Marshal Jeremy Six #3

by Brian Garfield

  Six didn’t say anything until Hazlitt said, “I guess you know why I’m here. To find out which way the wind’s blowing.”

  “Crosswise,” said Six.

  “That ain’t what I mean. I figure I better know whose side you’re on.”

  “I’m on no side,” said Six.

  “You mean, not Lance Head and not Singletree. What about Latourette? I hear he’s out of commission. You filling in for him?”

  “No.”

  Hazlitt frowned at him, speculatively. “I never knew you to hedge on a man. You ain’t scared of me, are you?”

  “A man would be a fool not to be scared of anybody who hates as much as you do.”

  “Then,” Hazlitt murmured, not ruffled, “I think you’re a fool by your own account, Jeremy. Because you ain’t scared of me. I can see that much in your eyes.”

  “All right,” Six answered mildly.

  “You’re on the level, then? You’re out of this?”

  “I’m just passing through.”

  Hazlitt nodded. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What about Mike Zeno?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Hazlitt. “Nice to see you again, Jeremy. Glad we don’t have to end up looking at each other over gunsights.”

  Six dipped his head in acknowledgment. Hazlitt turned away, awarding the briefest of glances to Rafferty. Rafferty got out his notebook and jotted something down, using the bar as a rest for the pad. Six picked up his drink and swallowed it all, making a sour face afterward. He glanced toward the backbar mirror. His face was worn; somewhere in the course of the last few months he had developed two vertical creases between his eyebrows.

  Hazlitt was walking toward the corner table, toward Mike Zeno and Nick Story. Someone came into the saloon just then, drawing Hazlitt’s attention. The newcomer was a bandy-legged man who had not shaved in several days, slightly wall-eyed. Rafferty spoke softly to Six while the wall-eyed newcomer went over to Hazlitt. “Who’s that one?”

  Six said, “We’ve never met.”

  “But you know who he is.”

  “Maybe. Could be Jack Smiley, but that would be a guess from an old reward poster.”

  The name didn’t seem to mean anything to Rafferty. What he said was, “I’m glad I’m no gunfighter. I’d hate to have to fight a man like that. Can’t even tell when he’s looking at you.”

  Smiley’s eyes were aimed in different directions. He bent his head to speak softly into Britt Hazlitt’s ear. Hazlitt nodded, and Smiley faded back toward the end of the bar. Six, watching all this, said calmly to Rafferty, “Let’s just go over there and sit down.”

  “What? What for?”

  “Come on,” Six murmured, and stepped across the room to an abandoned card table. He went around the table and sat down.

  No one had said anything, but over in the corner Mike Zeno stiffened in his chair as if someone had hit him on the jaw. Nick Story, looking around, saw Hazlitt standing halfway between the bar and the door, facing the table. Smiley, who was obviously working together with Hazlitt, was at the near end of the bar, and Nick Story suddenly seemed to realize he was in the midst of a crossfire. He sat back in his chair, not speaking, and laid both hands, empty, on top of the table.

  Six saw Zeno’s lip curl, a reaction to Story’s evident cowardice; Mike Zeno pushed his chair back and stood up slowly, facing Hazlitt. No one had said a word.

  Rafferty sat beside Six with his breath hung up in his throat; by now the play was laid out so obviously that even Rafferty did not have to ask questions. Then, without any fuss, Rafferty got down from his chair and crouched on the floor, peering over the top of the table.

  It made Mike Zeno laugh. He was the only one facing in Rafferty’s direction, and now he said, “Quit worrying, dude. My shooting ain’t that wild. If I’m fast enough, I’ll put one right in Hazlitt’s gut. If I ain’t fast enough, I won’t shoot at all. Either way, you ain’t in no trouble.”

  Hazlitt then spoke for the first time. “I’m out of your class Mike, and we both know it. You can walk out of here if you leave your gun on the table and give me your word you’ll ride out of the valley tonight.”

  Zeno seemed mildly surprised. “You’d take my word?”

  “If you break it,” Hazlitt said, “I’ll shoot you on sight. No warning. How about it, Mike?”

  “What about your friend, there—Smiley.”

  “He’s just keeping an eye on your friend.”

  Nick Story said, “I’m out of this.”

  “Smart,” was Hazlitt’s only comment.

  Mike Zeno said, “I don’t get this, Britt. I’ve seen you hang tougher men than me out to dry. What makes you want to give me a break?”

  Hazlitt took a while to answer. “I get no kick out of gambling on a sure thing.”

  Six distinctly heard Rafferty suck in a sharp breath. “Jesus,” Rafferty whispered in fascination.

  There were four gunfighters in the room: Hazlitt, Smiley, Six, and Zeno. Of the four, Zeno was obviously aware that he was the least. It was as Hazlitt had said: Zeno was not in a class with the rest of them.

  “All right,” Zeno said. “I’ll take you up on it, Britt. And if it ain’t out of place I’ll say I’m obliged to you.”

  “The gun, Mike.”

  “Sure.” Zeno unbuckled his gunbelt left-handed and let it drop to the floor; he stepped away from it There was no shame in his face; he was relieved, that was all.

  “Thanks, Britt,” he said again, and meant it. He walked quickly to the door and went away.

  Rafferty let out a long, sighing breath. Back in the shadows, the bartender stood up on unsteady legs and wandered toward his bar.

  Nick Story said with sharp sarcasm, “That was generous of you, Hazlitt. But you’re a stupid fool. Nobody lives long if he prefers long odds to a sure thing.”

  “I don’t know you, friend,” said Hazlitt. “But if Mike’s a friend of yours, then you don’t pay much attention to pedigree.”

  “I’m Nick Story.”

  “So?”

  “I’m half-owner of Lance Head.” Story stood up. “You hired out to the wrong side, Hazlitt.”

  Jack Smiley said, “I hate to call a man a liar, but I been here almost a month and I never seen nor heard of you.”

  “I just got here,” Story said. “And frankly I don’t care whether you believe me or not. Just remember one thing. If you want to work for the winning side, you’ll come over to us.”

  Hazlitt was watching him gravely. Story said, “Think about it,” and left the saloon without hurrying.

  Hazlitt glanced at Six, then took Smiley in tow and went out. The bartender went back to his chair and sat down, and closed his eyes again. Rafferty said to Six, “Nick Story worked pretty fast. But, Jesus, I never saw anything like that Hazlitt fellow. He could have outgunned Zeno. You could see that. But he let him go. Why?”

  “A killer needs two things,” Six told him. “He needs hate—a lot of hate. And he needs to die.”

  Ten

  Storm clouds built up on the western horizon; by late afternoon it would rain. At ten in the morning Nick Story rode through the wooden gateway to Matthew Dane’s Singletree ranch. It was clear Dane was a newcomer: paint on the buildings was still fresh, and two barns were under construction beyond a raw-pole corral that enclosed a remuda of horses. A powerful Mexican worked in a makeshift smithy, sweating over an anvil while a teen-aged boy worked the forge bellows. Dust raveled high on the meadow to the south, where a work-crew of cowboys was moving a herd.

  Matthew Dane’s ranch house was a stark, simple building, bereft of porch or garden. The whole compound of buildings had a tentative atmosphere, as if they had been built temporarily and their owner expected to abandon them before long. And, Nick Story reflected, that was exactly what was going to happen. Matthew Dane would be driven out of the valley, or—if he vanquished Lockyear’s Lance Head—he would sell out to the Hash Knife outfit. Either way, Dan
e would not be here long.

  A halfhearted wooden awning overhung the house doorway. In that small patch of shade stood Britt Hazlitt with a revolver at either hip. Nick Story rode up close to the house and halted his horse within two yards of Hazlitt. “You look like you’re ready to take root.”

  “Do I?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” said Nick Story. “Neither you nor your boss will be here long enough.”

  “Do tell,” said Hazlitt, without stirring. His head was thrown back so that he could see Story up from under the low-pulled brim of his flat-crowned black hat.

  “You’re dragging your picket,” said Hazlitt.

  “Let’s just say I’m here under a flag of truce. Where’s Dane?”

  “Not here.”

  Story smiled thinly. “I didn’t ask you where he isn’t.”

  “That’s a fact,” Hazlitt replied. A stalk of yellow grass drooped from the corner of his mouth. He chewed on it lazily.

  Story was not in a mood to be ruffled. He said, “I hope you’ve given some thought to what I said last night.”

  “I didn’t sleep a wink.”

  Story shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now just tell me where I can find Dane.”

  Hazlitt did not seem to have heard him; his eyes were lying against the exposed butt of Story’s six-gun. “Are you any good with that thing?”

  “Fair enough.”

  For the first time, a spark of interest brightened Hazlitt’s eyes. “Let’s see,” he said. He sauntered out into the sunlight and bent down to pick up a fist sized rock; he glanced at Story with no expression at all on his cheeks. Then, abruptly, he whipped his arm forward: the rock sailed high in the air.

  Without appearing to hurry, Nick Story slipped his gun up and fired. His shot smashed the rock in midair. The pieces cascaded to the ground twenty feet away. Story calmed his horse down and holstered the gun. It was part of the game that he had to keep his face as impassive as Hazlitt’s.

  Hazlitt said, “For a jailbird you don’t seem very rusty.”

  “Don’t let the glasses fool you. I’ve got quick eyes and good hands. That’s something you’re born with and you don’t lose.”

  A few men appeared—the cook at the mess shack, the blacksmith and his young helper, a wrangler from the corral. Hazlitt lifted his hat and waved it lazily, and replaced it on his head. Reassured, the spectators returned to their work.

  Nick Story said drily, “Another thing I learned. It’s easier than it looks to hit a rock that big in the air. It’s a slow-moving target at the peak of its rise, and it’s short-range shooting. I wonder how you’d do if you had to sweat a gunfight with six-guns at two hundred yards?”

  “You’d hate to find out,” Hazlitt said. His eyes had a trick of popping wide open when he thought he had scored a point; a half-smile tickled his lip corners.

  Story said, “I don’t fight with guns. It’s a stupid chance to take, even when you know you’re good with iron. A gun can always misfire. And what the hell—guns are a dime a dozen. I can hire as many as I need.”

  “You can’t hire me,” Hazlitt said, and smiled slowly wider. “And I’m the best there is.”

  “That’s open to question.”

  “Is it? Every man who thought he was faster than me is pushing up daisies right now.”

  “And so are you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Story laughed at him. “You’re a dead man, Hazlitt. You just haven’t laid yourself down and stopped breathing yet, but you’re dead. You’ve been dead for quite some time.”

  Hazlitt tipped himself back against the house. “You know something? You’ve got a funny way of thinking, Story. I think you’re a little off in the head.”

  “Probably,” Story conceded. “It’s been nice passing the time of day with you, but I’ve got a lot to do. Where’s Dane?”

  “Out there on the pasture with the crew.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “Wanted to find out a little more about you,” said Hazlitt.

  Story said, “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said.” He nodded courteously, swung his horse away and trotted out of the yard. Hazlitt watched him disappear beyond the bunkhouse, then shook his head and laughed for a little while.

  Nick Story slowed down to a single-footing gait when his horse brought him near the moving Singletree herd. It was hard to recognize anyone in the fog of dust. Two hundred cattle were on the move, hazed by half a dozen riders. Finally he picked out Matthew Dane’s silhouette in the swirling powder, and turned that way.

  Dane sat his horse the way most Texas cowboys sat—slouched and easy, rolling with the movement of the saddle, and yet knee-tight and ready to react instantly if his highly trained cowpony should suddenly veer away after a bunch-quitting steer.

  When Story approached Dane, another rider cut away from the herd and galloped forward to flank him. That was Jack Smiley, the wall-eyed gunman. Nick Story raised one hand, palm forward, and Matthew Dane rode over to him. Smiley came up from a quarter-angle and stopped his horse nearby.

  Dane said, “Do I know you?”

  “Nick Story. I’m Lockyear’s partner.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since seven years ago,” said Nick Story. “You want to talk a little, or does that bravo over there think he can blow me out of the saddle?”

  Dane spoke without taking his eyes off Story. “Jack, keep that nervous trigger finger of yours away from your gun.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Smiley, “I ain’t got the itch right now, Mr. Dane.”

  Dane said, “Spit it out, mister.”

  “This is kind of public,” Story suggested.

  “I’m a busy man. You can see that.”

  “Everybody around here seems busier than hell,” Story observed. “Are you too damned busy to save yourself a dozen killings and a small fortune?”

  “Then let’s ride over here a way,” said Dane. He turned his horse away from the herd and broke it into an immediate gallop. Story went along with him. Smiley started to follow, but Dane waved him back.

  They reached the top of a small hillock and Dane reined in. “All right. Speak your piece.”

  “Have you and Lockyear ever got together and considered splitting this thing down the middle?”

  “I don’t split with killers. Lockyear lost his chance to bargain with me when he started shooting down my men.”

  “He says your side started the killings.”

  “Then he’s a liar,” said Matthew Dane. His soft Texas drawl did not ease the abruptness of his talk.

  “That’s probably true,” Story said. “But why let it mushroom into a war? Isn’t half better than nothing?”

  “For me or for Lockyear?” Dane countered.

  “You’d rather gamble on the whole hog than take a guaranteed half?”

  “Yes,” said Dane.

  “I never met so many fools in my life,” Story said.

  “Is that all you wanted to talk about?” Dane lifted his reins.

  “Wait a minute,” Story said. “Is there anything that will change your mind?”

  “Sure. Bring me Tave Lockyear’s head on a silver platter.”

  “You mean you’d deal with me if Tave was out of the way?”

  “I don’t even know you,” replied Dane.

  “Well, you won’t get to know me by galloping right back to that herd. Relax for a minute. The cows won’t run away without you. Or are you scared some of those you’ve hired will steal you blind if you don’t watch them every minute?”

  Matthew Dane said, “I’ve paid for this valley with the lives of three Singletree men—old hands, friends of mine. I’m not splitting it up with Lance Head. You or Lockyear or any other owner.”

  “Even if you have to pay out three more lives? Or thirty?”

  Dane said, “Aagh,” in disgust, and pointed down toward the herd. “Thirty of those toughs ain’t worth the land it takes to bury
them.”

  “Does it ever occur to you that you might get shot yourself?”

  “I might fall off a horse and break my neck, too. Nobody plans his life around his own death.”

  “But you’d reduce the risk if half the population of the basin wasn’t out to get you.”

  “Now what are you getting at?”

  Story’s silver-colored eyes peered out brightly from behind his glasses. “What if I could deliver the whole thing to you in a nice neat package?”

  Dane’s snappish impatience disappeared immediately. He moved his horse closer. “Go on.”

  “What would be in it for me?”

  Suspicion crawled into Matthew Dane’s eyes. “If you’re Tave Lockyear’s partner, then you’d stand to get half the Hash Knife price if Tave wins out over me. Do you expect me to better that offer?”

  Story said, “I spent seven years rotting away in prison. I want some time to enjoy my money. I’d rather take a smaller cut but not have to watch over my shoulder. What good is half a fortune to a dead man? If a man’s smart he tries to make a balance between his greed and the risks he takes. I’m not like the rest of you fools.”

  Dane said, “You’re telling me part of the story. The rest of it might be the most important part.”

  “Maybe I just like to do favors for Texans.”

  “Sure. But maybe it’s that you hate Tave Lockyear’s guts. Is that it?”

  “Maybe.”

  Matthew Dane slung one long leg over his saddlehorn and busied his calloused brown hands with the manufacture of a cigarette. “I don’t get you, friend. Trying to see what you’re getting at is like trying to see the lay of a battlefield at night when the only light you’ve got is some artillery flashes now and then.”

  “I thought I’d made my offer pretty clear. I’m not fool enough to spell out ways and means until I find out whether you’re willing to go for it.”

  “It ain’t the offer that puzzles me,” Dane said. “It’s your reasons for making it. I never trust a man unless I know what makes him do what he does.”

  “There’s only one way to find out if you can trust a man,” Story answered, “and that’s to trust him.”