by Jonas Ward
“Come here, Lafe,” Hallett said then and the block-shouldered, surly-faced deputy came forward. “Take the buggy and serve this warrant on Mrs. Booth. You’ll most likely find her on River Street, in the saloon. If you have any trouble—” He broke off, looked beyond Lafe to another deputy. “You ride along with him, Enos. Don’t let Birdy Warren or anyone else interfere with you. I want that woman brought back here within the hour.”
They left, neither man bothering to glance at the warrant. If they had been told to hang Ellen Booth by the neck they would have ridden off with the same stolid, impassive resolve. There was, however, an interruption. Bull Hynman met them coming the other way along Sinai Street.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he demanded angrily.
“Birdy’s place,” Lafe grunted. “Who hit ya?”
“Birdy’s? Why?”
“Boss wants Mrs. Booth brought in. Who hit ya?”
“What’s he want with her?”
“Don’t know. Who—?”
“None of yer friggin’ business. Get back here quick. I got work for you, too.”
They parted, and after a minute’s more riding Enos spoke to his partner. “Things sure picked up all of a sudden.”
“Yeah. Who you figured hit the bull?”
“Don’t know,” Enos said. “Wished I’d’ve seen it, though. Jesus, I hate that pushy bastard.”
He and Lafe exchanged a glance, traveled the rest of the way to Birdy’s place in silence. As they dismounted they seemed to carry themselves differently, more truculently, as if their mission here was a matter of grave importance. In that mood they threw open the swinging doors of Birdy’s saloon and entered.
“Oh, oh!” Birdy said. “Trouble.”
Buchanan, standing at the bar, looked up into the mirror, saw the hulking pair, noted the badges on their shirtfronts.
“Now take it easy, Tom,” Birdy said, speaking behind his hand. “They’re a couple of bully-boys.”
But Buchanan had seen that they were paying him no attention at all. Instead, after a survey of the saloon, they began walking to the table where Ellen Booth and Juanita had just seated themselves. The tall man turned around, waited with his elbows resting on the bar at his back.
But their business wasn’t with Juanita, either.
“Come on along with us, Mrs. Booth,” Lafe said in a hard, carrying voice. “Sheriff Hallett wants to see you.”
Ellen stared up at the deputy, her eyes bewildered.
“What for?” she asked. “What have I done?”
Lafe produced the warrant, handed it to her. She read the thing, and it might have been written in Sanskrit for all the meaning it had for her.
“It’s a lie,” she protested, throwing the paper on the table. “I haven’t committed any crime.”
Now little Birdy was going there, abandoning the advice he had just given.
“Here now, here now!” he said excitedly. “Hasn’t Hallett troubled the girl enough for one day? You boys get out of my place!”
“Stand away from us, Birdy, before you get blown over,” Lafe said.
“You don’t scare me, Lafe Jenkins. You or your high-and-mighty boss …”
The one named Enos took Birdy’s tie and collar in his fist, brought him forward and then shoved him backward. Birdy careened into a table and went sprawling to the sawdust-covered floor. Ellen gave a short cry, came out of her seat to go to him. Lafe’s arm dropped in front of her and his hand tightened on her shoulder.
“You’re under arrest, girlie. Let’s get going.” He spun her around roughly, began pulling her toward the doors. Birdy rose to one knee, went down again from Enos’ boot against his thin chest.
“Hold it, friend,” Buchanan called out and his voice sounded almost regretful. Lafe gave him a sidelong glance.
“What’s your problem?”
“Damned if I know,” Buchanan admitted, pushing away from the bar. The place had become very quiet and the sound of his boot heels was strangely casual as he approached the deputies.
“Back off,” Enos said dangerously, stepping across his path.
“You boys run a hard town for the ladies,” Buchanan said, moving in close. “What’s this one getting pushed around for?”
“Climb back in your bottle,” Enos told him and made the mistake of shoving him. Buchanan swung on reflexes alone, and Enos went down as if a tree had fallen on him. Lafe started backward, dragging Ellen with one hand, clawing at his holster with the other.
“Pull that gun,” Buchanan warned him, “and I’ll shove it down your throat.”
Lafe’s motion halted with the .45 half-drawn and his square face seemed perplexed.
“Stop it!” Ellen pleaded then. “Stop before someone is killed!” She twisted her body so that she was directly between the two men, who stood looking into each other’s eyes like bull mastiffs.
“You’re bracing the law, cowboy,” Lafe said raggedly. “Move on back to that bar.”
“Let’s hear the charge against the lady.”
“It don’t have a goddam thing to do with you …”
“I’m her lawyer,” Buchanan said, and though he was smiling it promised no friendship for Lafe Jenkins.
“No,” Ellen said quickly. “No! Do as he says!”
“He’ll take you on out of here then.”
“Do as he says!” she repeated. “I don’t want anyone killed because of me!”
“Go on,” Lafe put in on his own. “Back off!”
The smile was gone from Buchanan’s face. He looked gloomily undecided.
“Please!” Ellen said.
With that the tall man swung away, returned to his half-finished drink and washed his hands of the whole problem. Lafe spent the next several minutes getting his groggy partner erect and then they were gone. Birdy Warren joined Buchanan, his manner dejected.
“How do you like the law we got in this town?” he asked.
“Kind of hard to tell which is law and which ain’t,” Buchanan said and the man on his left touched his arm.
“You had a close call there, stranger,” the man said.
“I did?”
“That Lafe’s a man-killer. And fast as they come in these parts. Lucky for you the little gal spoke up like she did.”
“Yeah,” Buchanan said, laughing wryly. “This is about the luckiest day I ever spent in my life.” He tossed off the drink, declined another from Birdy and crossed to where Juanita sat.
“Venga aqui, muchacha,” he said.
“Where you off to?” Birdy called after him.
“See if my horse can ride,” he told him and escorted the Mexican girl out onto the street. They walked for several moments in silence and then she spoke.
“Señor,” she said, “por favor, no me llama ‘muchacha.’ I am a woman.”
He looked down at her, critically. “I guess you’re right at that,” he said.
“¿Qué dice?”
“I said I won’t call you a little girl.”
“Gracias.”
They entered the dark livery and the sound of Doc Allen’s voice came to them. Buchanan found him sitting comfortably in a stall with the mustang, who was feeding on the first oats she’d had in two weeks.
“Who you talking to?” Buchanan asked the vet, noting the third-empty bottle but no other person.
“Our lady friend,” Allen answered. “Smartest listenin’ animal I ever run across.” He peered around Buchanan’s legs. “You’re bein’ followed,” he said.
“I know. How’s the filly?”
“Well, she’s minus one little stone. And she ain’t runnin’ a fever. I’d say she’s fine.” He pulled at the bottle. “Your friend there don’t have much to say, does she?”
“Only in Mex. Can I ride to where I’m going?”
“In a couple of days. A week.”
“Hell, I got to pull stakes now.”
“Not on your life. Matter of fact, I think I’d shoot you in the back if y
ou even put a saddle on her.”
“How about late tonight?” Buchanan asked him. “If I take her real slow and gentle.”
“Have to be real slow and gentle. And rest her every five, six miles.”
“She could make it to Sacramento?”
“Leave her here a week and this girl will take you to Alaska. To the top of Alaska. And then swim you across to Russia.”
Buchanan laughed at the man, felt a warmth for him in their common admiration for the horse.
“How much do I owe you, Doc?” he asked then.
“Birdy Warren settled my bill.”
“The hell he did!”
“In full. Came in here babbling about you tangling with Bull Hynman. That sets you up mighty high with Birdy.”
“Nothing doing. How much do I owe?”
“That’s an awful pretty friend you collected for yourself,” the vet said, changing the subject abruptly. “Makes it a nice trip to Sacramento.”
“Except that she’s going to Salinas.”
“What in the world for?”
“That’s where her people are.” He was inspecting the hoof.
“All the more reason to go to Sacramento with you.”
“Stick to horses, Doc,” Buchanan said mildly. “What’s the due bill on this one?”
“A month’s free likker. Now stop talking about it.” He gave the bottle another try. “Your filly’s got good posture,” he said. “What’s her name?”
“Juanita, and she’s not mine.”
“What’s she followin’ you around for then?”
“I’m trying to get her a ride down to Salinas.”
“Take my buggy.”
Buchanan turned to the girl, asked her if she could drive a horse and buggy. She said she never had.
“She’d need somebody to take her,” Buchanan explained to the vet.
“I’m your man,” Allen said.
“And I’m serious.”
“So am I, damn it. You think I don’t know my way to Salinas?”
“Sure you do,” Buchanan told him tactfully, “but you’re needed right here.” He signaled Juanita that they were leaving. “Can’t thank you enough for the job, Doc,” he said. “She looks just fine.”
“Salinas,” the old man muttered. “Get there in my sleep.”
Which is how you would get there, Buchanan thought to himself as he took the girl back into the sunlight again. Out here he began to wonder in earnest what the hell he was going to do about her. Take her along to Sacramento …?
“Why do you shake your head like that?” she asked him in her soft voice.
“To get rid of an idea. Listen, are you hungry?”
“Very much.”
“Me too,” he said, as if making a discovery. He put an arm around her shoulder. “Vamos,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s hunt us a couple of thick steaks.”
Six
Bull Hynman’s shadowy career had not been without its setbacks and injuries, but he could not remember a time when he had been made to look so bad as on the second floor of the bordello. And when he had charged out of the place—head aching, jaw tender—his intention had been simply, savagely, to return to the office for a workable gun and empty it into the body of the saddle bum. But then he saw the sonofabitch talking to Birdy Warren and decided to take Lafe and Enos back with him in case the opposition was more than expected.
In any event, Hynman wanted to handle the business without Sid Hallett knowing about it. The sheriff wasn’t the easiest man in the world to work for. He expected things just so, and Bull didn’t want to have those eyes on him while he tried to explain that some drifter just walked in off the street and took the new girl away.
It was agitating, then, to meet Lafe and Enos riding to River Street on Hallett’s business—and on top of his own personal problem to have to wonder what the boss wanted with Ellen Booth. Why the hell were things going wrong today, this quiet Sunday when he was supposed to have the afternoon and night off?
Nor did it go any better for him when he walked into the office for another gun. Hallett was sitting behind the desk, looking impatient, and his eyes grew sharp when he saw Hynman’s face.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothin’ much.”
“Nothing much?”
“Had a run-in with somebody over on River Street. Got the drop on me.”
“Who was it?”
Hynman shook his head. “Never saw him before,” he growled. “But I’m headin’ right back to fix his wagon.”
“You put the girl in the house, though?”
Hynman’s face, if possible, seemed even more pained. “For the time bein’,” he answered lamely, “she’s with this bushwhacker.”
Sid Hallett came to his feet. “Describe him,” he said tersely.
“Big bastard,” Hynman said. “Busted nose, needs a shave. Thinks he’s tough,” he added as an afterthought.
Hallett reached into his desk, took out the letter from the prison warden and quickly scanned it.
“Is his name Reeves?” he demanded. “Luther Reeves?”
“Didn’t catch his name,” Hynman said. “You know him?”
“Read this,” Hallett told him, handing over the letter. Hynman studied it, scowling, then looked up.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It could be the same bird. Anyways, he’s gonna be dead before the sun sets. Whoever he is.”
“That may well be,” Hallett said, “but he’s going to tell me a few things first.”
“What things?”
“Their plans—his and Frank Booth’s. Booth doesn’t think we know he has a partner. So he keeps himself out of sight and sends this other one to test our strength. I’m surprised he didn’t kill you when he had the opportunity.”
“He tried,” Hynman said then. “Busted my gun with the shot.”
“That proves it!” Hallett said. “When Lafe and Enos return I want the three of you to pick him up. Alive,” he added. “I mean to find out what trouble Frank Booth has in mind.”
“How come you sent them for his wife?” Hynman asked and Hallett smiled coldly.
“An ounce of prevention, Brother. With her in my custody I think that Booth will consider the consequences of his mischief.”
“What’s he comin’ back to do?”
“I don’t know,” Hallett answered. “But I’m prepared for anything.”
Hynman walked over to the gun-locker, rearmed himself with a Colt .45 and tested the trigger mechanism before loading it. For himself he wasn’t sure at all that the man he was going to settle with was this Luther Reeves. The play inside Maude’s had been pure ramstammer, not the actions of an ex-convict getting set to pull a job in town. But he couldn’t tell the sheriff that, not without making himself look second-best, and so he’d have to hold off finishing the scudder until Hallett had his powwow.
The buggy pulled up outside and a moment later Lafe led Ellen Booth into the office. Enos followed. He, too, carried his own souvenir of the trip to Damnation—a tremendous purple bruise that all but closed his left eye.
Lafe spoke as soon as the door closed, his voice tight and angry.
“There’s a guy in Birdy’s just beggin’ for it, Sheriff,” he said.
“Throw’s a long shadow?” Hynman asked, staring at Enos’ eye.
“That’s him,” Enos said. “And by God he’s going to lie in it …”
“All right,” Hallett said to Bull Hynman. “You’ve got your assignment. Be sure he’s alive when you bring him back here.”
Hynman nodded, let his glance shift to Ellen Booth’s face, drop down over her figure hungrily. The girl’s eyes flashed.
“I hear you met your match today,” she told the deputy, getting the reaction she wished for in his changed expression.
“If that’s what he’s braggin’ on,” Hynman said hotly, “then he’s gonna find out different …”
“I said all right,” Hallett repeated. “Be on your way.”
They trooped out of the office and Ellen swung to the grim law enforcer. “Why am I here?” she demanded. Hallett turned his back to her, walked around his desk and sat down. He did not invite her to take the other chair.
“I want to know why I was brought here!” Ellen said again.
“Did you read the warrant, Sister?” Hallett asked pontifically.
“I read it,” she answered, “but it made no sense. If this has anything to do with those horrible things you accused me of in church—if you have one speck of proof that I’ve behaved sinfully …”
“We sin by thought and deed,” Hallett interrupted. “You fell from the Lord’s grace when you crossed the threshold of that house of wickedness.”
“I think you’re the one who sins by thought, Mr. Hallett,” Ellen said. “I did nothing wrong by working for Birdy Warren.”
“What’s done is done, Sister,” he said, raising his long bony hand as if to signify the gates of heaven had been shut forever against Ellen Booth. Then he lowered the hand, reached into his coat and almost casually produced the letter. “I want you to read this,” he said, but Ellen had already recognized the handwriting and was reaching for it.
“This is addressed to me,” she said.
“So it is.”
“But it’s been opened!”
“So it has. Read it, Sister.”
Helpless anger jumped into the girl’s eyes. “You have no right to open my mail! It’s against the law.”
Hallett smiled sardonically. “Make a complaint to the sheriff,” he advised her. “But first, read the letter.”
She slid the note from the envelope, her fingers trembling from the outrage she felt. And as she dropped her gaze to read the message Hallett watched her face carefully, his features hawkish in their intensity. What she read—about her husband wanting her to go to San Francisco, his having business to attend to—washed away her anger, replaced it with a puzzled anxiety. She read it through another time, folded it into the envelope again and put it in the pocket of her dress.