Lawless Town Read online

  X

  For the first ten minutes, Street’s mind was a blank of tortured fury. But gradually, as his mind calmed, he began to see that he had no chance whatever of reaching Escalante in daylight. He had no gun. And he must pass directly through Gunhammer, the stronghold of his enemies. So, although it was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done, he found himself a place down beside the creek where high willows would conceal both himself and his horse, and here he waited.

  The daylight hours whiled away for what seemed an eternity. Stretched on the grassy bank of the creek, Street rested and marshaled his strength. The sun sank, and dusk dropped down over the land. In the first full dark, Street mounted and rode.

  He passed warily through Gunhammer without incident, for it was just past suppertime, and no one was stirring in its broad fields. And, later, he entered the streets of Escalante carefully. He felt an ever-increasing nervousness now, aware of his helplessness without even a gun with which to defend himself.

  A challenge came from the side of the street so suddenly as to be completely unnerving. “Who the hell’s that?”

  So Gunhammer had posted watchers on the roads leading into town.

  Instead of answering, Street drove spurs into his horse’s sides. The animal leaped ahead, surprised by the sudden nervousness of its rider. He thundered down Main, and the Gunhammer riders’ shouts rang out behind excitedly, “Hey! Its Rawlins! It must be. I know that Chain horse!”

  Cursing silently, Street reined savagely over and rode the horse through a weed-grown vacant lot to the alley. Here he dismounted, and, tying up the reins, slapped the horse on his muscled rump. The horse sprinted away, heading back the way they had come, heading back toward Chain.

  Perhaps they would miss the horse in the dark. Perhaps he would get clear. Or perhaps they would see him and chase him without realizing that Street had dismounted. Breathing shallowly, harshly from exertion, Street ran through the lot and back toward the street, keeping to the building wall for more adequate concealment. He could hear the town stir and come to life. Voices began to shout all along Main. One, clear and separate from the rest, yelled, “There he goes!” And an instant later, “I got the horse! Rawlins ain’t on him. He’s hidin’ somewheres.”

  Street felt a savage desperation. Here he was, hunted, in a hostile town, without a horse, without a gun. But it wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would.

  A group passed on the walk, their running boots making a rumbling thunder against the worn boards. Dogs were barking now all over town. Doors opened and women’s voices asked, querulously, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Somewhere the noise had awakened a child and it began to cry.

  Street backtracked carefully to the alley. He guessed at the number of Gunhammer riders he had seen so far, deciding it had been five. But how many more were here? And where was Bauer? He moved along the alley until he came out on a narrow lane, then headed along this toward Main, knowing only one thing. He had to get his gun, and that was in the sheriff’s office down on Cougar.

  Fifty feet from the place where this narrow lane intersected with Main, he halted. Before Street, looming only as shapes in the dark, were three men who had just turned the corner. There was little chance of hiding, little chance that they would pass without seeing him. Street felt an empty kind of sickness. He could almost feel their fists thudding into his face, the solid blow of a gun barrel against his skull. Nausea surged through him. It angered him to realize that he was trembling. Better a bullet than another beating. He turned to run back in the direction from which he had come, then halted abruptly for a second time. For blocking his path in that direction were two more men and one of these carried a lantern. The search was well organized already. It was proceeding in systematic fashion, section by section of the town.

  In an instant the men behind Street would glimpse his silhouette against the approaching lantern light. Probably they would do no shooting for fear of hitting each other. But they would close in on him in this narrow lane, two from the one direction, three from the other. And then he’d get the beating Bauer had promised this afternoon. Still weak from the last beating, he’d have little chance even to inflict his share of punishment on the Gunhammer men. He’d be strictly on the receiving end this time.

  His anger was cold, but controlled and careful. He edged along the brick wall of the two-story building, waiting nervously for the shout that would reveal that he had been discovered. Luck was with him for once, and he was able to get to within fifteen feet of the lantern carrier before the man spotted him.

  Street sprinted directly at the man, whose shouted surprise was instantly echoed by the three behind Street. Street’s batting hand collided with the hot lantern and it made a loud crash as it struck the brick wall of the building. It broke, flamed briefly, and went out. In utter darkness, Street was past. Behind him, a gun flashed orange, and a bullet ricocheted off the wall and into the night, whining. Street reached the alley and swung right, running hard, growing breathless and dizzy from exertion.

  Behind him an instant later he heard a shout, “Which way did he go? Damn it, didn’t anyone notice?”

  And a resentful reply, “Did you see him, Buck? It’s blacker’n Hades. How d’you expect … ?”

  They wrangled peevishly for a few moments, then split up. Two came toward Street, one waited, and two went the other way.

  Street stopped and took off his boots, folding them under his arm, and began to run soundlessly along the alley. He was not foolish enough to think he could tackle and whip two armed men. His only chance was to reach Coe’s office and get his gun. If he could do that, by Judas, he’d show this Gunhammer outfit a scrap.

  * * * * *

  Headquarters for the search turned out to be Verona’s house. Old Brandt Lacey sat on the porch with his sons around him, taking reports as they came in, directing the search. His anger was monumental as Bauer reported Street’s escape from the five who had apparently had him cornered.

  “Fools!” he raged. “A damn jewelry salesman, unarmed at that, and you let him slip away!”

  Behind him, Verona spoke triumphantly, gloatingly, “You’re wrong, old man. You’re not chasing a jewelry salesman named Rawlins. You’re after a man named Walt Street, and if he gets a gun …” She left the sentence dangling.

  “Then the dead one was Rawlins?” Bruce Lacey had a brutal grip on her arm, and she cried out involuntarily.

  Old Brandt, his face purple in the light streaming from the open door, suddenly bellowed, “Douse that damned light! Quick! If that’s who he is, we can expect him here before long.”

  Verona began to laugh hysterically. One of Brandt’s sons ran inside and blew out the lights.

  Brandt’s voice was bitter. “So all this was for nothing! Hell, Rawlins has been dead all the time. And now we’ve got Street on our tails.” He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice had chilled. “Max, send a man down to the hotel to tell Jagger nobody’s earned that bounty yet. Tell him Street’s still alive and here in town. Then you take the crew and find Street, if you can, before Jagger does. I’ll add five hundred to Jagger’s bounty on him. Now get going! I want Street dead!”

  Behind him there was a faint rustle of silk, a quickly indrawn breath. Verona’s heart was pounding. Why, oh, why hadn’t she kept still? She’d thought to frighten Brandt into leaving Street alone. And she’d only succeeded in signing his death warrant. She slipped into the house, unnoticed. She went unerringly to the drawer where she’d put Bruce’s Schofield .45. She took it out and, holding it against her dress, drew back nervously, “Max, wait! I think I can tell you where he’s gone.”

  Brandt said, “You’ve told us enough, you damned Jezebel! Besides, Max is gone.”

  Verona put the muzzle of Bruce’s gun deliberately against Brandt’s old neck. “Call him back or I’ll pull the trigger.”

  Brandt
laughed. “You haven’t got the guts,” he said scornfully. “Besides, it’s too late to call him back.”

  Verona could sense someone, maybe Bruce, moving toward her in the darkness. She said, her voice now trembling with hysteria, “Call him back!”

  Brandt laughed again nastily. Someone lunged against Verona, throwing her aside. At the contact, she pulled the trigger. Brandt choked and fell forward out of his chair. The shot drew half a dozen men of the Gunhammer crew. They came running from the darkness and, with Brandt’s sons, bent over the old man. Verona they ignored for the moment.

  Standing in a shadowed doorway, Street heard the shot, heard the sound of running footsteps as the searchers now converged on the house at the upper end of Main. It was his chance, he knew. Without hesitating, he ran down toward Coe’s office.

  Alerted by the sound of the shot, Coe was just coming out of his office. Street halted in the shadows and let him pass. Then he went into Coe’s office. He struck a match and by its light riffled through the sheriff’s desk until he found his gun. He loaded it, strapped it on, and turned toward the door.

  His eye caught the movement of a shadow in the doorway, and only instinct dictated his sudden lunge to one side. Flame laced from a waist-high gun in the doorway, and the sound of the report was deafening. Street heard Max Bauer’s low, triumphant laugh. Perhaps he could have cut Bauer down with his gun, killed him outright then and there. But his anger, his fury at Bauer was too great for that. Bauer was the one whose fists had helped beat him to insensibility, almost to death. Bauer was the one who had given the order for the beating. A quick death would be too easy for Bauer.

  Street said softly, “Get me fast, Bauer, if you can. Because I’m going to beat you until you’ll wish you were dead.”

  His answer was a second shot from beside the doorway. And now he began to move, as silently as a stalking panther, testing each footfall before he would let his weight down. He could hear Bauer’s hastened breathing, and grinned coldly when Bauer panicked and fired again. Bauer had no liking for this, now that he knew who Street was, that was plain. So Street watched the square of lighter gray that made the doorway, to see that Bauer did not escape.

  Bauer fired a fourth time, but this bullet missed Street by a full three feet. But he had seen Bauer’s crouched form in the flare from the gun—no more than ten feet away—the hated sneering face, whose sneer now had an odd, fixed quality. Sudden fury overpowered Street. He lunged, gun raised, and brought the muzzle of it savagely down upon Bauer’s forearm. A low-pitched sound of pain broke from Bauer’s lips. Street jabbed the gun muzzle into his belly, and heard the sound choked off. Bauer’s gun clattered to the floor. Almost without thinking, Street jammed his own gun into its holster. His fists struck out, given added power by his vengeful fury. They struck rhythmically against Bauer’s heavy face.

  Bauer’s hands came up, but Street’s savage fists beat them aside. Again he could feel his knuckles smashing Bauer’s face, his nose, his mouth, his eyes, and throat. Bauer choked, gasped, and would have retreated but for the wall at his back. Street’s eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now. He could see his adversary dimly. Bauer choked, “Street, let up! Look, Street, the two of us could take over this whole damned range if we’d work together …”

  Street saw Bauer’s gleaming white teeth as the man smirked hopefully. With all the power of his shoulder behind it, his right went out. He felt those gleaming teeth crack beneath its force. He felt his knuckles split. And Bauer slid down the wall to the floor. Street said hoarsely, “Get out of the country, Bauer! If I see you again, I’ll kill you!”

  He stalked out the door. The job was begun, but not finished. Only now there was a difference. Street was no longer the hunted. Now he was the hunter. What he did not know was that behind him, Max was groping around for his gun. Bauer found it, loaded it, and hurried after Street, heading for the hotel veranda. There, Bauer knew, Jagger was waiting patiently. Between them, Bauer figured, they could get this crazy gunman.

  Street stalked from the sheriff’s office up toward Main. He turned toward Verona’s house, which was now ablaze with light. Street’s mind was sick with fury and outrage, only partially appeased by his victory over Bauer. Verona, his wife, living with Bruce Lacey, and Rose Healy, badgered, was about to be pushed ruthlessly off Chain. The restraint was off him. The two years were past. Tonight some things were going to be changed.

  He walked toward the tall frame house at the end of Main, cautiously, slowly, taking advantage of all available cover. And his slowness made it possible for Bauer to reach the hotel veranda even as Street came abreast of it. Afterward, two figures left the veranda and fell in behind him, Jagger and the hurt, maniacal Bauer. Jagger carried a rifle at the ready. Bauer carried his revolver in his hand.

  Coe was within the light circle before Verona’s house. So was Verona, and Bruce Lacey, and Bruce’s two brothers. But old Brandt was down on the porch floor, dead. Doc was rising from beside Brandt’s body, shaking his head.

  Street walked into the circle of light. His voice was like a whip. “So the king is dead?”

  Bruce’s hand flashed toward his gun. The compulsion was strong in Street to kill him. But in the split second of decision, he rose above it and put a bullet into Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce was driven back across the porch. He collapsed against the house’s front door.

  Behind Street, Jagger raised the rifle. Bauer kept moving closer, face twisted and bleeding, wanting a sure thing this time. Verona’s eyes, meeting Street’s briefly, were stricken.

  Street said, “I did what you asked. I put my gun away. What happened on the stage was no fault of mine. Why couldn’t you have waited?”

  Verona’s eyes shifted and fell away. They went beyond him, saw Jagger drawing his bead. She screamed. Street whirled, his gun finding Jagger’s body and centering. The bellow of the rifle and Street’s revolver sounded in savage unison. Jagger’s bullet buzzed like a bee past Street’s head, struck a building behind him, and ricocheted angrily off into the night. But Jagger was beginning to fold, his eyes already glazing over.

  A bullet twitched at Street’s sleeve. He ducked into a crouch, and a second bullet, which would have pierced his heart, grazed across the hard, flat muscles of his shoulder.

  Bauer panicked then. As fast as he could thumb back the hammer, he flung the shots in his gun wildly at Street. Calmly, almost abstractedly, Street centered his gun on Bauer’s chest. There was no hatred in him now, only the strong instinct to survive. He squeezed the trigger and saw Bauer jerk under the impact.

  Verona’s screaming was continuous. But it stopped abruptly as Nick Lacey began to fire at Street. Only the awed fear engendered by Street’s reputation had saved him so far. They’d all been too anxious, and too afraid. But it wouldn’t save him forever. Before he could complete his turn toward Lacey, Verona fired for the second time tonight. The huge Schofield bucked in her slim hand.

  Hurt, Nick turned on her. Between clenched teeth he whispered, “Why, damn you! Damn you anyway!” At point-blank range, he fired.

  Verona was flung back like a limp rag doll. She struck the wall and slumped down it as though she were only very tired.

  Street’s head was ringing. His arms and legs felt like lead. There was shock to all this killing, but he knew he wasn’t hit. This was only his weakness coming back. The Gunhammer crew seemed dazed, but that would pass, and when it did, they would be dangerous. Street said quickly, harshly, “Gunhammer’s through. With Brandt and Bauer dead, Gunhammer’s finished.”

  He heard Doc’s voice, “Verona’s gone, too.”

  The old fury came roaring back to Street. For a moment he stood like an executioner, staring at Nick. Nick shuddered, and licked his lips. “Street, don’t! I’ll leave Escalante forever. Don’t kill me. For Christ’s sake, don’t!”

  Street fought hard for control. At last he said bleakly, “You’ll all lea
ve. Before morning. Send in someone to settle up your damned ranch for you, but don’t ever come back.”

  He heard swift-running feet coming toward him along the street. He heard a voice, Rose’s voice. “Walt! Oh, Walt, are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. And now, Coe spoke up at last. “I’ll make what Street said official. Get out, the three of you. And stay out!” Coe’s rifle was steady and his voice was strong.

  Street looked at him. Coe was late, but perhaps he had finally found his strength, with old Brandt and Bauer dead. Perhaps now, with the memory of his weakness and humiliation strong in him, he would cling to his newfound strength. Street had found his own strength, too—in the warm arms that now encircled him, in the tear-wet cheek against his own. He had found a woman who wanted him exactly as he was, who wanted both his strength and his weakness. He had found a woman who would help him live down the past, to build the future.

  Rose murmured brokenly, “We can go home now, Walt. It’s over, darling.”

  Street made a grin that had no bitterness in it. “No. It’s not over. It’s just beginning.”

  Rose smiled with a woman’s tender triumph. And led him out of the lantern light into the darkness.

  Lawless Town

  I

  At first they were only two small specks, materializing out of the vast and empty land lying to the north, rising whorls of dust behind them the only evidence that they were moving. But as they drew closer they became elongated and, approaching through the shimmering, distant waves of heat rising from the sun-baked land, became wagons, big wagons drawn by four mules each and loaded high with hides. Sloan Hewitt drove the lead wagon, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, the reins held competently in big, callused, sun-blackened hands. His body leaned and swayed, compensating automatically for the jolting movement of the wagon, but he seemed as comfortable as though the seat were cushioned or his buttocks made of iron.