Marshal Jeremy Six #3

by Brian Garfield

  “Pretty chancy.”

  “What choice have you got?” Story demanded. “Do you really want a blood bath? Do you think Hash Knife will still want to pay a fortune for this land when the stink reaches all the way across the United States? Hell, man—if you and Tave Lockyear keep this up, you’ll have martial law and soldiers down on both your heads. Neither one of you will get a dime. The basin will revert to federal ownership and Hash Knife will deal with the government, not with you or Tave.”

  “So that’s it.”

  “Good God,” Story exploded. “I’d think any fool would be able to see that far ahead. Both of you idiots are blind as bats.”

  “Maybe it’s because we don’t wear glasses like you,” Matthew Dane said drily. “But you could be right in what you say. It would be a pretty foul joke if both me and Lockyear lost the whole boodle.”

  “That’s a fact,” Story murmured.

  “So,” said Dane, “you’re just trying to cover your bet. You don’t want to take a chance that Uncle Sam will take the thing away from you.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Dane said. “You’re a smart cookie, friend. I like the way you think. You should have been a lawyer. My damn lawyer never thought of what you just showed me.”

  “Then you’ll do business?”

  “Let’s hear your offer.”

  “I’ve made my offer. I can deliver the whole basin to you, on condition that you make the pot sweet enough for me.”

  “What happens to Tave Lockyear?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “How sweet does the pot have to be?”

  Story’s tongue came out and scraped across his dry lips. He shifted his seat on the saddle and said, “One third.”

  “Done.”

  Story was surprised. He said as much: “Do you do everything on impulse?”

  “I don’t believe in wasting time. Now tell me what you plan to do.”

  “Not so fast,” Story said. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “There’s only one way to find out if you can trust a man,” Dane echoed softly, “and that is to trust him.”

  “Not in a case like this, Dane. I want it in writing. I want a signed, sealed one-third partnership in any proceeds you get from the sale of your property here.”

  “But you’re already Lockyear’s partner.”

  “No law against a man being a partner in two different partnerships, is there?”

  Dane shrugged. “All right. Come on up to the house and we’ll draw it up right now. But I’m going to put a clause into it—if you don’t deliver within a reasonable time, the whole thing reverts to me.”

  “Fair enough,” said Nick Story, and put his horse into motion alongside the Texan’s.

  Nick Story was riding down the main street of Rifle Gap when he saw Julianne Lockyear on the boardwalk in front of the drygoods store. He turned his horse in that direction and touched his hat brim. “Afternoon, Mrs. Lockyear.”

  She nodded politely. Story dismounted and hitched his horse and stepped up on the walk. “I don’t mind being seen with you if you don’t mind it.” He indicated the Chinese cafe.

  She gave him a glance that he could not interpret. She said, “Thanks for considering my feelings, Nick. But then, you always did. I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

  His look was wry as he held the door for her and followed her inside. It was late afternoon; the place was all but empty. Outside, the street was shadowed in a gray light. Thunderclouds moved across the sky on a high west wind. Story held out a chair for Julianne. “Coffee?”

  “All right.”

  He went around the table and was about to sit down when the Chinese owner of the cafe hurried up to him. The Chinese had an apologetic look on his face. “I sorry, Mrs. Lockyear. I no can serve you here.”

  Julianne said, “What?”

  “Mr. Dane, he say if we serve any Lance Head persons, we get closed down.”

  Nick Story stood face-to-face with the man and said in a quiet voice, “Feller, I’ll tell you this much. If you don’t serve us, I’ll close you down right now.”

  The Chinese looked around with worried eyes. Julianne stood up. “No, it’s all right, Nick. Let’s not make trouble for these people.”

  “Sit down,” Story told her. “Dane and I have an understanding. He won’t touch anyone on my account. Bring us some coffee, feller.”

  “But, Mr. Dane, he say—”

  “Just bring coffee,” Story said flatly. He turned his shoulder to the Chinese and sat down.

  The Chinese looked around rapidly. There were no Singletree men in the cafe. After a while he left the table nervously.

  Julianne said, “What did you mean when you said you had an understanding with Dane?”

  “Just what I said. I talked to him today.” He made a gesture. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

  Julianne wore a golden amethyst set into a brooch against the bosom of her green dress. It was symbol enough of her husband’s wealth. She said, “I’m glad we met here. I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced toward the door. Story said, “Quit worrying. Even if he wanted to, Tave couldn’t do a thing to either one of us.”

  “Do you believe that?” She shook her head. “He can make life horrible when he decides to.”

  “I get the impression,” he said, “of a kind of antiseptic relationship between you and him.”

  Her eyes dropped to her hands, clasped together on the table. “He’s been good to my little girl,” she said. “Carolyn doesn’t really get along with him, but he tries.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “I think I ought to warn you, Nick—if anybody ever told her the truth about all of us, I think Tave would commit murder no matter what the consequences to himself. If she found out he was a robber—”

  “And a killer,” Story said. “He killed Mike and Billy after the holdup. If I’d been in range, he’d have done me in too.”

  “I’ve tried to forget all that,” she said.

  “I haven’t.”

  She waited a while before speaking again. Finally she said, “Nick, I wanted to see you alone because I’ve got to know what you intend to say to Carolyn.”

  Compassion and hate chased each other across Nick Story’s face. Presently Julianne said, “I know. I’ve no right to ask. You must think I’m contemptible.”

  “I assume you had reasons for marrying him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What reasons?” His eyes burned.

  Her hand reached his and grasped it. “Please. Another time, Nick. I can’t talk about it here, not now.”

  He looked down at her hand, covering his. “All right,” he said. “Another time.”

  “Thank you.”

  He said, “I’ve had seven years to grow a big lump in me, right here.” He thumped his chest. “It won’t go up and it won’t go down. That’s what hate is. I’m going to slice Tave Lockyear in strips and watch him sizzle up like pieces of bacon in a frying pan. I want you to know that, Julianne, because you’ll have to be ready for it, and if I can I want to keep it from standing between you and me.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll take care of you and Carolyn. I’ve always wanted to. But just don’t count on Tave. I’m going to hurt him as badly as I can, and then I’m going to kill him.”

  “Nick—”

  He cut her off. “He could have bailed me out, could have hired a good lawyer to defend me with all the loot we got from that payroll holdup, but Tave threw me to the dogs. You were my girl, but Tave always wanted you. He knew he’d never have a chance with you if he killed me. That’s the deal you made with him, isn’t it? You’d do whatever he wanted, if he’d agree to let me alone.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “But Tave was sweating blood. He expected me to turn state’s evidence and admit that he was in on th
e job. For seven years he’s wondered why I didn’t.”

  Story smiled. “I knew how it would come out. It was all written down long ago. You see, I knew if I turned him in, I’d have nothing when I came out. It’s not enough just to open a prison door and step out. You’ve got to have a door you can open that lets you into something. This way, I’ve got a ready-made fortune, and Tave has done all the work of building it up for me. We signed a full partnership agreement yesterday.”

  “And you’re going to kill him, and take all of it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “All of it, Nick? Everything he owns?”

  He met her eyes. “If I can,” was his answer.

  The pressure of her fingers on his hand grew stronger. She said, “Poor, poor Nick.”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  She drew her hand away. The Chinese came and left two cups of coffee on the table; he hurried away as if he feared they might endanger his life.

  Julianne said, “I’ve given away my own chances. I did that a long time ago, for Carolyn’s sake. And I don’t want her torn apart now.”

  “She won’t get hurt if I can help it. Because she’s yours, Julianne. I promise you that. But what about you?”

  Her smile was wistful. “Once I was a woman. I needed what every woman needs.”

  “And now?”

  “I wish I could tell you. Maybe it’s just been too long. Give me time, Nick. I only half-expected you to follow us. I strengthened myself because I half believed I’d never see you again.”

  “But it hasn’t died, has it, Julianne?”

  She looked at him for a fleeting instant. “No.” She stood up. “No, it hasn’t died.” She went away quickly.

  Nick Story watched her go through the door and turn up the street. He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. He lighted a cigarette, sat back, and enjoyed the coffee without hurry.

  Eleven

  In the gloom of his cubicle behind the saloon, Jeremy Six sat motionless in a chair with the blind pulled down over the window. He had not stirred from his seat since morning; he had no idea what the time was, nor did it occur to him to be curious about it. A bottle of whisky stood corked by his elbow. The glass in his hand had an inch of liquor in it. His eyes were raw and darkly outlined.

  Someone knocked. Jeremy Six did not blink. The door rattled; presently it opened. Six did not look around. A voice reached him from the doorway: “I heard you were still here.”

  It was Sheriff Latourette’s voice. Six sat like a man in a catatonic trance, his eyes fixed on some vague undefined spot. Latourette’s crutches scraped the floor and Six was faintly aware of the door swinging shut.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No,” said Six. He turned his head. “Are you supposed to be on your feet yet?”

  Latourette stumped awkwardly across the room and lowered himself with effort onto a corner of the bed. His splinted legs poked out at a stiff angle when he sat. He was wearing his gun. “I thought you were leaving the basin.”

  “I am,” said Six.

  “How come you’re still here?”

  “Been on the move a long time,” Six muttered. “I needed a day’s rest.”

  “You don’t look rested to me.”

  Six scraped a hand across his eyes. Latourette said, ‘“You’ve been sitting here in the dark all day? Doesn’t look like you’ve touched that whisky. Jesus, it’s like a tomb in here.”

  Six crawled out of his chair, went to the window and opened the blind. It was raining outside. Drops of water inched down the dirty windowpane. The steep side of the canyon was darkly gray in the rain. He said, “How long has it been raining?”

  “Just started. It’ll be a quick one. Dry by midnight.”

  Six went back to his chair. “If you’re not careful you’ll smash those legs up again, dragging yourself around this way.”

  “Let me worry about that, all right?”

  “Sure,” Six mumbled.

  Latourette said, in what appeared to be an idle tone, “There is always sadness. No life without the jeebies now and then. What was it the man said about sorrow and despair? I never remember stuff like that. But you’re kind of overdoing it, aren’t you?”

  “Did anybody ask you to bust in here, Dan?”

  Latourette ignored it. “You ought to grow up, Jeremy. It’s no good trying to rearrange the whole world to suit your picture of how things ought to be. Keep this up, and you’ll get to the point where you’ll hate to eat and hate to sleep—you’ll hate everything after a while.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Latourette said, “I think you’re scared. So scared you figure it’s better not to try finding out where you went wrong.”

  “What the hell are you talking about now?”

  “I was going through some old newspapers. Came across a story on what happened in Spanish Flat. The woman killed and you tracking down the three killers, and the lynching. It all went sour on you, didn’t it?”

  Six showed his teeth. “Yeah. It all went sour.” Latourette did not speak again until Six said, “Is that all you wanted to hear?”

  “You’ve always expected too much, Jeremy. It was bound to trip you up. That’s what comes of being a goddamn optimist. Why not just take folks the way they are?”

  “I do,” said Six. “They’re animals, that’s all.”

  Latourette fired up. “Damn it, quit blaming the rest of the world because you ran away.”

  Six only rolled his bleak eyes toward the sheriff. He didn’t say anything.

  “Turn a leaf, Jeremy. Move on over. It isn’t yesterday anymore.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “You’ll come all unglued.”

  “I guess that’s my lookout.”

  “Sure. But you’ve still got some friends.”

  Six said, “I can do without them.”

  “No. You just think you can.”

  Six returned to his chair. “Dan, why don’t you go home and prop up in bed where you belong?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got a job to do.”

  Six stared at him. After a long time he laughed harshly. “And you’re the one who’s trying to tell me to face up to reality. That’s one for the books.”

  “Tom Monday’s out front in the saloon, waiting for Britt Hazlitt. Word’s gone out. The town’s crawling with Lance Head men, just hoping the Singletree gang will show up tonight. I’ve got to stop it.”

  “What for?”

  “Because, damn it, a man has got to act as if he believes in tomorrow.”

  “Why? What makes that so important?”

  “There are plenty of reasons,” said Latourette. “Reasons. We’ve always got reasons for killing each other.”

  Six picked up the glass and brooded into it; he swallowed a mouthful of whisky and felt it scald a path down his throat.

  Latourette said gravely, “If you turn your back on this one, Jeremy, it’ll leave the kind of scars on you that you only find on corpses.”

  “What are you—a sheriff or a missionary?”

  “I’m a friend of yours.”

  “Well,” Six said with dry sarcasm, “I’m here unharmed. You can release the hostages and go home now.” He twisted the cork out of the bottle and splashed whisky into the glass. “Want some?”

  “No.”

  “Let me tell you about us, Dan. We’re just hired killers, you and me, no different from the rest of them. We take a lot of pride in not drawing first. What a lie that is. There’s only one reason we never draw first, and that’s because we stay in business that way.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Six said, “Don’t I?”

  Latourette reached for a crutch. “I’d better get out there.”

  “You must be out of your mind.”

  “A man’s got to be out of his mind to take a job like mine. But I made my choice. I’ve never made excuses for it. Neither did you, in the old days.”

  “You’re the one who said it isn’t yesterday anymore
,” Six reminded him.

  Latourette paused. “Are you afraid to face up, Jeremy?”

  “I’ve laid my life on the line enough times to know what it’s worth,” Six said. “Absolutely nothing. No, I’m not scared. I just don’t see any point in trying to save a bunch of idiots who don’t want saving.”

  When Latourette only looked at him, Six said unreasonably, “Don’t try to steam-engine me into anything, Dan. I’m through with guns.”

  “Guns?” Latourette shook his head. “Guns don’t kill people. Jeremy. People kill people. You can’t put anything right by stopping guns.”

  Six pointed to the door. “If you go out there they’ll scatter you all over the saloon.”

  “That’s the chance I get paid to take.”

  “You can’t believe that!”

  “I have to,” said Latourette calmly. Six threw his head back and swallowed a draught of whisky. Latourette said, “I came back here to ask you once more to help out. I guess your answer is no.”

  “That’s right.”

  Latourette got his crutches upright and hauled himself to his feet. “All right,” he said, and headed for the door.

  Six shouted at him. “What difference would it make? One of us or two of us. Did you ever see two men try to stop a runway railroad train by standing in front of the cowcatcher? What the hell good will it do to go out there and let them fill you full of bullets?”

  Latourette didn’t answer. He reached the door and turned the latch. He had to slide his crutches back to open the door. He went through into the hallway and stumped away without looking back.

  Six uttered an explosive curse. He snatched up his gunbelt and flung it around his waist, caught the buckle and snugged it down; he tied down the holster and swung into the corridor, checking the loads in the revolver. Latourette was just going into the back door of the saloon.

  It was the habit of some gunfighters to carry a matched pair of six-guns, not because they could shoot with both hands simultaneously—no man alive could make that work—but because, if one gun malfunctioned or ran out of ammunition, there was always a spare to back it up. Tom Monday, who was a reasonably careful man, had been a fighter all his life. He wore two guns in holsters. In addition to that, he carried a derringer in his vest pocket and a knife in his right boot. A professional, he was adept with all of them. He was a lanky blue-eyed man, a dandy with a waxed mustache guarding his sensuous mouth and a narrow-brimmed hat with a bright snakeskin hatband. His shirt was brilliant crimson. He stood at the bar with his back to it, facing the front door of the saloon. Almost everybody had cleared out of the place; only the bartender and one other man remained. The other man was Rafferty, the reporter who could not be budged from his eyewitness vantage point at the far end of the room. Rafferty had his notebook braced on his injured arm, which was held across his chest by its triangular sling.