by Neil Hunter
Never did to turn your back on him.
Tyrell was still facing the man over by the livery door. If Dorn was behind him, the man in his face would be either Saul Hunlock, or Rafe Kenner. The three were always together. Good hands, but unfortunately just as competent with gun or fist, and Tyrell suddenly knew what was happening. It was down to Corbin. The man had always been plagued by too much pride. Stubborn and carrying so much on his shoulders, Corbin’s pride led him into more conflict with those around him than any man needed. The man’s view of himself was as someone better than everyone around him. In reality Corbin was no better, or worse, than his neighbors. He just imagined it to be so and had pushed himself into a corner there was no way out of. His clash with Tyrell in the saloon had been unfortunate because it had been uncalled for. Simply Corbin corralling himself through stubborn cussedness. That he had been forced to walk away through the laughter of the entire saloon would have settled on him like a dark cloud. He would have brooded over it until it forced him to seek retribution and that came in the form of his three hands now cornering Tyrell, alone and without witnesses.
Tyrell flexed his gloved hands, feeling the supple leather against his fingers. There was an uneasy feeling in the base of his stomach as he considered what was coming his way. He was no coward. On the other side of the coin he admitted he wasn’t looking at this confrontation with a great deal of enthusiasm. There was no way to avoid it without turning and running, and will Tyrell had no intention of doing that. The only time he’d ever upped and quit was when he had ridden out of town after the fatal gunfight that had almost killed him. He wasn’t about to do that again. His day for running away was far behind him.
The shadowed figure by the livery door stepped forward. Tyrell recognized Rafe Kenner. Kenner, solid and big, had an easy grin on his square face. He was no ladies’ man, his battered features rough and creased. Clad in range clothes, complete with heavy leather chaps and a sweat stained, wide brimmed hat, Kenner was pulling on his own thick gloves, closing his large hands into even larger fists.
‘Someone says hello,’ Kenner said. He spoke slow, spacing his words.
‘Still scared to do his own dirty work. That’s Corbin. Yellow clear down to his boot tips.’
Behind Tyrell someone said, ‘You always did have a loose mouth, Tyrell.’
That was Saul Hunlock.
So Tyrell had been right. The three were together as usual. Tyrell’s mind was working quickly. There was no way out of this except what the three had in mind. His only way to lower the odds was to deal with it fast and hard. Kenner was big, no arguing there. But he was slow. Hunlock had a similar build. He was hard and could take a deal of punishment. Cletus Dorn on the other hand was built with less bulk than his partners. He moved faster, too, but tended to step back and let the others wade in initially. Once the wind had been removed from their chosen victim Dorn would move in to deliver the final assault. So Tyrell needed to get to Dorn first and put him down, or at least remove him from the fight while Tyrell handled the others. As a strategy it was risky, but then this whole matter was laced with risk, and Tyrell wanted to come out of it on his own two feet.
Consider it this way, he told himself. They started this and it’s clear they intend to beat you down. So at least make it hard for them. Don’t even worry about hurting them. Do what you need to stay alive.
The scuff of boots on the hard packed dirt told him Dorn and Hunlock were closing in quickly now. From the direction of his voice Dorn was on Tyrell’s right. Tyrell set himself, then turned quickly, facing the pair. His abrupt move caught them briefly off guard, allowing Tyrell the chance to put in the first blow. He didn’t waste the opportunity. His left fist sledged round in a powerful swing that slammed his gloved fist against Dorn’s exposed jaw. The blow landed hard, with a meaty crack, snapping Dorn’s head to one side. The sound of the punch was still fading when Tyrell’s follow-up right, left and right again crunched against Dorn’s mouth and cheeks. Blood was spilling from Dorn’s mouth and face as he stumbled back, eyes out of focus. He lost his balance and fell. Out the corner of his eye Tyrell picked up Hunlock’s bulky form as he lunged forward. Taking benefit from the other’s slowness Tyrell ducked his head under Hunlock’s clawing hands and stepped in close, hammering quick, telling blows to Hunlock’s unprotected stomach. Hunlock gasped, expelling stale air and grunting at the sudden pain. He took a step back, trying to gather himself, his powerful arms flailing as he swung at Tyrell. One of his swings slammed down across Tyrell’s shoulders, hard enough to hurt. The blow almost numbed Tyrell’s arm. He pulled back, at the same time hearing the noisy approach of Rafe Kenner as the man threw himself into the brawl. A meaty fist slammed into Tyrell’s side, over his ribs, and he gasped at the blow. Tyrell pushed the pain to the back of his mind as he twisted out from between the pair, leaning back to give himself space to work. Rafe Kenner, still wearing the same leering grin, launched a roundhouse punch that met empty air as Tyrell feinted, then threw in a punch of his own that connected with Kenner’s already crooked nose. Bone cracked and blood streamed from the crushed nose. Kenner howled in rage, ignoring the blood, and threw himself at Tyrell. They stumbled back, scuffling boots raising clouds of acrid dust that got into their mouths and layered their clothes, until the corral posts brought them to a full stop. Kenner leaned in, using his solid bulk to pin Tyrell to the corral. There was a moment when Tyrell might have been overwhelmed. He realized there was only one way he was going to get Kenner off him and used it. He head-butted Kenner on his already broken nose. The unrelenting force of the blow engulfed Kenner and he let go, clamping both hands over the smashed, bloody nose. Blood was spurting through his gloved fingers. A low moaning sound came from him as he stumbled away from Tyrell, who used the moment to drive in crippling blows to Kenner’s ribs and stomach. He was watching Hunlock as the man struggled to get by his hurt partner. In his impatience Hunlock shoved Kenner aside, then came in swinging and caught Tyrell a glancing blow to his left cheek. The blow stung, sending Tyrell rolling along the rough timber corral poles. Hunlock followed up fast, his bony fists hammering at Tyrell’s face and body, drawing blood and finally sending Tyrell to his knees. Hunlock uttered a triumphant yell, pausing to set himself for a further attack. That was when Tyrell, despite the sickness welling up inside him from the blows he had received, turned half round and looped his arms through one of the corral cross poles, using the sturdy fence to support him as he swung a booted foot, slamming it hard between Hunlock’s thighs. His tough leather boot sank into Hunlock’s groin, drawing a deep scream of pain from his throat. Using his brief respite Tyrell pushed to his feet, caught hold of Hunlock’s shirt and dragged him off balance. Then he used both fists to hammer punches into the man’s face, crushing lips and tearing flesh. Hunlock, his face suddenly bloody, staggered away from Tyrell, his ineffectual attempts to stop the barrage ignored as Tyrell drove him across the yard until Hunlock stumbled and went down, slamming hard to the ground, kicking up more dust. Sweat ran down Tyrell’s face, stinging his eyes and smarting where it came into contact with torn flesh. Sucking air into his starved lungs Tyrell lowered his fists, starting to turn, then became aware of Kenner’s bloody face looming over him. The Corbin hand rushed at him. Kenner got in a couple of telling blows before Tyrell stopped him with a roundhouse to the side of his jaw. Kenner absorbed the punch, spitting blood, and launched himself forward again. For a time the only sounds were the harsh breathing of the two men as they slugged it out, the meaty sound of blows that landed. They were both bloody wrecks, shirt fronts wet with it, and as they grew weaker from the onslaught the punches, if they landed, had lost much of their initial strength. Batting aside one of Kenner’s flailing blows Tyrell landed a swift left and right that sent Kenner crashing into the corral fence, his arms wrapping around the poles as he simply slumped to the ground and let his head fall to his chest. In the silence that fell around him Tyrell stood motionless, arms at his sides, breathing in great sobbing gas
ps. His mouth felt full of blood. He ached all over. His left eye was already starting to swell up. When he let his head droop he knew blood was dripping from his battered features. He picked up the sound of someone groaning. Tracking the noise he saw it was Cletus Dorn. He had pushed himself partway up off the ground, staring about him. He caught Tyrell’s stare and the moment he did he saw the hard gleam in the man’s eyes, and he was looking at the old Will Tyrell, the man who had worn a badge in town. He recalled those days when Tyrell kept Madison Springs under his watchful eye. Tyrell had the town tamed, its rowdy element sent packing for the most part. Anyone who fancied taking on the Marshal of Madison Springs had to be stupid, or so confident there was no other way he could prove it. Those who tried were quickly dealt with. Tyrell had no equal. Dorn recalled those days and he stayed the hand that began to edge for his holstered gun.
The hell with it, he thought. Corbin isn’t worth getting killed over, and Tyrell beat us clear enough. There was no sense taking it further.
Dorn backed off, his retreat a silent signal he’d had enough. As the man stepped aside Tyrell turned about and walked away, picking up his hat as he went.
Tyrell took himself through the livery, feeling the increasing stiffness that was invading his battered body. As he stepped out onto the street he felt curious eyes on him. He ignored them as he turned along main street, heading for Doc Lanier’s office. He was confronted by Loren Packer and Anson Douglas as they stepped out of the saloon.
‘Lord above,’ Packer said. ‘What happened, Will?’
‘My good luck seems to have run out.’
‘Nothing to do with luck,’ Douglas said. ‘More likely something Corbin cooked up. Tell me I’m right, Will.’
Tyrell was too tired and hurting too much to even attempt a lie. ‘Sorry, Anse, I left three Corbin hands in your backyard.’
‘They look as bad as you?’
‘That and some.’
‘Good for you, boy.’
‘Some will say I’m still bringing trouble to Madison Springs. Can’t say I’d disagree.’
‘The hell with them,’ Packer said. ‘Will, you want me to get the Marshal to charge them with assault?’
Tyrell shook his head. ‘We had our time. Leave it be.’
Douglas cleared his throat. ‘Maybe you won’t have any choice,’ he said. ‘Marshal’s on his way over right now.’
Tyrell muttered under his breath. The last thing he needed right now was trouble with the town Marshal. The way it was shaping up it looked like he wasn’t going to be given any choice in the matter.
Lou Benedict had been Tyrell’s part time deputy way back. He had been the only town resident with any kind of experience, so after Tyrell had gone he had been offered the job. Benedict, a heavyset man in his late thirties was no Will Tyrell but he handled the Marshal’s position pretty well. The curious thing had been the drop in trouble since Tyrell had left. It was almost as if he took the taint of violence with him, hauling it behind him like a malevolent shadow. Now Tyrell was back and so was the problem. As Benedict heavy-footed his way across the street even Tyrell saw the look in his eyes.
Here we go again, Will. Sooner you leave this place the better for everyone.
Lou Benedict had put on some weight since Tyrell had last seen him. The black suit and white shirt he wore looked too small. Under his flat brimmed black hat his full face was red and glistened with sweat. He took one look at Tyrell and nodded his head as if he had just had something confirmed in his mind.
‘Heard you was back,’ he said. His tone was edged with hostility. ‘I think maybe I ought to take that gun.’
Tyrell almost smiled at the foolishness of the remark. ‘Must be a new statute in the book, Lou. Man bleeding needs to be disarmed? I hear you right? You even know what happened?’
‘I know you’re involved.’
‘No need for talk like that, Lou,’ Packer said. ‘Anson and I were helping Will, here, over to Doc Lanier’s office. He needs medical attention.’
‘I suggest you waddle your butt over to my back lot and see why Will is like this,’ Douglas said. ‘Likely you might find some of Vincent Corbin’s hands if you can’t miss ’em in the light of day. In my book three against one stacks up as crowding it some.’
The Marshal’s flushed face paled a shade at the mention of Corbin’s name. It was a badly kept secret that Benedict danced to Vincent Corbin’s tune. It had not been that way during Tyrell’s tenure as Marshal and was part reason why Corbin had little love for Madison Spring’s former lawman.
‘Easy enough to accuse a man when he isn’t around to defend himself,’ Benedict said.
‘About as easy as accusing a man before you even know a crime has been committed,’ Packer recalled. ‘Be careful, Marshal, I’d hate to have to read you the way the law sees that kind of illegality.’
‘That beats your hand, boy,’ Douglas said. He did not like Benedict and considered him an ineffectual lawman. ‘Now get out of my way and let us take this man to see the doc.’
Benedict gave ground, with little grace, and stood watching as Douglas and Packer walked Tyrell towards the doctor’s office. He finally decided which way to go and set off. His destination was not the livery, but the ornate and respectable Madison Spring’s Hotel, where he knew Vincent Corbin was staying during his time in town.
They reached the doctor’s office. Douglas pushed open the door and Tyrell was helped inside. They lowered him into a seat.
‘Hey, doc, we brought you another customer,’ Packer said.
The door opened and Lanier leaned out. He was tall and lean, his thick hair already gray, though he was still in his thirties.
‘Who is it this..?’ His voice trailed off when he saw the battered form slumped in the office. ‘My God, is that Will Tyrell?’
‘In the flesh,’ Douglas said. ‘Kind of mussed up some.’
Lanier stepped through the door, closing it behind him. He came to stand over Tyrell. ‘This is twice in one day, Will. Truth be told you were in better condition the first time.’ His hands raised Tyrell’s sagging head. He examined him with professional thoroughness. ‘You or the other feller come off worst?’
Douglas grunted in annoyance. ‘Make that three of ’em. Will had to deal with a bunch of Corbin’s hands.’
‘Don’t make more of it than it needs,’ Tyrell said, taking time with his words because his mouth hurt when he spoke.’
‘Bring him through to the other room,’ Lanier said, starting to roll up his sleeves.
‘Thad, how’s Cassie?’ Tyrell said.
‘Right now she’s sleeping. I gave her a potion. She needs some rest. The leg’s fine. Will...that splint you put on her...pretty good work. Bone will heal nicely. So will those other bruises and such.’
Tyrell nodded. ‘That potion you gave Cassie, doc. You got any more? Right now I could do with some rest myself.’
‘Let’s get him in the other room.’
Tyrell allowed himself to be eased up off the chair and led through into Lanier’s surgery. He wanted to see Cassie, but thought better of it. Best to let her rest. And he didn’t want her to see him the way he was. Better to let Lanier treat him first. There would be time for talking to her later.
‘Loren could you oblige and book a room at the hotel for me.’ He glanced at Lanier. ‘What do I do about Cassie?’
‘No problem. She’s settled in a room in front. My wife is nursing her, so don’t worry.’
‘Thanks, doc.’
‘Thank me when you get my bill,’ Lanier said.
When Tyrell had been cleaned up, his injuries treated by Lanier, he still had to nurse the aches and the growing stiffness that was the legacy of his brawl with Corbin’s hands. By morning he was going to be suffering even more.
‘Will I live?’ he said.
Lanier turned from washing his hands, shaking his head and unable to hide the smile edging his lips.
‘My God, Will, I have missed you.’
‘Sorry to have brought you so much trouble,’ Tyrell said.
‘What am I here for? Will, you should never have been forced to leave town.’
‘My decision, Thad. Back then I was feeling damn sorry for myself. And a little mad for letting that situation get out of hand. I figured putting some distance between me and Madison Springs might ease the hurt.’
‘Has it?’
‘Some.’
‘I heard about your horse ranch. And what happened when you picked up Cassie.’
‘She does like to talk,’ Tyrell said.
‘She has nothing but good things to say about you. How you pitched in and shouldered her troubles. Reminded me of the Will Tyrell I used to know.’
‘Hell, doc, what else could I do. Girl on her own with a bunch of hot heads on her trail. Broken leg and all.’
‘Cost you your spread.’
‘I was going to build me something better anyhow.’
Lanier stared at him. ‘You figuring on going back there?’
‘Thad, I got a contract to supply horses. Soon as I know Cassie is safe that’s what I’ll be doing.’
‘Do you believe this man, Callender, will come here? To Madison Springs?’
Tyrell sighed. He understood what Lanier was hinting at. That the town might find itself in trouble. Tyrell bringing violence back to Madison Springs.
‘The man seems hell bent on claiming her, Thad. And since I got myself in the middle of it...’
Lanier rubbed a hand across his jaw, considering what Tyrell had said.
‘Can’t fault what you did, Will. When I examined Cassie I saw the state of her feet where she had been forced to walk across country. The old bruises on her, too. Seems that girl has been treated really badly at this Callender’s hand. She deserves to be looked after.’
‘If I could get her away from Madison Springs I would.’