Skin Weber was suddenly cautious. This man was cool and confident; he was unworried. In the world in which Skin Weber moved, that meant the stranger had an edge. Skin’s eyes swept the rocks. Were other men hidden here?
His eyes went back to Coburn. This man could have drawn his gun before he stepped into sight, but he had not. That meant he believed he could get into action fast enough, and that might mean that he was somebody. But Skin Weber himself was a handy man with a gun and he did not like backing down.
“We’re just havin’ a little fun. You beat it.”
Coburn’s attitude did not change. “Skin, you’ve got the lady’s cattle. You stole them from her ranch.”
“You callin’ me a cow thief?” Skin’s tone held a threat.
“Sure I am, Skin. You’ve been called one before. You’ve also been called a horse thief, a dry-gulching murderer, and a robber of drunks and old ladies.”
Skin was appalled. The man was deliberately goading him into making a fight of it. And the more eager the man was for a fight, the less eager Skin became.
“Skin”—Kid Curtis spoke only loud enough for his ears—“that’s Matt Coburn.”
Laurie Shannon was looking at Skin Weber when the Kid spoke, and she saw the face of a man who had looked upon death. Slowly and carefully, Weber eased his hand away from his gun.
It was Curtis who spoke. “Mister, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to ride out of here.”
“All right, boys, if you want to ride…ride.”
Kid Curtis walked stiff-legged to his horse. He did not look to see if Weber followed. Only when he was in the saddle did he look back. Skin had not stirred, and the paleness of his face had given way to the red of anger.
“Skin,” Curtis said, “don’t try it.”
A moment more Weber hesitated, then slowly he turned away. Curtis watched warily, his own hands clasped very plainly on the pommel.
Skin mounted and the two gunmen rode out of the cut, with Matt Coburn following to see that they continued to travel.
“Mr. Coburn, I would like to thank you.”
When the girl spoke, he turned and looked squarely at her for the first time, and he thought that she was beautiful. She had auburn hair and hazel eyes, and she was taller than most women.
“You will need help to drive the cattle back,” he said. “May I lend a hand?”
They had started the cattle when two riders appeared, charging up in a cloud of dust from pounding hoofs. One was young, aggressive, and somewhat arrogant. The second man was nearing fifty, with careful blue eyes that missed nothing. He had a look of seasoned toughness about him.
“You all right?” he asked the girl.
“Mr. Coburn helped me. I’m afraid I rode into trouble, Joss.”
“Coburn?” The young one turned sharply for a better look. “Matt Coburn?”
“That’s the name,” Matt replied, then ignored him. He knew the type. A tied-down gun and some swagger about him. A fresh one who had yet to learn that it needs more than a gun to make a gunfighter.
“It’s all right,” Coburn told the older man. “No trouble.”
“Where are they? Did you shoot ’em?” That was the younger one again, asking questions instead of listening and learning.
“Why shoot them?”
“You mean they just gave you the cattle? That was Kid Curtis and Skin Weber. I got close enough to spot ’em.”
“They misread the brands,” Coburn replied solemnly. “They said they were sorry.”
“Sorry? An’ you let ’em get away? Why, I’d have—”
“Got yourself shot more’n likely.” The older man was patient. “Thank you, Coburn. You saved us some grief.”
“Por nada,” Coburn said, smiling. “I’ll be riding on.”
“Wait,” the girl said quickly. “I’m Laurie Shannon, and I own the Rafter LS. We don’t have much of an outfit yet, but we set a good table. Will you come along and take potluck with us?”
She indicated the older man. “This is Joss Ringgold, and…Freeman Dorset.”
“Howdy.”
Ringgold…he knew the name. A salty old-timer who would stand hitched, but there was trouble in the young one. If he could keep that gun in his holster until he was old enough to know when to use it, he might live as long as Ringgold, but Coburn would have taken no bets on it.
“There’s no place to eat within twenty miles,” Joss suggested, “unless you go back to Confusion.”
Coburn hesitated, for he had learned to be wary of human relationships. He had learned the hard way that men could not be trusted too much. All men—and women—were sadly, weakly human. They were inclined to expect more than they were likely to get, and to expect it to come easier.
“All right,” he said, and immediately regretted it. He had often made a lonely camp, and had not minded it too much. He could have done so again.
There was trouble in the quiet, strong young beauty of Laurie Shannon, and there was trouble in Dorset. About Joss Ringgold he had no worries. He and Ringgold spoke the same language, they had eaten the dust, felt the rain, branded calves on the open grass, and they had bitten on the bullet.
Meanwhile, back in Confusion, circumstances were moving men on the chessboard to involve Matt Coburn.
For there are, in the affairs of men and nations, inexorable tides from which they cannot remain aloof. If they do not enter upon them prepared, they will be caught unprepared, and at the wrong time.
All Matt Coburn wanted just now was a good meal, and by such small motives are the lives of men altered.
Chapter 4
*
BY EVENING OF the seventh day there were five tent saloons in Confusion, and two frame buildings were under construction. There were three stores, a blacksmith shop, a tent theatre, two tent hotels, and about three dozen dugouts, shacks, and tents for private residences. At least a hundred men were camping without shelter.
After a meeting at Gage’s place the council had chosen a marshal, a respected, well-liked ex-soldier named McGuinness.
Outside on the street, Felton said, “Well, Dan, I feel better now. We’ll have some law. McGuinness is a good man.”
Dan Cohan offered no comment, and Zeller and Buckwalter were lighting their cigars. Finally Cohan did speak. “He’ll be lucky,” he said, “if he lasts out the week.”
Dick Felton stared at him. “That’s one hell of a thing to say!”
“Dan’s right,” Buckwalter said. “You don’t know what’s coming. McGuinness is too good a man to have this happen to him.”
“To have what happen? What are you talking about?”
“He isn’t tough enough, Dick. McGuinness is a brave man, but bravery isn’t enough. Gun skill isn’t enough. For this lot you have to be tough.”
“They’ve busted marshals in twenty towns,” Buckwalter said.
Felton stifled his annoyance. McGuinness was tough.
They would see soon enough.
He walked up the hill to their claim with Zeller and Cohan. They had been sleeping in the open under the stars, but today they had begun to dig into the side of the ridge. It was only a beginning, but they would dig out a room, and then use rocks from the claim to build another room in front.
From up here the lights of the town were clear and bright. He could hear the sounds of a piano and of a music box, and occasionally a raucous yell sounded, or the shrill laughter of a girl.
McGuinness would handle it, all right. He was a good man. He had been a sergeant during the War Between the States, he was used to rough men, and was a good shot.
Suddenly a door slammed, and the night was split by a stab of flame and a shot, followed by a cannonade of several shots in rapid succession. Felton started toward the trail but Cohan caught his arm. “Don’t go,” he said.
“But that was no drunken miner!” Felton protested. “That was a gun battle. Maybe McGuinness is in trouble.”
“Maybe he is,” Cohan replied, “but you’d bette
r not go down there unless you are armed and prepared to fight.”
Felton hesitated, and Zeller added his comment. “Idt vill keep undtil morning, I t’ink.”
There were no more shots. Somebody was talking loudly in the streets, and after a few minutes they heard footsteps on the trail. Cohan stepped back inside and picked up Zeller’s shotgun and their rifles and passed them out.
They could see several men were coming. One of them, judging by size alone, must be Big Thompson.
“All right,” Felton said, “just hold it right there.”
“You ain’t hospitable, Mr. Felton.” Thompson’s voice was teasing, and it angered Felton to think the man thought so little of him. “We come to make you an offer. My partners an’ me, we figured you might sell us a workin’ share in your claim.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Felton replied brusquely.
“Figured you might,” Thompson drawled, “as things are changin’ around here. An’ you needin’ a sheriff, and all.”
“We have a sheriff.”
Thompson chuckled. “You had one. He made a mistake. He tried to draw agin me. That’s almost as big a mistake as tryin’ to fist-fight me.”
“You’ve killed him?”
“Nothin’ else we could do,” Thompson said innocently. “He was interferin’ with the free conduct of our pleasures, an’ he went for his gun when pushed.…You think about it, gents. I’d give you a hundred dollars for a fourth share.”
“You’re crazy! This claim’s worth a million.”
“Maybe…maybe not. How much is it worth to a dead man?”
The sound of a cocking hammer was loud in the night. “All right, Thompson. You’ve made your point. Now get down the hill before we dig another grave alongside the sheriff’s.”
Thompson chuckled again, then turned slowly away, and with the others walking beside him, he went down the hill.
For several minutes after their departure nobody spoke, and then it was Zeller who said, “Ve haff godt to do somet’ings.”
At daybreak Buckwalter, Gage, Wayne Simmons, and Newton Clyde had come up the hill to talk. Simmons operated a freighting and stage business; Newton Clyde was the Wells Fargo man.
“Get Coburn,” Clyde said abruptly. “He knows this crowd and they know him.”
“No,” Felton said flatly. “I won’t have him.”
“How about it, Buckwalter? Who would you suggest?”
“Well, if Coburn is out, we might try Calvin Bell. I hear he’s over to Durango. He ran a couple of Kansas trail towns.”
A rider was coming up the trail. He was a stocky man, unshaven and dirty. With him were two others, both as thin as laths, sour, evil-looking men.
The stocky man drew up alongside the group where they sat on the dump outside the Discovery hole. “Hear you folks are needin’ a marshal. Me an’ my boys would take the job. We kin run your town. I’m Hick Sutton, an’ these are my boys, Sam an’ Joe.”
“No,” Felton said.
“Wait a minute, Dick.” Cohan looked up at Sutton. “What makes you think you can run a tough town?”
“We run a few places in our time. I want two hundred a month. A hundred apiece for the boys here.”
“That’s pretty steep,” Gage objected.
“You got trouble. We can handle it. How much is cheap?”
“Ever hear of Big Thompson?”
Sutton grinned. “He’s a man, ain’t he? I’ll handle him.”
“All right,” Newton Clyde said. “You run Thompson and Peggoty Gorman out of town and you’ve got the job.”
Sutton looked at the others. “You agree to that?”
Gage nodded, then Buckwalter. Reluctantly, Felton agreed.
Sutton wheeled his horse. “You want to gimme that badge? I’ll need some authority.”
Cohan handed him McGuinness’ badge, which Gage had brought with him up the hill. The three rode off, laughing.
Felton, Cohan, and Zeller returned to work on the claim, and the others to their businesses. But each man listened, expecting the sound of gunfire.
“We’re out of beef,” Cohan commented. “One of us should ride out and shoot some meat.”
“There’s a ranch over west of here,” Felton commented. “We might be able to buy a side of beef there.”
Cohan grinned at Zeller. “See? He’s heard the story, too.”
Felton tried to look surprised. “What story?”
“About that pretty girl who’s ramrodding that outfit. If you want to stay a bachelor, Dick, you’d better fight shy of girls. You’re a moneyed man now.”
Felton saddled up and rode off and the others settled down to work.
Below them the town slowly awakened. A stage filled with sleepy passengers rolled up to the stage station and several men and women got down stiffly, the men stamping their clothes into shape, the women fluffing, brushing, and straightening theirs.
The air was cool and fresh. Down the street in front of the Bon-Ton a man lay sprawled on the boardwalk. Another sat on a bench close by, fast asleep, his chin on his chest.
Wayne Simmons, a cigar in his teeth, watched the passengers get down. The driver stepped over to him and said in a low tone. “He was out there again today, keepin’ out o’ sight, but watchin’ us. I figure he’s waitin’ for a gold shipment or somethin’.”
“All right. I’ll get a man to ride shotgun.”
“Get a good one,” the driver said. “I don’t relish bein’ shot at.”
A man emerged from Buckwalter’s National Saloon and began to sweep off the board porch. Beyond him a tall, slim man in a gray tailored suit appeared on the walk. He strolled up the street and stopped beside Simmons.
“Howdy, Nathan,” Simmons said. “How’re the cards treating you?”
“They always treat me well, Wayne. I’m a careful man. The cards respect that in a gambler.”
The two men watched the passengers going into the restaurant, and then Nathan Bly took out a cigar. “I received a notice a few minutes ago.”
“A notice?”
“It was a notice from the marshal’s office of a ten percent charge on all gambling games, payable to the marshal or his deputies.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“I had an idea that was the way it was. I’m glad to hear the town council had nothing to do with it. I don’t mind paying something to build boardwalks, to keep the town clean, or to build a church or a schoolhouse, but I don’t like a shakedown.”
“I’ll speak to that marshal. I’ll speak to him right away.”
Nathan Bly smiled slightly. “Do it before he tries to collect, will you? I don’t like to get my floor messed up.”
Bly turned and strolled away, slender, elegant, but no man to buy trouble with. Wayne Simmons turned toward the restaurant for his morning coffee when he saw Buckwalter coming. By the very look of him Simmons knew that Buckwalter had received the word, too.
They discussed it over breakfast. “Forget it,” Buckwalter said after a bit. “If he can collect from Bly, he’ll deserve it.”
“I don’t like it, Buck. I don’t like it at all.”
*
DICK FELTON FOUND the trail to the Rafter LS and rode up to the ranch shortly before noon. Tied to the hitch rail in front of the house there was a big appaloosa that looked familiar. Swinging down, he walked up to the door and rapped.
Laurie Shannon answered the door. “Oh…I’m Laurie Shannon. What can I do for you?”
Felton was embarrassed. “I’m from Confusion. I wanted to buy some beef.”
She stepped back. “Come in. I’m just having some coffee with Mr. Coburn.”
Felton stiffened slightly, and would have drawn back, but Laurie had walked on into the kitchen and picked up the coffeepot and a cup. As she filled the cup she turned, “Mr. Coburn…Mr.—”
“Felton, Dick Felton. I own the Discovery.”
“We’ve met, I think,” Matt said. He was relaxed and cool. Felton did not f
eel relaxed, and he was certainly not cool. He sat down abruptly.
“How are things in Confusion?” Coburn asked.
“Fine…just fine. We hired a new marshal this morning, and two deputies. A man named Hick Sutton.”
Coburn chuckled, but without humor. “You better enjoy him,” he said. “He picked the wrong town and you won’t have him long.”
“Do you know him?”
“Sure. He’s a thief and a high-binder. He takes the job as marshal and uses the badge for a right to shake down the gamblers. If he gets away with that, he moves on to legitimate businessmen. If anybody refuses, they have an accident…or they get shot…dry-gulched.”
“I don’t believe that.”
There was silence in the room, and when Felton looked up, Coburn’s eyes were on him. “You have lived long enough to know, Felton, that you’ve said the wrong thing.”
Felton was about to explode into anger when he realized where he was, and what he had said.
“I did not mean it that way, Coburn,” he said, “but don’t get the idea that I am afraid of you.”
“I don’t think you are, and there’s no reason why you should be.” Matt Coburn got up. “Laurie, I’ll go check out those steers on Wildcat.”
At the door he paused. “Nice to have seen you again, Felton.”
When the door closed, Dick Felton sipped his coffee to cover his irritation. He had made a fool of himself.
“Will you have some more coffee?” Laurie Shannon asked quietly.
Felton pushed his cup toward her and looked up. “I guess that sounded pretty bad.”
“I’ve known men to get shot for less,” Laurie said, “and from all I’ve heard Matt Coburn isn’t the man to take an insult.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, “but he wants the job as marshal himself, so he’d naturally be ready to say something to prejudice me against Sutton.”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Felton. And I happen to know that Matt Coburn does not want to be marshal of your town. He has no intention of going back there. At the moment he is planning to go to California, but I am trying to persuade him to start ranching here in the mountains.”
Novel 1969 - The Empty Land (v5.0) Page 3