“Now!” The gray-mustached man yelled. “Go for ’em!”
Tanner spread his hands wide. “No! No!” he screamed the words. “Don’t shoot!”
He was unused to meeting men face to face with an even break. The very fact that Sartain had left his guns for him, a taunt and a dare as well as an indication of Sartain’s confidence, had wrecked what nerve the killer had.
Now he stepped back, his face gray. With death imminent, all the courage went out of him. “I ain’t got no grudge agin you!” he protested. “It was that Targ! He set me on to you!”
The man who had given the signal exploded with anger. “Well, of all the yellow, two-bit, four-flushin’ windbags!” His words failed him. “And you’re supposed to be tough!” he said contemptuously.
Targ stared at Tanner, then shifted his eyes to Sartain. “That was a good play!” he said. “But I made no promises! Just because that coyote has yellow down his spine is no reason I forfeit this range!”
“I said,” Sartain commented calmly, “the fighting ends here.” Stooping, he picked up one of the gun belts and tossed it to Targ’s feet. “There’s your chance, if you want a quick slide into the grave!”
Targ’s face worked with fury. He had plenty of courage, but he was remembering that lightning draw of the day before, and knew he could never match it, not even approach it. “I’m no gunfighter!” he said furiously. “But I won’t quit! This here range belongs to me!”
“My cattle are on it,” Kim said coolly. “I hold it. You set foot on it even once in the next year, and I’ll hunt you down wherever you are and shoot you like a dog!”
Jim Targ was a study in anger and futility. His big hands opened and closed, and he muttered an oath. Whatever he was about to say was cut off short, for the gray-mustached hand yelled suddenly, “Look out!”
Kim wheeled, crouched and drawing as he turned. Tanner, his enemy’s attention distracted, had taken the chance he was afraid to take with Sartain’s eyes upon him. His gun was out and lifting, but Kim’s speed was as the dart of a snake’s head, a blur of motion, then a stab of red flame. Tanner’s shot plowed dust at his feet. Then the killer wilted at the knees, turned halfway around, and fell into the dust beside the fire.
Sartain’s gun swung back, but Targ had not moved, nor had the others. For an instant, the tableau held, and then Kim Sartain holstered his gun.
“Targ,” he said, “you’ve made your play, and I’ve called you. Looks to me like you’ve drawn to a pair of deuces.”
For just a minute the cattleman hesitated. He had his faults, but foolishness was not one of them. He knew when he was whipped. “I guess I have,” he said ruefully. “Anyway, that trail would have been pure misery, a buildin’. Saves us a sight of work.”
He turned away, and the hands bunched around him. All but the man with the gray mustache. His eyes twinkled.
“Looks like you’ll be needin’ some help, Sartain. Are you hirin’?”
“Sure!” Sartain grinned suddenly. “First thing, catch my horse—I’ve got me a game leg—and then take charge until I get back here!”
The boardinghouse triangle at the Y7 was clanging loudly when the dun cantered into the yard.
Kim dismounted stiffly and limped up the steps.
Tom Monaghan came to his feet, his eyes widened. The hands stared. Kim noted with relief that all were there. One man had a bandage around his head, another had his arm in a sling, his left arm, so he could still eat.
“Sort of wound things up,” Sartain explained. “There won’t be any trouble with Targ in the high meadows. Figured to drop down and have some breakfast.”
Kim avoided Rusty’s eyes but ate in silence. He was on his second cup of coffee when he felt her beside him. Then, clearing a space on the table, she put down a pie, its top golden brown and bulging with the promise of fruit underneath.
He looked up quickly. “I knew you’d be back,” she said simply.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
RATTLESNAKE JACK FALLON
WESTERN TOWNS WERE inclined to be tolerant of rambunctious cowhands, but their mood could change with really bad men if the lead got to flying around promiscuously.
Rattlesnake Jack Fallon and Ed (Longhair) Owen rode into Lewistown, Montana, on July 4, 1884, in a disgruntled mood and, after beating up a citizen or two, took to shooting up the town. The two were known to be horse thieves and that coupled with a growing lack of patience brought out the citizens of Lewistown with Winchesters at the ready.
The two had been drinking, but when they saw the citizens forting up they started out of town. Their decision came too late. Longhair went down, Rattlesnake Jack fought his way back to his side, and the two cashed in their chips, firing until neither could pull a trigger any longer.
This led to a cleanup of rustlers in general, an action headed by Theodore Roosevelt and the Marquis de Mores, both ranching at the time in eastern Montana and North Dakota.
THE MARSHAL OF PAINTED ROCK
LATE AS IT was, the street of Painted Rock was ablaze with light. Saddled horses lined the hitch rails, and the stage was unloading down at the Empire House. Bearded men hustled by in the streets, some of them with packs, some hurrying to get packs. Word of the strike had gone out, and the town was emptying swiftly.
Matt Sabre stood against the wall of the Empire House and watched it absently. This he had seen many times before, this hurry and bustle. He had seen it over cattle, over land, over silver and gold. Wherever it seemed that money might quickly be had, there men thronged.
Good men, many of them. The strong, the brave, the true. But they were not alone, for here also were the scum. The cheats, the gamblers, the good-for-nothings. The men who robbed, who killed, who lived by deceit or treachery. And here also were those who felt that strength or gun skill made them the law—their own law. And these were often the most dangerous. And it was for these that he was here.
Two days now Matt Sabre had been marshal of Painted Rock. Yet the job was not new to him, for he had been marshal before in other towns. And this town was no different. Even the faces were the same. It was strange, he thought, how little difference there was in people. When one traveled, got around to many towns, one soon realized there were just so many types, and one found them in every town. Names were different, and expressions, but it was like many casts playing the same roles in a drama. The parts remained the same; only the names of the cast had changed.
Darius Gilbert, who owned the gambling house, for example. And Owen Cobb, the banker. Or tall, immaculate Nat Falley, with mining interests. The three were partners in the general store, and they ran the town. They were the council, and they had hired Matt Sabre as town marshal. A tough man for a tough job.
His eyes veiled as he watched the dismounting stage passengers, considering the three men, and most of all Nat Falley. Gilbert and Cobb were good men, upright men, but not fighters. If he was to get help or hindrance, it would come from Falley. In this town or any other, a man like Falley was a man to consider.
A girl was getting down from the stage, a girl dressed in gray. Her cheekbones were high yet delicate, her mouth too wide for true beauty, yet it added to her perfection. She stepped up to the walk, stared at by all, and then asked a question. A man gestured toward Matt Sabre. At once, her eyes turned to him, and he felt their impact. He took a step forward, removing his hat.
“You were looking for me? I’m the town marshal.”
She smiled at him, a quick, woman’s smile that told him she found him attractive, and also that she wanted something from him…and she could see that he believed her beautiful.
This was a woman to quicken the blood in a man, Sabre thought. As he stepped toward her, he saw Falley come from the Empire House and look down the street toward them. Strange, until then he had not noticed. Falley never seemed to carry a gun.
The girl in gray held out her hand to him. Her eyes were clear and very, very lovely.
“I am Claire Gallatin. I came as quickly
as I could, but I’ve been afraid I’d be too late.”
“Too late?”
“To see about your prisoner, about my brother.”
Matt Sabre returned his hat to his head, and when his hand returned to his side, his eyes were again quiet. “I see. Your brother is a prisoner of mine? Under another name perhaps?”
“Yes. He was known here as Rafe Berry.”
Matt Sabre somehow knew he had expected this. And yet he showed nothing in his face. “I am sorry, Miss Gallatin, sorry for you and your family. It is most unfortunate, but you see, Rafe Berry is to be hanged the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, no!” Her fingers touched his arm. “He mustn’t be! It’s all a dreadful mistake! Rafe couldn’t have done what they accuse him of doing! I just know it!”
Her face was agonized, showing the shock and pain she must be feeling. He glanced around at the curious gathering about them. None listened obviously, yet all were attentive.
“We’d better go inside. We can talk in the dining room,” he said quietly.
When they were seated at a table over coffee, she looked across the table at him; her eyes were very large. She leaned toward him, her hand resting on his sleeve. The touch was light yet intimate, and Matt found that he liked it. “Rafe wasn’t a bad boy,” she said quickly, “although he was reckless. But he never did hurt anybody, and I am sure he would not. There’s been some dreadful mistake.”
“The evidence was quite conclusive,” Matt said quietly. “And in any event, I am only the marshal. I arrested him, but I did not try him. Nor could I free him.”
She ignored this. Her voice was low and persuasive as she talked, telling him of their Louisiana home, of her ailing mother, of how they needed Rafe at home. “I’m sure,” she added, “that if he were home again, he would never come back here.” And she talked on, her voice low. She was, he decided, just exactly what one would expect a cultured lady of Louisiana to be like.
He shook his head slowly. “Unfortunately, ma’am,” he said gently, “Rafe has already been sentenced. There’s nothing I, or anyone, could do.”
She bit her lip. “No,” she said, lifting her handkerchief, “I suppose not, but if there is anything—just anything—I could do, no matter how much it costs, would you let me know? After all, what will be gained by his death? If he goes away and is never seen again, wouldn’t that be just as good?”
“I’m afraid folks wouldn’t think so, ma’am. You see, the jury sentenced Rafe for murder, but it wasn’t only that that they had in mind. This is to be an example, ma’am. There have been a lot of murders around here lately. They have to stop.”
She left him then and went to her room, and Matt Sabre returned to the street. It was quiet that night, more quiet than usual. It was almost as if the whole town were waiting to see Rafe Berry hanged and if he was hanged on schedule…if not, the whole lid might blow off.
The lawless element had been running Painted Rock with complete immunity, and the first blow at this immunity had been struck by the arrest of Rafe Berry and his sentencing. For Sabre had demanded an immediate trial for Berry, and before anybody had time to cool off and before his friends had a chance to frighten the jury, Rafe Berry was tried and convicted and sentenced to hang.
The first attempt to save him had followed the trial when a note was found by Matt Sabre lying on his bed. The note told him to see that Berry escaped or die. He not only ignored the note’s warning but took added precautions. He double-locked the cell door and carried one key himself.
On the street, he paused, lighting a cigarette and letting his eyes travel slowly along the loafers who were beginning to gather with the ending of day. His eyes hesitated slightly as they reached the walk before Gilbert’s Palace. Burt Breidenhart was standing there leaning against an awning post.
He bulked big standing there, and he bulked big in Painted Rock, too. Sabre watched with cold, knowing eyes as men turned across the street to avoid the man. And some of them were tough men. Breidenhart was cruel, vindictive, and dangerous. A brute with his fists, he was also a gunman of sorts. Yet it was his willingness to fight and kill that worried more peaceful men. And Breidenhart had trailed with Rafe Berry.
Matt Sabre turned from his place and walked slowly down the street, purposely walking close to Breidenhart. The big man turned slowly as he neared, and he smiled, his hard eyes dancing with a reckless light. “Hello, marshal!” He said it softly, yet with a certain lifting challenge in his voice. “Hope you ain’t all set for that hangin’.”
Sabre paused. “It doesn’t really matter whether I am or not, Burt,” he said quietly. “The hanging is scheduled and it will go off on schedule.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Breidenhart said, hitching up his jeans. “Just don’t you bet on it.”
“It would be a safe bet,” Sabre said quietly. And then he walked on, feeling Breidenhart’s eyes following him. Other eyes followed him too. And then he felt a queer little start. Across the street were three horses, and he knew those horses and knew their riders. Johnny Call was in town!
Darius Gilbert came out of the Emporium with Cobb and Falley. They stopped when they saw him, and Cobb said worriedly, “Matt, things don’t look so good. Maybe we made a bad bet.”
His eyes strayed from one to the other of them and rested finally on Nat Falley. “You boys getting the wind up? Nothing to worry about.”
“Breidenhart’s in town, spoiling for trouble.” Gilbert looked over his cigar at Sabre. “You know he doesn’t bluff. If he came in, he won’t leave without starting something.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“It isn’t that easy,” Falley said suddenly, irritably. “We’ve property to consider. Rafe Berry has fifty friends in this town right now, and they are all armed and ready for trouble. People will be killed and property damaged. If we go through with this hanging, they’ll tear the town to pieces.”
“And if we don’t, they’ve got us whipped, and they’ll know it. They’ll bleed the town white. Sorry, but you’ve got to make a stand somewhere. We’ve got to show our teeth.”
Gilbert cleared his throat and then nodded worriedly. “I suppose you’re right, but still—”
“The jury found him guilty; the judge sentenced him.” Matt Sabre let his eyes wander off up the street. “Sorry, gentlemen, but that’s the way it stands.”
“That’s easy for you to say!” Cobb burst out. “What about us? What about our property?”
“You’ll be protected,” Sabre replied shortly. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there is something more than your property at stake. I refer to the welfare of the community. We are making a decision here today whether this community is to be ruled by justice and by law or by force and crime.” Sabre took a step back. “Good evening, gentlemen!”
Yet as he turned away, he was uneasy. He needed support; one man alone could not stand before a mob. And these three were the town’s wealth and power. Among them, they owned everything but the homes of the workers in the mines and small claims. Men with wives and families, but with little property and no power.
And Johnny Call was in town. Never forget that, Matt Sabre, he told himself. If you forget that, you die.
Johnny Call was a killer. Scarcely nineteen, utterly vicious, with nine killings behind him. His friends bragged that he was faster than Billy the Kid, that by the time he was twenty-one, he would have more killings chalked up and would still be alive.
Johnny Call had been a friend of Rafe Berry’s too. Not that it mattered. Johnny had been hunting an excuse to tackle him, Matt knew. Yet the Johnny Calls of the West were an old story to Matt Sabre of Mobeetie. Matt Sabre of the cattle drives, Matt Sabre who had been Major Sabre and Colonel Sabre in more than one army.
He stopped at the corner, glanced both ways, then turned and started back, taking his time. Suddenly, he cut across the street. Long ago, he had practiced these sudden deviations from the way he appeared to be taking, and to it he probably owed his life on more than one o
ccasion.
He was a tall man, lean in the body and wide in the shoulder. He wore a .44 Russian in the holster on his leg and had another, invisible to the casual eye, thrust behind his waistband under the edge of his coat.
He had known Johnny Call before. He had seen him before and watched his climb up the ladder of gun-slinging fame. Johnny was not yet nineteen, and he had done most of his killing in two years. Four of the dead men had been town marshals, the last one had been the marshal of Painted Rock, who preceded Matt Sabre.
Lights were out now, and the street that had been crowded was about empty. With a curious sense of loss, he realized the men who had voted to hang Rafe Berry were gone on this gold rush. He considered that.…Suppose it had been a ruse?
No matter what the reason, they were gone, and what came he must face alone. He walked down to the Empire House and entered. It was the quietest night he had known.
Forcing the jail would not be easy. Jeb Cannon was jailer, and Jeb was a man who knew no compromise with duty. The building was strongly built, carved, in fact, from solid rock. It could be got at only from in front, and Jeb was inside with several rifles, two shotguns, and plenty of ammunition.
Still Breidenhart had seemed very sure of himself. Sabre thought that over and decided he did not like it. The big man would stop at nothing, but the place was invulnerable…unless they had a cannon. If a shell exploded against the door…Sabre felt a queer sense of premonition go through him, a subtle warning from his subconscious.
Blasting powder!
Quickly, over a cup of coffee, he surveyed the possible places where they might secure it. The store…he would have to see Falley and the others and block that. Or one of the claims. That could not be blocked, but there was probably little around. Those on the rush had probably taken their supplies with them.
Mentally, he reviewed the case against Rafe Berry. The man had shot and killed Plato Zappas, a Greek prospector, and had stolen his poke and his equipment. He had been seen on the road before Zappas’s death, and he had been caught trying to sell Zappas’s horse and pack mules.
Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0) Page 19