by Adam Brady
Halliday nodded, finished his third drink and set down the empty glass. Cowper went to a desk and brought out a bulging envelope. He handed it over, and there was a hint of relief in his voice when he said;
“One thousand dollars paid in full, Mr. Halliday. Naturally, I wish you luck. As for accommodation, I’ve arranged to put you up at the rooming house on Washington Street, at the town’s expense. See Mr. Lattimer there. He can be trusted, and he is right behind me in this.”
Cowper moved across the room and opened the door. Halliday went past him, stuffing the envelope in his shirt without bothering to count it.
There was a movement from the far end of the hallway, and Halliday turned his head.
The light was dim, but it almost seemed to Beth that the gunman smiled at her for just a moment.
Then he was gone, and soon afterward, the sound of his horse’s hoof beats drifted back to the two people standing close together in the doorway.
“It is the only way, girl,” Cowper said wearily. “God knows I looked for another solution, but there is none. There is just no other way to fight scum like Henley and Murchison. I am quite sure that I have found the right man for the job, Beth.”
The young woman touched her uncle lightly on the arm.
“Go to bed now, Uncle. You’ve had a trying time and nothing more can be done now.”
Buck Halliday left his horse in the rooming house yard and returned by way of the back street to the saloon. He had never been in this part of the country before. It was likely that most folks would know his name, but he doubted that any of the locals would recognize him on sight. Though it was always possible that some drifter had crossed his trail in another town, of course.
He entered the saloon by the back door and bought a bottle of whiskey. He melted into the crowd as best he could, surveying the other customers before he ducked out the back door again.
He was standing in the yard and checking it out in his usual careful manner when he heard a stifled cry from the darkness opposite. Looking that way, he saw the outline of a shack with two figures standing close together on the tiny porch.
“You’re just a pig of a man, Jason, nothin’ but a goddamn pig,” a woman said in a high, angry voice.
The next thing Halliday heard was a sharp slap, followed by a groan. The woman stumbled off the porch and fetched up against the hitching rail.
Halliday saw her bend down suddenly and come up with what looked like a barrel stave in her hand.
The man who had hit her was down the steps and reaching for her as she swung the stave and hit him across the face with such force that her makeshift weapon broke into pieces.
The man spat blood and cursed but held his ground. Halliday saw him shake his head in an apparent effort to clear it and then reach for the woman again. He caught her by the shoulder, and Halliday heard the fabric tear as the bodice of her dress came away in his hand.
The woman dragged one arm free and came back with an openhanded slap that echoed in the quiet of the yard.
“That’s enough, you silly little bitch,” the man said thickly, and Halliday saw his hand make a fist.
It was a hard punch, and the woman fell to the ground and stayed there.
Halliday carefully set down his bottle, and then he moved in fast, catching the man’s arm and swinging him around so that he could sink his fist hard into the man’s belly. As the man folded forward, Halliday came up with an uppercut that landed right on the point of the man’s jaw.
The man staggered a step or two and then collapsed. The woman was up and running toward the saloon with her torn dress fluttering behind her. Halliday picked up his bottle and turned to go. He was annoyed at himself for getting involved in an argument that was none of his business, but he purely hated to see a big man beating up on a little woman.
He was halfway to the back corner of the saloon where he had last seen the woman when a voice growled;
“You there, hold on!”
Halliday turned and transferred the bottle to his left hand. In the light from the saloon, he saw the silhouette of a bowlegged man with his hand resting on his gun butt.
The man was shocked into silence by the speed of Halliday’s draw.
“Mind your own damn business!” Halliday told him.
“Yeah, yeah,” the man nodded in a sudden change of heart. “Got nothin’ to do with me, I guess.”
With his eyes fixed on Halliday’s gun hand, he backed up until he felt the bottom step with his heel. Then he whirled and rushed into the saloon.
Halliday went back to the man in the yard, who was out cold. He glanced down at the bloodied face so that he would remember it if he saw it again, and then he headed back to Lattimer’s rooming house.
A quiet drink or two and a soft bed had a lot more to offer than a dust-up in the dark with a bunch of saloon drunks.
Two – Julie
The man at the desk was bald and short, and his face twitched nervously as wide-spaced eyes lifted anxiously to watch Buck Halliday cross the foyer. He could see by the gunrig and the nonchalant confidence that this was no drummer with a suitcase full of combs and sewing notions.
Halliday went straight to the desk, and without invitation, he spun the ledger around and reached for a pen.
“Halliday,” he said. “I think you’re holdin’ a room for me.”
The man sucked in a quick breath and tried for a smile.
“Yes, Mr. Halliday, I am. My name’s Walsh Lattimer, and you’re mighty welcome here. No need to sign your in the book. You have Room 7, upstairs at the back. It’s as separate from the other boarders as I can manage.”
“Obliged,” Halliday told him, and picked up the key which the man produced from a board under his desk.
Then the man leaned forward, expecting to see a warbag at Halliday’s feet.
“Travelin’ light, eh, Mr. Halliday?” Lattimer asked in a knowing tone.
“I left my horse and my belongin’s in the stall out back,” Halliday said. “No sense in unpackin’ tonight.”
“No sense a-tall, Mr. Halliday. Anything you want now, just ask.”
“I’d like some supper,” Halliday told him, and then his attention shifted to the woman who had just slipped in by a side door. She had one hand clapped to her torn dress, holding it in place to cover herself.
“Why, Mrs. Henley,” exclaimed the desk man. “What are you doing? What’s happened to you?”
Without answering, the woman walked up to Halliday and introduced herself.
“I’m Julie Henley. You’re the man who helped me just awhile ago, aren’t you?”
“I thought he was goin’ to kill you,” Halliday said simply.
“I expect he would have, if it wasn’t for you,” she said. “Are you stayin’ here, mister?”
“Yes.”
The woman looked at the man behind the desk, and said quickly, “I’m in some trouble, Mr. Lattimer. I need time to sort myself out. Do you mind if I stay here for an hour or so?”
Lattimer could not take his eyes off the soft, pink flesh that showed through the torn dress, but he managed to nod and mumble, “No, Mrs. Henley, I don’t mind a-tall. There ain’t goin’ to be no trouble, is there?”
“Not unless you tell him I’m here.”
Lattimer shook his head and looked around. When he saw that the woman had left the side door open, he hurried to close it before scurrying back to his desk.
The woman turned back to Halliday, looking him up and down in serious appraisal. Then she posed her question bluntly;
“Would you mind, Mr. ...?”
“Would I mind what, Mrs. Henley?”
“If I depended on your protection for another hour. I do need time to think. That man you saw hittin’ me was my husband and, after what I did to him, he’ll want to tear the town apart to find me. If he does, I don’t like to think what might happen to me.”
Halliday scratched the back of his neck absently, and then he shrugged. The woman interested h
im, by name anyway. To Lattimer, he said;
“Might as well keep this quiet. Room 7, huh?”
“End of the corridor up the stairs,” Lattimer nodded.
“Come on then,” Halliday said to the woman as he started toward the stairway.
He saw the quick uplift of her brows, and then she followed him to the stairs.
“Don’t forget that supper,” Halliday called down to Lattimer from halfway up the stairs.
He found the room at the end of a narrow corridor, with access to a balcony that wrapped around the end of the two-storied building.
When he opened the door, the woman slipped past him, brushing her body lightly against his chest.
He saw immediate interest in her eyes and a smile touched her soft, full lips.
Halliday closed the door and watched while she poured water into a basin and dabbed blood from her lips and neck. She inspected her bruised features in the mirror above the washstand and made a rueful face at what she saw. Then she turned and looked at Halliday in a way that needed no explanation.
Halliday paced the room, looking out the window and even pulling back the curtain that covered a corner where clothes hooks were mounted on the wall.
The woman seated herself on the edge of the bed and watched him with unwavering interest.
He moved the easy chair to a spot facing the bed and flopped into it.
“Who are you?” Julie Henley asked.
“Doesn’t matter who I am, Mrs. Henley.”
“My name is Julie. Please call me that. I get sick in the stomach every time somebody calls me Mrs. Henley. I’d rather be known as kin to a rattlesnake.”
Halliday smiled at that but retained a good degree of caution.
The woman leaned back against the bed head and lifted her hands above her head to tidy her hair. The torn bodice of her dress dropped down, exposing creamy lace and a half-moon of soft, white skin. She looked down at the torn garment and it seemed to offend her. She took the loose fabric in her hands and tore it away from the dress, all the way to her narrow waist. Smiling at him, she dropped the torn piece to the floor beside her.
“I’m afraid this dress is good for nothin’ more than dust rags now,” she pouted. “And you’re right, mister. It doesn’t matter who you are. All I need to know about you is that you are the only man I’ve met in years who has what it takes to put my husband in his place. I want you, Mr. Whoever-you-are, and it isn’t just because I’m feelin’ grateful.”
Halliday uncorked his whiskey bottle and drank from the neck. Then he wiped the neck with his hand and held the bottle out to her.
Julie slipped off the bed and walked slowly to his chair. She took the bottle and tipped it back for a taste and then a swallow.
Then she bent over him to place the bottle beside his chair. She reached for his hand and rubbed it against her thigh. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the gauzy summer fabric.
Halliday continued to look at her, but his gaze was so dispassionate that he might have been guessing the weight of a steer.
When she released his hand, it dropped to his side.
Julie’s eyes fired with mild disappointment, but then she reached behind her back and slowly undid the hooks and eyes that held the remnants of her dress in place. The garment fell around her feet.
She looked up at Halliday and saw no change in his expression. He was taking another pull on the bottle but still watching her as he swallowed.
She pulled at the bow on a satin ribbon, and her petticoat joined the dress with a whisper of lace and ruffles.
Although he was not ready to let her see it, Halliday could feel desire building inside him.
His mind was still dealing with the facts and questions of what she was, who she was, and why she was here. He thought she was telling the truth when she said it did not matter who he was. She was playing this game to its limit to spite her husband. Maybe that did not matter either. The feelings that were beginning to steam the windows in this pokey little rented room had nothing to do with hearts and flowers and a romantic need to know the loved one’s middle name and family history.
Julie stepped out of her clothes and stood there, a goddessed package of everything woman-starved men of the frontier craved. Halliday placed the bottle on the dresser table then removed his gunbelt and flung it across the dresser mirror. She came to him and ran her fingers through his hair and brought his head against her soft warm body. His hands stole to her back and he felt her giving with the hesitant pressure he applied.
She was beginning to purr like a cat already.
And then he stopped.
Julie stiffened and saw that he seemed to be listening for something in the corridor outside his room.
“It’s all right,” she said urgently. “Neither of us has anything to worry about ... for the moment.”
Halliday eased her back, took one step to the dresser and pulled his gun from the holster.
Julie frowned in frustration, but then she heard it, too—a tiny sound outside the door and then the light scratch of a key in the lock. The door began to open slowly, and Julie snatched up her dress and held it in front of her.
The first thing they saw in the crack of the opening door was the barrel of a gun, then the entire gun and the hand of the man who was holding it.
Halliday was across the room in an instant, kicking the door hard against the extended hand. When the hand jerked back, Halliday pulled the door wide open, grabbed the intruder by the shoulder and dragged him into the room.
He slammed his fist into the stranger’s face and kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The man hit the corner of the dresser as he fell, and Julie jumped back with a little squeak as the man struggled to rise.
Reversing the six-gun in his hand, Halliday thumped the butt against the side of the man’s head.
This time, the man fell so hard the whiskey bottle and the washbasin danced and rattled. He was still trying to get to his feet, but his eyes had gone blank and he pitched forward, hitting the bunk and sliding to the floor.
When the man did not move again, Halliday turned him onto his back with the toe of his boot. That was the first time he noticed the tarnished tin star.
Halliday gave Julie Henley a questioning look, and she whispered;
“It’s our sheriff, Rafe Murchison.”
Without comment, Halliday returned his six-gun to the holster and tucked in his shirttail. With his eyes on the unconscious lawman, he reached for the bottle on the dresser, pulling the stopper with his teeth and taking a long swallow. Finally, Julie said;
“He’s a friend of my husband’s. He’ll tell him everything.”
She dropped the dress again and reached up to tidy her hair.
“Put your clothes on,” Halliday said coldly, “and get the hell outta here. Ma’am, you’re a complication I can do without!”
Julie glared at him and hissed;
“You’re not afraid of him, are you? Why, he’s just a hired hand, and not a very good one at that. He might be all right with a gun, or so they say, but I’ve never seen him tackle anyone on his own—not even a harmless old drunk. Anyway, we can go someplace else ...”
“You can go someplace else, Mrs. Henley,” Halliday said wearily. “Now good night.”
On the floor, Murchison was groaning as he slowly regained consciousness.
Halliday lifted him by the front of his shirt and hauled him onto the bed. He kicked Murchison’s gun under the bed and picked up the basin of water that was already tinted with Julie’s blood. He pushed the lawman’s face into the water until the man began to choke and cough, and then he returned the basin to the washstand.
The sheriff’s eyes were in focus now, and his lips peeled back in a snarl.
“You’re gonna regret doin’ that, mister—”
“Take it easy, Murchison, and answer a few questions. For one, how did you find out my room number?”
“That’s my business.”
Halliday loo
ked in Julie’s direction. She had stepped behind the curtain and was hurriedly pulling on her clothes.
“Did you tell him?” Halliday asked her.
Julie scowled. “Me? What are you talkin’ about?”
“Strange how you just happened on the scene at the right moment, Mrs. Henley. Are you and Murchison in cahoots, by any chance ...?”
“Listen, you poor excuse for a man!” Julie snapped. “Who do you think you are anyway? As far as I’m concerned, you and Murchison and everybody else in this flea-bitten town can go to hell—and the sooner the better!”
Both Halliday and Murchison watched the woman struggle into her torn and crumpled clothes. From the waist up, the dress was hardly big enough, and the lacy contraption under it seemed designed to display more than it concealed. Deciding that she had made the best of it, Julie folded her arms over her bosom and pushed past Halliday on her way to the door.
“I can see you think you’re somethin’ pretty special, Halliday,” the sheriff said from the bed, “but you could get yourself tarred and feathered, maybe lynched for dishonorin’ another man’s wife like you done. Besides, you resisted arrest and beat up on one of the most important men in this town. Iffen I was you, I’d get the hell outta here while you got the chance ...”
“Henley asked for what he got,” was Halliday’s simple response, and he picked up the whiskey bottle and carried it to the doorway.
He could hear Julie running down the stairs, no doubt hunting for another place to hide. He felt somewhat sorry for the wayward young woman, but he guessed that she was the kind who always found trouble or made some of her own.
“I’m warning you, Halliday,” the sheriff insisted, “get out of town while you got the chance, or you’ll go out feet first.”
“Thanks for the warnin’,” Halliday said calmly, “and now I have one for you. I’m gonna get you, but not right now. It’s gonna be in front of plenty of witnesses. So I’m givin’ you a choice, if you can savvy that. You can run or you can suffer the consequences.”
“You think you’re that good?” Murchison asked softly.
“I know I am. If you stick around until tomorrow, sunup, you’ll know it, too. So get off my bed and get outta my room!”