Lawless Town Page 9

She came out onto the porch with him. She said, in a small furious voice, “Damn you!” Then, unexpectedly, she took his face between her hands and kissed him on the mouth.

  Sloan caught her and held her for a moment. There was no response in her, and she held her body stiff. He released her, puzzled, feeling a strange sense of frustration. He didn’t understand this one at all.

  She stepped away into the darkness. “They say this town has a man for breakfast every day. My father made one meal for it. You’ll make another. I guess … oh, hell, go on and do what you think you have to do.” Sloan didn’t move, and her voice turned sharp. “Go on! Why should I worry about you?”

  “You shouldn’t, ma’am.” Sloan turned and tramped along the graveled walk to the street. Reaching it, he turned. He could see her standing in the doorway. As he watched, she closed the door.

  He walked away toward the noise and the lights of the town. Walking, his hand dropped to his gun, touched it, and came away. He passed the hotel where he had left Sid without looking at it. He needed a new shirt, but he didn’t want to let Sid know what had happened. He didn’t want Sid horning in on this, maybe getting himself killed.

  He started with the first saloon he reached, the Bullshead, knowing his search would take a long time unless he happened to be unusually lucky. It was a big town. There were at least twenty-five saloons. He had a drink in the Bullshead, listened, circulated, and afterward moved on.

  He watched the gambling tables. He watched for heavy spenders. He listened—for those voices, for that name. And the hours passed.

  He was halfway down Texas Street when the sky began to turn deep gray in the east. The barkers had gone inside. Sullen drunks, boisterous drunks, quarrelsome drunks filled the street. Occasionally a burst of gunfire echoed from one of the flimsy buildings. Sloan turned in at one of the more pretentious of the saloons, called the Longhorn. He heard no familiar voices. He heard no names. But he knew as he stepped through the swinging doors that the three were here. He knew which three they were. Because, of all the men in the saloon, only these three saw him or paid him any mind.

  Their scrutiny was brief and soon over. But their faces held, in that short instant, fleeting wonder—a touch of uneasiness—a flash of recognition and surprise. Surprise that he was still alive. Surprise that he was here. They were together at the bar. They were all a little drunk. Sloan paced purposefully toward them.

  He felt right now as he had felt on a number of occasions during the war—before he led his cavalry down into the woods where he knew the gray-clad infantrymen were—before he led a charge over a stone wall and up a hill into the withering fire from the top. Emptiness came to his belly, coldness to his spine. They were familiar symptoms. But his face was like a rock, and his hands were steady and sure.

  He stopped ten feet away. He said, “Lane!”

  One of them jerked. But he didn’t look up, and he didn’t turn. Instead he muttered something to his companions, who immediately pushed away from the bar and sidled to right and left. And then he turned. “Who the hell are you?”

  He was a couple of inches shorter than Sloan, but he was broad. A red-faced man, he wore several days’ growth of reddish whiskers. His sweat-stained hat, pushed back, revealed reddish hair thinning over his temples.

  Sloan said, “You’ve got something of mine. I want it back.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The voice was familiar, the same voice Sloan had heard earlier as he lay on the ground down by the hide warehouse, helplessly waiting to be killed. He knew what they were doing. He understood their strategy in separating. He couldn’t keep his eyes on all three at once. And he couldn’t fire his gun in more than one direction at a time.

  He took several evenly paced backward steps. A drunk jostled him, and he sent the man sprawling to the floor with a savage sweep of his arm without taking his eyes from Lane. There was no real fear in him—only that emptiness in his belly, the old coldness in his spine. He supposed those were the symptoms of fear, and yet he had faced death too many times to shrink from it now. A certain fatalism was in him—a belief that when his time came he would die, regardless of all other considerations, that until that time came he would live.

  Lane’s eyes, close-set and strangely piggish, flicked from one side to the other. They were bolder when they again met Sloan’s. The man had looked to his companions for reassurance, and found it.

  Sloan said, “Don’t pick the hard way, Lane. Give me the money and I’ll overlook the bumps.”

  There was a nervous laugh from one of Lane’s companions, but Sloan didn’t look at him. The man said, “Listen at that, fer God’s sake! We got him boxed.”

  Sloan put his eyes on the man. Whatever he had intended more to say died in his throat. Beyond Lane the bartender scrambled out of the way. And behind Sloan a path of emptiness opened. The drunk Sloan had flung aside got up and advanced on him gloweringly.

  He saw the flicker of decision touch Lane’s piggish, close-set eyes, but he was moving before Lane began to move. He moved toward the drunk, swept his gun from its holster, brought it up, and slammed the barrel into the side of the drunk’s head. He lunged beyond the drunk at the one on Lane’s right, striking him with his shoulders and bowling him back. Whirling, just as Lane’s gun flamed, he released the thumbed-back hammer of his gun and felt it buck against his palm.

  Lane slammed back against the bar and hung there, motionless, for the barest instant. But Sloan’s eyes weren’t on him now. The muzzle of his gun swung, belching smoke and flame. The one beyond Lane got off two shots, the second of which raked a furrow along the muscles of Sloan’s forearm. Sloan fired again, knew where this bullet struck, and whirled, falling, to face the one he’d bowled aside before. That one was on the floor, fanning the hammer of his gun from there. Sloan struck the floor, let himself roll, then brought his feet under him like a cat. Freezing all motion for the briefest part of a second, he put a bullet into the third man’s throat.

  Breathing hard, he got to his feet. Lane was crumpled over the bar rail. The second man was spread-eagled on his back. The third was gurgling as the last of his blood and his breath mingled in his shattered throat.

  Sloan saw the bartender stoop and, when the man raised up, a double-barreled shotgun in his hands, he was ready for him. Leaning over the bar, he slashed competently with his fisted gun. The barrel and the front sight raked the bartender’s forehead, bringing an instant rush of blood. The shotgun rattled on the bar.

  Sloan seized it, holstered his revolver, and swung around. If there had been thought of interference from any of the trio’s friends in the crowd, it died suddenly. Sloan spoke over his shoulder, “Bartender, come on out here.”

  The man shuffled from behind the bar, mopping his bleeding forehead with a wet bar towel. Sloan said, “These three beat me and robbed me of three thousand and seventy-one dollars. If anyone wants to check the amount, he can see Ike Solomon.” The man stared at him fearfully. Sloan said gently, “Go through their pockets and lay their money on the bar. Count out three thousand and seventy-one dollars, and I’ll be on my way.”

  He waited while the bartender knelt to rifle the pockets of the dead. He watched the stack of money grow as the bartender went from one to the other. He waited impassively while the man counted money with hands that shook almost uncontrollably.

  He finished. Sloan said, “Pick it up and hand it to me.”

  The bartender complied. Sloan stuffed the roll into his pocket. He broke the shotgun, tossed the shells into the spittoon, and put the shotgun on the bar. He walked down the lane that had opened up and went out the door.

  He was hurting now—from the broken ribs, from the places on his face and scalp where the two-by-four had struck, from the bullet burn along the muscles of his arm. His anger was gone, and in its place was only the sickness, the bitterness that violence always brought.


  III

  Sloan Hewitt did not awake until noon. When he did, he stared up into the face of his partner, into Sid’s bloodshot eyes, his gray, sick face. He stirred and sat up on the side of the bed, remembering now all that had happened the night before. He’d returned to the hotel room to find Sid passed out cold, an empty quart of whiskey beside his bed.

  Sid said, “There’s some men outside looking for you. God, what a night! You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

  Sloan said, “I was.” He grinned at Sid. “You look like you tried to drink the damned town dry.”

  He got up, and Sid fell across the bed, both hands to his head. Sloan felt stiff this morning, and there was pain, but he pulled on his pants and boots, belted his gun around his middle, and, shirtless, went to the door.

  Three men stood in the hall, their hats in their hands. Sloan said, “You want to see me?” relaxing immediately as he saw them. All three were unarmed, dressed in respectable business suits. One had mutton-chop whiskers along his jaws, brown and silky, but the other two were clean-shaven.

  The one with the mutton-chop whiskers nodded and extended a hand. “I saw you in the Longhorn last night. I … that is, we have a proposition to make you.”

  Sloan shrugged. “Come on in.”

  He stood aside, and the three filed into the room. Sloan closed the door, went over to the washstand, and poured a pan full of cold water. He washed thoroughly, ignoring the pain soap and water brought to the lacerations on his face. His mouth felt puffy. He dried his face and turned. “What is it?”

  The mutton-chopped man said, “I’m Will Dryden. I own the bank. This,” he indicated the man next to him, “is Lucian Lake, and,” indicating the third man, “this is Frank Graham. Frankly, Mister Hewitt, we’re concerned about our town. We’re concerned about our safety and that of our families. It’s time we had some law.”

  Sloan said, “Get some, then.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Mister Hewitt. We want you to take the job as town marshal. We saw you work last night, and, if anyone can do it, you can.”

  Sloan shook his head without hesitation. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m no lawman. Besides that, whoever takes the job will be dead in twenty-four hours.”

  “An ordinary man would.”

  Sloan rummaged in his war sack and found a clean shirt. He shrugged into it gingerly, saying, “You’re crazy. Why should anyone take on a job like that? There’s not enough money in the world …”

  “No. There isn’t. We realize that. A man would have to want something besides money to take the job.”

  “Like what?”

  Dryden shrugged. “Satisfaction, maybe. You risked your life last night to recover your three thousand dollars, Mister Hewitt. Was it just for the money, or was there something else?”

  “The money,” Sloan growled, but he knew it wasn’t true. A man didn’t put a price on his life, even though sometimes he risked it for a price—and for an intangible something else.

  Dryden said, “The pay for marshal would be three hundred a month. Three hundred more for expenses and deputies.”

  Sloan shook his head. “No.” And now a vague anger touched him.

  “Why, man, why? You can do it. And the pay is right.”

  Sloan’s anger grew. He said sourly, “Money’s your answer, isn’t it? You’ve stood by and watched this happening to your town and you let it happen because the money was rolling in. When you could have stopped it, you didn’t, because you didn’t want to stop that flood of money. Now you’re scared because you’ve suddenly realized there’s a lion loose in the streets, but you still think in terms of money. You think you can buy safety from the thing you allowed and even encouraged.” He shook his head again. “Go find someone else.”

  “Mister Hewitt …”

  Sloan said coldly, “The answer is no. Get out of here.”

  Dryden opened his mouth to protest further, then closed it abruptly. Hat in hand, he backed to the door, then turned and followed the others out. Sloan went over and kicked the door shut. He looked at Sid. “Hungry?”

  Sid groaned. “Hell no.” He rolled and sat up on the bed. His eyes pinched shut as the pain of his throbbing head struck him. “What were they talking about?”

  Sloan grinned. “I got robbed last night. When I came to, I went looking for the three that robbed me.”

  “Find ’em?” There was quick anxiety in Sid’s tone.

  Sloan nodded. “And I got the money back. I’ll go over and put it in the bank right now.”

  Sid sighed with relief and lay back on the bed. He closed his eyes and groaned. “I think I’m going to die.”

  Sloan picked up his hat. Seeing it reminded him of the girl who had given it to him last night. He didn’t even know her name, he realized. He went out quietly and closed the door, thinking of the girl. She had puzzled him. She had seemed so crisp and efficient, yet she had kissed him and cursed him within the space of a few seconds, and neither had been an act of crispness or self-assurance. He smiled faintly to himself. He’d have to see her again, today, and thank her for helping him.

  He walked through the lobby and out into the glaring sun. He crossed the street to the bank, deposited the money, and tucked the receipt carefully into his pocket. He lit a cigar, then went downstreet to the mercantile store, and bought another hat. With the one she had given him wrapped in brown paper, he hunted along the eastern edge of town until he found her house.

  In daylight, it was a pleasant place despite the lack of trees. Its lawn was green, and there were beds of flowers on either side of the porch. He knocked and heard her steps coming, and a moment later she faced him through the screen door, dressed in a flowered dress and looking fresh and clean.

  He grinned. “I’m returning the hat you gave me. And I want to thank you, too.”

  The expression on her face was a puzzling combination of conflicting emotions. But she seemed genuinely glad to see him. She opened the screen door. “Come in. I was getting dinner for myself, but I hate to eat alone.”

  He said, “I don’t even know your name. I’m Sloan Hewitt.”

  “I’m Merline Morris. Come on. It’s warmed-over chicken and cold dumplings, but if you’re not too fussy …”

  “I’m not fussy, ma’am. I’ve eaten nothing but buffalo for several months.”

  There was a fresh tablecloth on the kitchen table. He sat down, and she poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. “I hear you recovered your money last night.”

  Her voice held a note of disapproval, of censure. He said, “You don’t approve?”

  “I’d rather not answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  She turned, and her eyes touched the gun hanging at his side. “Isn’t there ever any way but that way? Three men are dead.”

  He said, “They didn’t want to give the money back. What other way was there?” His eyes mocked her good-naturedly.

  “There’s such a thing as law.”

  “Not here there isn’t.”

  “There could be.” Her back was to him, but he sensed that she knew, not only about the fight last night in which Lane and his two companions had been killed, but also about the offer made to him this morning by the banker and his friends.

  He said, “You get around, don’t you?”

  She turned. “I get around. I’m a cattle buyer.”

  “You think I ought to have taken the job?”

  “Someone’s got to. Sometime. Or this town is going to destroy itself.”

  “Why should I care? The town could have stopped what was happening any time it wanted to. Now it’s too late.”

  “Not if the right man took the job as marshal.”

  He peered closely at her. “You’re not very consistent. You don’t like the fact that I killed three thieves last night, but you want me to take on a
job that will mean killing more. What kind of reasoning is that?”

  She grinned at him unexpectedly. “Woman’s reasoning, I guess.” She put a plate of chicken and dumplings in front of him. “Go ahead and eat.”

  She sat down across the table, and, as she began to eat, he looked at her closely. Her skin was tanned, but clear and flawless, the healthy skin of a girl who is out-of-doors most of the time. Her eyelashes were long and delightfully curved, and her mouth was full and red. Her cheeks were slightly hollow beneath high, prominent cheekbones. A lovely girl, without the artfulness and artificiality Sloan had found to varying degrees in other women he had known. When this girl met a man’s eyes, her gaze was disconcertingly direct and forthright.

  He ate ravenously and polished off a second helping the same way. He leaned back, fished a cigar from his pocket, and bit off the end. “All right if I smoke?”

  She nodded, rose, and began to gather up the dishes. He stared at her thoughtfully, and, while she avoided his glance, her face flushed faintly with awareness of it. Her body was straight and strong, but it was an exciting woman’s body that he knew would be eager and satisfying to the man she chose. He felt the stirring of hunger in him and lowered his glance so that she wouldn’t see it in his eyes.

  With her back to him, she asked, “What will you do now?”

  He shrugged, savoring the taste of the cigar. “I haven’t decided. I think I’d like a ranch. Where …” and this slipped out, “where there’s no killing and no dying.”

  She turned her head, and he felt the impact of her eyes. “That’s a strange statement from a man who …” She stopped suddenly.

  He finished it for her, a touch of bitterness in his voice. “From a man who has just killed three of his fellow men? From a man who has slaughtered buffalo by the hundreds for their hides? From a man who has been through four long years of war? Maybe that’s why I want the ranch.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

  He changed the subject abruptly. “How did you get to be a cattle buyer? It’s a strange occupation for a woman.”