“You will have. You were loyal to that old man, the one who got your papers back. Loyalty brings friends, Madge.”
He stood there on the street, a lonely man, watching her go. Tucker Dolan joined him. “I’m out of a job,” he said wryly. “They didn’t like the way it was handled.”
“They should try it themselves,” Matt said. “Have you heard anything about them hiring fighters?”
Dolan gave him a quick glance. “It’s trouble, Matt, real trouble. They didn’t want me. I guess I wasn’t bloody enough, but they’ve hired Kendrick and some others. I’d say they’ve got fifteen tough men.”
“Do you know why?”
“No…they don’t tell us anything. All I know is that Madge Healy is the center of it. Did you know she was in the mining game?”
“Up to her pretty ears,” Matt replied.
“Then she’d better get out of it. They’ll eat her alive.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Matt looked hard at Dolan. “Are you going back to Confusion? If you do, stick around a few days. I may have a deal for you. I may need a tough man who can stand still for trouble, and who doesn’t go off half-cocked.”
Matt slept that afternoon and through most of the night. When he woke before daybreak the town was quiet. A light tapping came at the door.
Madge Healy stood there when he opened it. She stepped in quickly. “Put on your pants, Matt. You look like the devil in those long johns.”
“I wasn’t expecting a lady.”
“Thanks for the compliment. I try to be a lady, but sometimes it isn’t easy. Matt, I want to go back to Confusion. I want to go now, and I want to go fast.”
“We weren’t figuring on making a run for it,” Matt said. “We had that, remember?”
“It has to be that way, Matt. Things are getting rough, and they’re going to get worse.”
Briefly, he told her what he had heard from Harry Meadows, and from Tucker Dolan. She listened in silence. After a moment she walked across to the window as he hurriedly splashed water on his face, combed his hair and put on a shirt.
“I didn’t know it had gone that far, Matt, but you’re one of the few friends I’ve got. Matt, I own the Treasure Vault, and I own other claims. They’re big and they’re rich. Willard & Kingsbury have moved in on me. They bought the Balzac from Big Thompson—”
“I thought Frenchy Bezant owned it.”
“When did that ever stop Thompson? He picked a fight with Frenchy and killed him.”
“So?”
“They’re claiming that my Treasure Vault is on their Balzac vein.”
“Is Pike still with you?”
“Yes.”
He buckled on his guns. “All right, Madge. Let’s get Burke and Weber.”
She looked up at him. “They’re over there already with the team, Matt, or should be. I was sure you’d help, so I sent Pike to round them up.”
The team was hitched when Matt came walking up, shotgun in hand. He helped Madge into the coach and Pike Sides walked out of the barn and got in beside her, with Weber. Matt swung up and Burke cracked his whip. The stage started with a lunge. It rolled up the draw, and turned along the hillside toward the temporary Wells Fargo office.
In Austin they picked up another passenger. James Hoyt was a mining engineer working out of Denver, representing various New York investment houses from time to time. It had been several years since he had seen Madge Healy perform, and he did not recognize the young woman who sat opposite him. She, however, knew him at once, and was familiar with mining-camp gossip and knew his business.
“Do you often travel in the West?” she asked demurely.
“Oh, yes. My company sends me out to investigate properties they contemplate buying, or in which they might invest.”
“I don’t know much about Confusion,” she said. “Is it really a serious mining town? I mean, are the mines there any good?”
“Some of them, I expect. The samples of ore I’ve seen showed excellent values.”
Gently, she led him on to talk of his work, bringing him back again and again to Confusion. Finally he said, “I will not be there very long. Perhaps we might go for a drive? I could show you the country, and if you are interested in mining I could explain the geology to you.”
“I’d love that!”
Pike Sides had been looking out the window, but now he turned his head to look at her, puzzled by her act of innocence.
“Do you have only one mine to consider?” she asked. “I heard there was a very rich one there, the Discovery, I think they called it.” She paused. “Are you actually going to buy a mine?”
“As a matter of fact,” Hoyt said, “I might buy or invest. I have the authority here.” He tapped his coat pocket.
He was aware he was talking too much, but Pike was obviously just a drifting gunman, and this girl—she was scarcely more than a child—was so interested. Not in mines, he was sure, so it must be in himself. He expanded a little, talking easily of ores, drifts, hanging walls, and timbering, and Madge listened, her eyes wide and beautiful.
“I love to hear a man talk about what he is interested in,” she said. “One learns so much! And I love the names of the mines! I wonder where they get all those names?”
The ride from Austin to Confusion was a long and dusty one, and Pike Sides soon fell asleep. In the intimacy of the coach, sitting opposite a beautiful girl, James Hoyt continued to talk. Among other things he advised her to keep off the streets in Confusion—there might be some shooting, he believed. It seemed there was some argument over claims and over who held them. But he was going to the town to check on several.
Again Madge brought up the subject of names, and Hoyt mentioned the Treasure Vault. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “if it measures up to the assays, we expect to buy it from the new owners.”
“So you won’t be in town long?”
“I’m leaving the twelfth,” Hoyt said. “Can we take our drive before then?”
“We will have to see. I will be living on a ranch. I have a friend there”—she picked the name up quickly—“a young woman named Laurie Shannon. Do you know of her?”
“I know the name.” Hoyt was reassured. He did know the name, and knew that the Shannon girl lived on a ranch and had no concern with mines or mining.
When the stage drew to a halt before the Wells Fargo office in Confusion, Newt Clyde stepped up to meet it. Matt Coburn swung down first, then Pike Sides. Hoyt stepped down and helped Madge to the ground. “By the way,” he said, “I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled up at him. “It’s Healy,” she said sweetly, “Madge Healy.”
His face stiffened. He knew of Madge Healy, but he had thought of her as older, harder, and not nearly so attractive. He vaguely remembered hearing of Madge Healy in connection with several mining towns. He had thought—
“I see,” he said awkwardly.
She smiled brightly. “I hope you do, Mr. Hoyt—it will save you and your firm a lot of money and a lot of trouble. Willard & Kingsbury do not own the Treasure Vault, and they will never own it.”
She turned away abruptly and, accompanied by a grinning Pike Sides, walked down the street, with Hoyt staring after them.
“That—that is Madge Healy? She isn’t dry behind the ears yet!”
Matt smiled. “It seems to me you just found out different. And take my advice—believe what she told you.”
“I came a long way to make that deal,” Hoyt replied with some uncertainty, “and my people aren’t going to like it if I don’t close it.”
“They’ll like it less if you lose their shirt,” Clyde observed dryly.
Matt Coburn looked down the dusty street. Along the edges of the buildings some desert growth remained, and somebody had taken the time to dig the rocks from the street. In front of several of the buildings a crude boardwalk had been built, but the street itself needed considerably more work.
He knew the sounds of such towns. Each had its own tone,
its own particular hum. Though the shadings might be different, the sounds were the same—the pound of a compressor or a stamp mill, the sound of hammers, the squeak and rattle of a pump or a windlass. The tin-panny sounds of the music boxes or pianos, the strident, unmusical voices singing, the rattle of glasses, loud voices raised in argument, the crash of broken glass, the noise of wheels rolling and bumping over rocks, the creak of saddle leather, the hoof-falls, the sounds of hard heels on the boardwalks…The sounds were the same, and he could wake at almost any hour and know the time just by the sounds.
He knew, too, the sound of trouble coming, he could feel it in the air, just as a wild animal feels the coming of a storm. And he could feel it now. This town was coming apart at the seams.
He had seen towns come, and he had seen them go. Some had died a-borning from too much law or too much religion, some had committed suicide from lack of any law at all; some the changing of trails had killed, and some had died from water-filled shafts, from the playing out of ore…some from lack of faith.
In this town the lawlessness had been casual, caused by a few men who were violent—some deliberately so, some simply because of too much liquor, too much need to let off steam. So far, some men had been callous, others had been heedless, some few had been deliberately murderous. Now it was beginning to change. There was nothing to put a damper on the town, and now it was edging toward anarchy.
A few strong men might weld a city government, pass laws, stand firmly behind them, and bring law without gunplay if they moved quickly before things got out of hand.
But not here—not in Confusion. Matt Coburn knew the kind of men along that street, and he knew there was only one way to run this town now. You had to run it with a gun—a gun you could use, and they knew you would use.
Any slight move now, he was thinking, might jar the whole town into an explosive madness. There were a few men who could trigger the movement, and with some of them it might be unintentional. Most of those here wanted to operate lawlessly, but even their lawlessness must function within the pattern.
“You like this town?” he asked Clyde.
The Wells Fargo man shrugged. “They come and they go. I’ve seen a lot of towns, and I’ll see a lot more. This is the Discovery town. It belongs to Felton, Cohan, and Zeller.”
“Then tell them to move quick or they’ve lost it,” Matt said. “That bunch down there are ready to blow the lid off. Most of them will be sorry afterwards, but they’ll do it.”
Felton and Cohan came along to join them, and Coburn explained about the fighters being recruited. “They’ve planned to jump the Treasure Vault.”
Newton Clyde lit his cigar. “I am the Wells Fargo man. If you have gold to ship, I will ship it. Wells Fargo does not build towns nor enforce the law…except along the stage routes.”
“What would you suggest, Matt?” Cohan asked.
“A citizen’s committee. Twelve to twenty tough, honest men who will stand their ground and will shoot if need be. Then an ultimatum. If legal action will not work, use lever action, administer your law with Winchesters. Start a local uplift society, and use a rope to do the lifting. I know this crowd, and they understand nothing else.”
“I don’t believe that,” Felton protested.
“It’s your town,” Matt Coburn said. “You can believe what you like. Why don’t you just walk down the street and ask Big Thompson why he doesn’t behave? Ask him to hang up his guns and get a job.”
Felton flushed, and started to speak, but Coburn ignored him. “How many killings have you had so far?” he asked.
“Eighteen,” Cohan replied, “in thirty-some days. Not all of them right in town, though.”
“And how many robberies?”
“Who can count them? Most of them aren’t even reported.”
“We want no more violence,” Felton said stubbornly. “There just has to be another way.”
“Men like Thompson and Gorman—yes, and Willard & Kingsbury, for that matter—just love people who don’t believe in violence. It gives them a free hand because they not only believe in it, they use it. Ask Madge Healy.”
Several of the townsmen had gathered around them, listening. “What would you do, Cohan,” Matt Coburn asked, “if somebody tried to jump the Discovery?”
“I’d fight. What else could I do?”
“Undt me,” Zeller rumbled. “I fight also.”
“There you are, Felton. There’s two men for your committee.” Coburn glanced around at Gage. “How about you?”
“No,” Gage replied stiffly. “Leave me out of it. I have seen these towns come and go. When I can no longer do business, I will leave. Why risk my neck for what will be nothing but a rubbish pile in a few years?”
“Buckwalter?”
“There will be another town. I have only one neck.”
“I’m a fool,” Clyde said, “but I’ll serve on your committee. “I’ll do it just to run that bunch out.”
“No,” Felton insisted. “It is not necessary. This will all blow over. It’ll settle down.”
Coburn shrugged. “Well, it isn’t my affair. I am riding out of town. I delivered your gold, Felton. I will take my money and go.”
Clyde was staring at him, and so were Gage and Buckwalter. Cohan was about to speak, but he kept quiet.
Felton took five gold coins from his pocket and put them in Coburn’s hand. “Thanks, Coburn. You did a good job.”
Matt walked to the livery stable and led out his horse. Dandy Burke joined him. “You aren’t going to take the job?”
“Nobody has offered me the job, and I don’t want it.” He picked up his saddle and threw it on the gelding’s back. “That’s a mean bunch down there, Dandy, maybe the meanest I ever saw. And there isn’t much time.”
Across the street the huddle of men watched him. Clyde took the stub of his cigar from his lips and studied it distastefully. “There he goes, gentlemen. The only man who can bring peace to your town. The only man who can hold it together.”
“Nonsense!” Felton spoke sharply. “I started this town, and—”
“And you’ll see the finish of it.”
Buckwalter spoke quietly. “I say hire him, Felton. Newt’s right. If you don’t hire him I am going to close down. I will load up and move out. I’d rather take a small loss then see all I own go up in flames.”
Felton could not believe him. He looked from him to Gage. “Are you serious? You really mean you’d pull out? Why, you’ve only just got here!”
“Felton, you haven’t been in this country long,” Buckwalter said. “Did you ever hear of Fessenden?”
“No.”
“Fessenden started off about like this. The mines not as rich, not quite as many people there. They killed two marshals, and nobody else would take the job. For a few days the town got wilder and wilder, and then one night Peggoty Gorman wanted a drink and the bartender was down at the other end of the bar, so Peg walked around the end of the bar and picked up a bottle. Then he tossed another bottle to a pal of his.
“The bartender saw what was happening and came running down the bar and grabbed at Peg, and Peg hit him across the face with the bottle. When the bartender fell, Peggoty kicked him a few times, and then he began tossing bottles to his friends.
“I was there,” Buckwalter added, “and I just eased toward the door, got out, and went up the street. Most of my stuff had not arrived yet, so I tossed what I had in the back of a buckboard. By the time I’d done that the crowd had stripped the first saloon and started on the second. Some of them were ripping a store apart to take what they could; others had started on the dance hall.
“I didn’t try to get to the main trail—I knew I’d be foolish to try. I just started up the slope behind the town on the trail to a claim. I warned the boys there, and drove on to pick up the trail on the ridge beyond. When I looked back the town was in flames.”
“Why didn’t they send for Coburn, if he’s all that mighty?”
“Oh, they
sent for him, all right,” Buckwalter said. “When he got there the ashes were still smoking. There were a couple of claims starting to work again, but the nearest mill was fifty miles away, and the nearest post office too. Nobody ever came back.”
Felton was silent. Everything within his nature rebelled at the thought of violence, of hiring a gunfighter to clean up the town, his town. There had to be another way. Moreover—and he was honest enough to admit it—he did not want Matt Coburn in town. Was it because of Laurie Shannon?
“How about it, Dick?” Cohan suggested. “Shall we try to hire him?”
“No,” Felton said. “I will be the marshal. I will do it myself, and alone.”
They stared at him, disbelief in their eyes, and as they stared they heard the sound of Matt Coburn’s horse riding over the ridge, away from town.
Chapter 12
*
MATT COBURN RODE into the yard at the Rafter LS, and the first person he saw was Joss Ringgold. The old man nodded. “Howdy, Matt.” He straightened up from the bridle he was mending, glancing toward the house. “Heard you had trouble down the trail.”
“Some.” Matt swung down and tied his horse. “You boys been doin’ any traveling?”
“None to speak of. Free took him a ride over to Strawb’ry after strays. Didn’t find any.”
“Seems unlikely cattle would stray off this range,” Coburn commented. “You got good grass, good water.”
“Scarff rode in.” Ringgold seemed to be just making talk, but he did not know what was in the wind, and he liked Matt Coburn. Besides, he did not want any man shot in the back. “Told us he seen some of our stuff over thataway.”
Scarff…and the last Matt Coburn had heard of Scarff he was riding with Harry Meadows. He was quite sure in his own mind that the rider he had seen streaking it for Meadows’ hide-out had been Free Dorset, and then he had seen Dorset at Strawberry. There was a pattern there somewhere, if he could only make it out. In any event, it looked as if something was going on between Dorset and Harry Meadows…and Dorset wasn’t seasoned enough for Meadows. So…?
Novel 1969 - The Empty Land (v5.0) Page 10