lumberyard.”

  Street straightened, threw his unlit cigarette away.

  Coe said, “Verona upset you, didn’t she?”

  “She’s a beautiful woman. It’s upsetting to see that much hate for yourself in any woman’s eyes.”

  “I suppose it is.” Something about Coe’s manner held Street still.

  Coe hesitated and finally said, “I ought to warn you. This place of Will’s … Gunhammer wants it bad.”

  “Why?”

  “It lies between Gunhammer and Chain. Gunhammer’s owned by the Lacey tribe … Bruce, Glenn, Nick, and the old man, Brandt. It was Bruce you saw with Verona just now.”

  Street waited.

  Coe went on.“Don’t quote me. But Gunhammer’s getting too small for the Lacey bunch. The boys are men now and they want something of their own. Particularly Bruce. Gunhammer’s big, but it ain’t big enough to split four ways. On the other hand, Chain’s got more graze than they can stock. So Gunhammer’s figuring to move in. Your place straddles the only decent trail between ’em.”

  Street murmured, “I got an offer a while ago.”

  Coe’s eyebrows raised questioningly.

  Street said, “Five hundred. I turned it down.”

  There was careful approval mingled with doubt in Coe’s ancient eyes. He said, “Used to be a watch salesman, didn’t you? That’s what Will said.”

  Street nodded, suddenly cautious. If he were going to maintain this masquerade, he would have to appear more timid. He asked, “Tell me something? Will Gunhammer get tough about it?”

  “Might. Probably will.”

  “And where do you stand?”

  Coe looked away. He didn’t answer at once. When he did, Street thought he detected a note of shame in his voice. “Twenty years ago I’d have told you not to worry. But I’ve got an invalid wife in a sanitarium over in Denver. It takes money to keep her there. So whether I like it or not, I’ve got to advise you to be careful. I’d even go so far as to advise you to sell.”

  Street grinned sourly. “At least you’re honest.”

  Coe’s expression was bleak. “It’s all I can give … honest advice.”

  Street said dryly, “Thanks,” and turned away. Without looking back he walked down Cougar toward the large frame building with the lumber piled behind it. He passed it and came to a smaller frame building on whose window was the sign: Jerome Hayden, Attorney-at-Law.

  The morning sun was warm and Street’s forehead was damp. He could feel the clamminess in his armpits, but that had no connection with the heat. He always perspired under severe nervous strain. He opened the door and went in.

  The place was musty, cool, and filled with cigar smoke. Behind a rolltop desk sat a man, the fattest man Street had ever seen. His face was pink, almost completely round, and wholly without wrinkles. His eyes, close-set, were bland and inquiring.

  “Mister Hayden? Coe said you were anxious to see me.”

  Hayden got up, reminding Street of an elephant he had seen once rising from a prone position. Hayden’s suit was like a tent, wrinkled and untidy. His large, full-lipped mouth split in something that was undoubtedly meant to be a smile, exposing enormous, gold-filled teeth. Street felt somewhat overwhelmed. Hayden said, “You’re Ben Rawlins, then. I did want to see you. Got a deal for you on that ranch of Will’s.”

  Street asked, “You’re the administrator?”

  Hayden nodded ponderously. “About this deal …”

  “I’ve already heard it.”

  “The Laceys need the place. They’ve offered a fair price.”

  “I’ll see the place before I sell it. Maybe I’ll like
it. How do I know?”

  Hayden’s piggish eyes narrowed. A warning crept into his voice. “I’d sell. I’d advise you to sell. Take my word that it’s a fair price.”

  Street murmured, “I still want to see it. If I decide to sell, I’ll let you know.” He stared at Hayden hard. Hayden started to protest further, but he must have seen something in Street’s eyes that killed his protest. He mumbled weakly, “You’re making a mistake.”

  Street shrugged. “Maybe. The offer doesn’t expire at midnight, does it?”

  Hayden did not reply. Street turned and went out the door. He supposed there were some formalities connected with the transfer of property, but he was in no mood for them today. He wanted to find Verona, convince her she was wrong about him, take her and get out of Escalante forever. Besides, he didn’t relish signing the name of Ben Rawlins to anything. He’d lived out his life without tangling with the law and he didn’t want to start now.

  He angled across the dusty street, scuffing the dust thoughtfully. He realized that there was a core of resentment and irritation in all his thoughts, realized as well that so long as it remained he had no business talking to Verona. Convincing Verona would take all the persuasion and tact of which he was capable. And, besides, she needed time to cool off from their encounter this morning.

  So it was rest, then, and food afterward. Tonight, he would seek out Verona. The mere thought of it made his stomach feel hollow. He was briefly chagrined at the weakness this need for Verona could cause in him. Frowning a little, he strode into the hotel, crossed the lobby, and climbed the stairs to his room. Weariness was an opiate in his thoughts and body. He pulled off his boots, lay down on the bed, and was instantly asleep.

  IV

  The room was dark when Street awoke. For a moment he lay still, staring into the blackness, letting his mind renew all the happenings of the past twenty-four hours. Then quickly he swung his legs over, sat up, and stooped to pull on his boots. He found a match in his shirt pocket and thumbed it alight. Locating the lamp in its feeble glow, he crossed the room and lit it. He stared at himself in the mirror beside the lamp. His hair, as tawny as his mustache, was rumpled from sleep. His eyes, pale gray, stared back at him with somber lack of expression. His lips, below the mustache, were long and firm. Absently he scrubbed a hand over his strong jaws, deciding that twice a day was too often to shave.

  He poured the basin full and splashed his face. He dampened his hair and dried off vigorously. He ran the broken comb through his hair. He wished he had a clean shirt, but he didn’t. He retied his string tie, pulled at his coat to straighten it, picked up his hat, and went out into the hall.

  Ravenous, the smell of frying steak drew him into a restaurant before he had gone half a block. He ordered steak and fried potatoes, ate swiftly and with single-minded concentration. Finished, he called the waitress over, paid his bill, and asked, “Could you tell me where to find Miss Verona Ormsby?”

  The girl looked around uneasily, frightened, and Street said, “It’s all right. I’m a friend.”

  “Well … she lives in the two-story white house up at the upper end of Main.”

  “Thanks.” Street got up and went out, hurrying in spite of himself. A boy who had been staring through the window now transferred his attention to Street. It was the towheaded kid that had run for the doctor this morning. Alf, the stage line agent had called him. Street grinned down. “Hello, Alf.”

  The boy ducked his head, not replying. He raised it again almost immediately. His washed-out blue eyes studied Street unblinkingly.

  Embarrassed, Street tousled the boy’s hair, then continued walking toward the upper end of Main. There were a few horsemen on the street, a couple of buggies, and half a dozen people on foot.

  He stopped before the two-story white house, noting that it was the last one on the street. Next to it was a wire-fenced pasture and beyond that in the distance the ponderous rims of the Cougar Plateau. A breeze came down from the plateau, cool and fresh, reminding Street that the season was yet early and that undoubtedly snow still lingered in the high country. Excitement was high in him as he stared at the lit windows of the house, yet he lingered, trying to down his doubt, trying to kill the fear that had made of his stomach a hard-knotted ball. Then with sudden decision, he reached for the gate.

  A voice came softly from the darkness, “Wait a minute, Rawlins.” It was a voice dimly recognized, associating itself with a figure that stepped out of the darkness inside the gate. Street waited, premonition tightening his muscles. There had been menace in that voice, and no attempt to cloak it with pleasantry. The gate swung open and Max Bauer came out. He said, “Miss Ormsby doesn’t want to see you.”

  Street said, “I’ll hear her say that, if you don’t mind.”

  “You heard me say it.”

  In the dim light Street could see that Bauer was grinning with obvious anticipation. He felt suddenly just as he’d felt one night a good many years ago as he stepped into a rigged fight in a little town called Blackhawk over east in the Colorado Rockies, for his eyes caught the shadows of two more men inside the picket fence. Time to back down and move away. Don’t go to Verona with your face beaten to a pulp. Don’t get involved in a fight at her very door or she won’t ever listen to what you have to say. Street swallowed his mounting rage. He made his voice even and soft. “All right. Let it go. I’ll see her some other time.”

  He hated himself. He was eating crow. Ever a proud man, it galled and rankled. He started to turn, stopped quickly as he heard the soft laugh of the man called Bauer. The laugh told him more plainly than words could have done that Bauer was not going to let him go. Bauer had set himself for a fight and meant to have it.

  Bauer said, “You won’t see her some other time. You won’t see anything at all for a while. But when you can see, send for Hayden and a deed to your outfit.”

  Street had expected a little more talk. Or a sneak punch as he turned away. He was surprised, then, at the whistling blow that came directly out of the darkness. He flung his head aside and it grazed across his high cheekbone. The blow had come from Bauer, and Street felt a stir of surprise. He had not believed a man could move so fast. He had no time to dwell on his surprise, however. Hardly had it registered, when a second punch landed flush on his jaw. He felt himself going backward, falling. His legs pedaled frantically for balance, but the edge of the walk dumped him down in the street’s soft dust.

  He had waited two years and it came to this. He had dreamed a thousand dreams of Verona, and the dreams were dead. A terrible rage soared through his brain. He could see the other two coming through the gate and he knew at once they meant to be thorough. He couldn’t win, even if he soundly whipped all three. For he would be marked and beaten, and after that what slim chance remained of convincing Verona he had changed would be gone. For a second time in his life he ran, his face hot with the humiliation of it. He scrambled up out of the dust, dodged Bauer’s kick, and sprinted down Main.

  But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Street collided violently with a small figure in the darkness, and sprawled again. He heard a shrill boy’s yelp as he went down, and then they were on him, holding him, raining kicks and blows into his helpless body. That damned kid! Alf. He must have followed all the way from the restaurant. Street had no time to wonder why. He gathered his strength and expended it in a single explosive effort, and broke away.

  Running was now out of the question. Marked already, he’d give them what fight he could. He struggled to his feet. Breath heaved gustily in and out of his starving lungs. He caught a roundhouse swing in the belly and it doubled him over. An uppercut straightened him up. Off balance he took a fist in his eye and he knew that one at least would swell shut.

  He got his balance and lifted a knee brutally. A man yelled with pain and fell away. Street swung his right and felt it sink into something soft, into Bauer. The man grunted softly, but seemed to be sl
owed not at all. He was fast as a panther, and just as deadly. Street followed that right with a left, a savage hooking left that slammed into Bauer’s ear. Bauer fell aside from that one, and Street followed him, throwing punches with rhythmic speed. Bauer, hurt, countered in desperation with a punch that landed flush on Street’s nose.

  The blow brought tears to his eyes and momentarily blinded him. Something awfully hard crashed down on his head from behind. Light flashed briefly before his eyes. He went to his knees. In this position, he caught the force of Bauer’s knee full in the face. The iron-hard object cracked the back of his head for a second time, and still he would not go down. Bauer stood before him, slugging viciously and each of the man’s blows landed accurately on Street’s unprotected face.

  Street heard a scream, a yell, and his eyes caught the light of a swinging lantern. Still fighting, or trying to, he struggled to his feet. Spraddle-legged, tottering, he peered around, seeking Bauer’s hated face. Blood streamed from his nose. His face was numb and pulpy. Something warm trickled down the back of his head. Bauer’s helper had slashed with the pistol barrel instead of delivering a solid blow. Perhaps only this had kept the blows from shattering Street’s skull. Street’s ribs were a solid wall of pain. Hands caught at him, but he flung them aside. He staggered down the street, heading for the hotel.

  He heard Coe’s voice, imperatively saying, “Son, you need some help.”

  “The hell!” He stopped, fighting the awful nausea and dizziness that threatened to overcome him, and then fell forward, stiff as a tottering pine. He had the brief sensation of falling, and then he wanted only blackness and peace and a cessation of pain.

  The scream Street heard came from a girl. She was tall for a girl with a slim boyish figure. She ran forward as Street fell and knelt in the dust beside him. Her smooth face showed nothing but pity as she stared down into his bloody, battered face. Coe stopped at her side, holding the lantern, and she looked up at him with boundless indignation. “What did he do to deserve this? When is this country going to put a stop to Gunhammer’s brutality?”