Jay drew a breath. “I haven’t decided yet,” he replied. “First, I’ll visit the marshal, find out if anyone wants to press charges, or if they’ll just slap us with a fine – and just how much that fine’ll be.”
Smith was sorting through wanted posters when Jay Durango entered his office.
“Close the door behind you, Durango, and take a seat” he ordered. “We got some things to discuss, you and me.”
Jay did as the marshal had said. Smith took a sheet of paper off the top of his desk and handed it over. “Read this. The complaints start with disturbance of the peace and end with material damage. You think it’s a fair assessment?”
“I don’t know,” said Jay, quickly running his eyes down the sheet. “I wasn’t there. But I can see how it could have happened the way your people say it did.”
“So where does that leave us?” asked Smith.
“I guess that’s a decision only you can make, marshal.”
Smith nodded. “Well, you’re right there. Now, fights and such are nothing special in Abilene. If we were to hold a trial every time I arrested a bunch of brawlers, Judge Kilgore’d be kept busy twenty-four hours a day. As it is, your men are damn’ lucky that no one was seriously injured in that particular fracas. So here’s what I propose to do. I plan to hold your cowpunchers for forty-eight hours – just time enough to make sure they realize what they’ve done. And then they’ll have to pay for everything they destroyed.”
Jay grimaced. “That’s fair enough, as far as it goes,” he said. “But I’ll need those men tomorrow, Smith. We’ve got a herd to load for the buyer. I can’t do it without them.”
“I appreciate your difficulty,” said Smith. “But that’s not my responsibility. Your men should have thought about that before they started cutting up didoes.”
Jay bit off a reply, for the hell of it was, Smith was right. “Okay,” he said finally. “What’s the fine?”
“I’ve spoken with Fred Donahue, the owner of the opera house,” said Smith. “He’ll be satisfied with four hundred dollars.”
“Four – !”
“That’s what Fred figures it’ll take to repair the damage,” said Smith. “And it’s cheap at half the price, when you figure it also includes loss of earnings for him and Miss Davies.”
“I guess,” said Jay defeatedly. “Can I talk with my men?”
Smith nodded. “Go ahead. You got ten minutes.”
Jay stood up and went through to the cellblock. The room was illuminated only by a small coal oil lamp. A central aisle ran between two rows of cells. The RB cowboys were stuck in the last two cells on the right side.
They looked dejected and ashamed of themselves, all except Gus Gentry, who was sleeping the sleep of the just. Looking up, Rio Shayne was the first to see the foreman.
“Jay!” he called. “It’s high time you came looking for us. You’ve come to get us out, right?”
“Uh-huh,” replied Jay, shaking his head. “You stay where you are, boys – for forty-eight hours.”
Rio was shocked. “Jay, we was only having us a little fun,” he argued. “Weren’t no harm in it. Them townies just didn’t realize we was only funning with ’em. Any case,” he added, “we’ll be happy to pay for the damage.”
“All four hundred dollars’ worth?” countered Jay. “You fools,” he added. “You’ve brought all this on yourselves. But you know the worst of it? It means I’ll be short-handed tomorrow, when we get those dogies loaded aboard Swenson’s train. God alone knows how we’ll manage it.”
They cowboys now gathered at the bars looked thoroughly miserable, no longer able to meet Jay’s eyes for their shame.
“Forget about the fine. I’ll take care of that, and then deduct it from your wages once we’re back on home range. And you can forget about something else, whilst you’re at it. You can forget all about your bonuses!”
Jay glared at them.
“The day after tomorrow I expect from each and every one of you to work harder than you’ve ever worked before,” he spat. “You’ll work from sunrise to sundown, and I don’t want to hear any complaints while you get that herd loaded. And if you don’t follow my orders, I swear that Tom Calhoun’ll hear the full story!”
He turned and left the cellblock.
“Well said,” murmured Smith, who had heard the conversation through the open door. “Have a cup of coffee. Few things I’d like to know.”
He poured a cup and pushed it across the desk. As Jay sat down and picked it up he said, “What’s on your mind, Smith?”
“Just wondering.”
“Wondering … ?”
“Whether you’re cut out for a foreman’s job.”
“What kind of a question is that?” asked Jay, bristling. “It’s good, honest work, and I do it as well as some and better than most.”
“But you’re not just another cowpuncher, are you?” prodded Smith. “You’re a different breed altogether.”
It was on the tip of Jay’s tongue to deny it, but one look into Smith’s sharp eyes changed his mind. “I wasn’t always in the cowboy trade, no,” he said instead. “I’ve known hard times, but they’re over now, and I don’t care to discuss them.”
“I’d like to believe it,” Smith replied honestly.
“What’s stopping you?”
“Just the fact that you seem to know Lee Kedrick.”
Jay’s expression betrayed his surprise.
“I saw you two together a couple hours ago, Durango,” Smith continued. “And that set me wondering about something else.”
“Oh?”
“What two fellers like you could possibly have in common.”
“Is that any of your business?”
“I guess not. But Kedrick’s a man to watch; a dangerous one. He’s slick with a gun and there’s plenty who say he’s killed more than twenty men with it. He hasn’t started any trouble here in town yet, but I daresay it’s just a matter of time.”
“Kedrick and I met a few years ago,” Jay replied. “We never did hit it off. Just like fire and water, marshal. Last time I saw him was during the Civil War. Since then our paths have never crossed again, I swear.”
“And now that they have … ?”
“I’ve got no quarrel with Kedrick. Far as I know, he’s got no quarrel with me.”
“That’s not the way it looked to me, when you two were talking.”
“Then I suggest you take it up with Kedrick, marshal. If he’s got anything in mind, he’s keeping it well hidden. And that’s just fine by me. I’d as soon not get involved.”
As Jay let himself out of the jailhouse, he thought about what he’d just said. He didn’t want to get involved with Kedrick at all. The man was trouble. But sometimes life had a way of involving you whether you cared for it or not.
Chapter Seven
The flickering light of a coal oil lamp illuminated the small room. Four men had gathered around the table in the center of the floor.
One of them was tall and muscular. A battered Stetson covered his greasy hair, and he wore a black patch over his right eye. His name was Sego Lockhart, and he was a man who had killed more times than one, and was wanted by the law for his murderous ways.
Tim Frazier accompanied Lockhart. The blond with the branding scars on his face was also wanted in three states.
The third in the row was the half-breed Cherokee Tom – a killer whose weapon of choice was a Green River skinning knife, with which he was a master.
“Just tell us what you got planned, Lee,” said Sego Lockhart while pouring another glass of whiskey.
Lee Kedrick struck a light for his cigarette. He did it slowly, while he weighed his response.
“We’ve got to change our plans, Sego,” he said. “Something unexpected came up.”
“What?” Frazier asked impatiently. His voice sounded high and nervous. “I thought everything was arranged?”
“Oh, we’ll grab the money, Tim,” answered Kedrick. “But before that I’ve got another score
to settle.”
“What is it?” asked Lockhart.
“Earlier on tonight I ran into a feller I know. I haven’t seen him for years, but he could make trouble for us.”
“Who is it?”
Cherokee Tom’s simple question was straight to the point, like the man himself. They’d set themselves to rob the bank, where just about all the money for the buying and selling of cattle was held, and nothing was about to stop Tom in that little enterprise.
“His name’s Durango. Jay Durango. We had a … difference of opinion … a few years ago.”
“And you think he still bears a grudge?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But like I say, he knows me. And that makes him a risk.”
Kedrick finished his whiskey and looked at each of his men in turn. They’d first met about four weeks earlier, in the red-light district, and quickly discovered that they had much in common. So they’d decided to form an alliance, figuring that there was strength in numbers, and that each could use the others to help him get rich, the easy way.
“Durango’s men got into some trouble earlier, a fight down at the opera house, and Smith arrested the pack of them. That means Durango’s all alone right now, with no-one to help him till the marshal decides to set his men free. We’ll never get a better chance at Durango than now.” His eyes settled on Tim Frazier and Cherokee Tom. “Boys,” he said, “I want you to go find Durango … and kill him.”
Cherokee Tom’s eyes flared with pleasure. When it came to killing, he was an expert. “We’ll lure him into the red-light district,” he suggested with a smile. “That place is still a law unto itself, no matter what Smith says to the contrary. Anybody sees or hears anything down there, they’ll turn a blind eye and a deaf ear.”
“That’s right,” said Kedrick. “But that’s not what we want right now.”
“Huh?”
“Corner that sonofabitch and kill him,” said Kedrick, “but make as much noise as you like doing it. It’s important that Smith goes down there to investigate the killing.”
“Why?” asked Frazier.
“Because while Smith’s down at the red-light district, trying to figure out who killed Durango and why, we go ahead and hit the bank. By the time Smith realizes what’s happened, we’ll be long gone and all he’ll have to follow is a cold trail.”
Lockhart nodded his approval. “We kill two birds with one stone,” he growled. “We kill your Mr. Durango and give Smith something to keep him busy.”
“That’s it,” smiled Kedrick. “Tim, Cherokee – you hit Durango. Me and Sego’ll hit the bank, grab the money and then light out. Then we’ll all quit town, and meet up again just below Three Pine Hill.”
When Jay left the marshal’s office he was deep in thought. There was an uneasiness in him that had nothing to do with the events of the evening. It was just a sense of … but that was the hell of it. He didn’t really know what it was a sense of. Impending trouble? Almost certainly. But trouble for whom? The men? Billy?
As his thoughts turned to the boy, Jay again marveled that there could be such a marked difference between two brothers. Billy’s older sibling, John Calhoun, was altogether tougher in nature. If anything were to happen to Tom right now, John could take over the running of Rancho Bravo and do so with a firm, sure hand. It was completely the opposite with Billy. He’d do his best – but his best would never be good enough, as young and green as he was right now.
Still, that wasn’t Billy’s fault. John had grown up tough. He’d had to, living way out in the middle of nowhere, far from any kind of civilization. Billy, however, had always favored his late mother, and the years he’d spent with the Comanche had altered him in some way that Jay still didn’t understand. There was a distance in the boy, as if he truly didn’t know his real place in life.
But perhaps the cause of Jay’s uneasiness lay closer to home, for there was also Lee Kedrick to consider. That the man meant him harm was another certainty.
By this time Jay had reached Buckeye Street. In the distance he could see red light coming from the amusement district. He could even hear the screams and laughter of the girls and the yells from the drunken cowboys who were down there, having fun.
Two drunks staggered by on the other side of the street. They saw Jay looking in the direction of the red-light district and one called over, “That’s the place, pilgrim! Heaven on earth, my friend. The girls are angels ... ”
“Thanks,” Jay replied.
“I mean it,” insisted the drunk. “Ask for Bonnie Lee, man”, he advised. “I was with her about half an hour ago.”
As the drunks staggered on their way, Jay heard a noise behind him. He turned, feeling that he was being watched. But the street was dark and he could see nothing.
He continued on his way, but almost immediately he got that itchy feeling between his shoulders again. This time, when he turned, they crowded him fast, two men, one white, young, with fine blond hair just visible beneath his round-crowned black hat, the other taller, hatless, with long, greasy hair the color of midnight. He was an Indian, Jay thought, then revised his opinion: no, a ’breed.
“Keep walkin’,” said the white man, stabbing the barrel of a Colt into the small of his back even as the half-breed yanked Jay’s Colt from its holster and shoved it into his own waistband. “Don’t give us any trouble, mister.”
Jay cursed himself. There was a time when he’d never have been taken as easily as this. But blaming his slowed reflexes on advancing age was no comfort just then. He said, “I don’t want any trouble. If it’s my wallet you’re after—”
“It’s not,” said Tim Frazier. “Now do like I say, just keep walking. We’re takin’ a little trip down to the red-light area.”
Jay frowned but did as they said, thinking fast now. If the motive behind this wasn’t robbery, then what was it? Again he thought of Lee Kedrick, and this time his blood ran cold.
Chapter Eight
The red-light district was a world unto itself. Surrounded by a rough and ready plank wall, that part of the town had its own, less-rigorous set of laws. As they drew closer the sounds of revelry increased. The place was so crowded it was almost impossible to estimate numbers. Red lamps swung back and forth outside makeshift tent saloons. Drunken cowboys tumbled and fell into the mud. Others yelled and cussed above the sound of tinny pianos, while women screamed and their tormentors laughed about it.
No-one paid Jay or his captors any notice.
Then a woman with curly brown hair and a pale, rice-powdered face came in from their left and touched Jay on the arm. “Lookin’ for some fun, cowboy?” she asked, her head tilted at a coquettish angle.
Before Jay could reply the half-breed, Cherokee Tom, growled, “Beat it.”
They walked on.
“What’s the plan, fellers?” Jay asked without looking around.
“You’ll find out,” said Frazier, licking his lips nervously.
“Why don’t you tell me right now? I don’t know you men. We don’t have any quarrel … do we?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” said Frazier. “This is nothin’ personal, cowboy. It’s more in the nature of a favor.”
“For Kedrick?” asked Jay.
“Oh, you’re sharp,” said Frazier. “Yeah, Kedrick. Seems there’s bad blood between you two. Lee decided it’s about time yours was spilled.”
There is was, then, out in the open. These men had been sent by Kedrick to kill him.
Well, he thought, we’ll just see about that.
Tim Frazier put his free hand on Jay’s shoulder and pushed him into a darkened alleyway between a plank-built saloon and a tent equivalent next door to it. Streetlight was just a memory here; this was where darkness ruled.
When they were close to the end of the alleyway Jay’s captors came to a halt, and Frazier said, “Keep walking, cowboy.”
That confirmed something else Jay had suspected – that they were going to shoot him in the back.
Jay thought, Hell with that.
Everything depended on timing, now. He strained his ears, trying to hear, above the muted sounds of revelry, the sounds his would-be killers made cocking their weapons, the tell-tale change in their breathing that would let him know when they were going to pull their triggers, and then—
Jay threw himself aside and down just as the alleyway behind him exploded with sound and muzzle-flash. He twisted, powered back up and launched himself at his captors, hoping to crowd them so that gunplay was next to impossible.
He slammed into Tim Frazier and Frazier crashed over backwards into the mud, and even as Cherokee Tom turned at the waist and tried to gut-shoot him with his own Colt, Jay batted the half-breed’s gun-arm aside and the shot went wide.
Not giving him a chance to recover, Jay butted him in the face, felt cartilage snap, heard Tom howl and swear. He drew back, saw blood cascading from Tom’s nostrils, then grabbed him by the wrist and squeezed.
Tom struggled for a while, trying to hit him, but Jay kept ducking and weaving, squeezing all the while, and feeling beneath his callused palms Tom’s bones beginning to grind.
At last, with a cry, Tom let go the Colt, and it fell to earth. Jay immediately kicked it out of reach.
They broke apart, breathing hard. Before Jay could go after the gun, however, Tom drew a knife from his sash and hurled himself forward. Jay leaped back to miss the scything blade, feeling his anger rise now to a pitch that bordered on reckless. Tom made another feint, and this time Jay couldn’t avoid it; the tip of the blade scored his left bicep, slicing cotton, skin, flesh.
Jay groaned, felt the warmth of blood wash down over his chilled skin, but the pain only fuelled his fury now, and that was good, because there were two of them and only one of him, and he needed every edge he could get if he was going to walk away from this.
Tom lunged at him again, a brightness in his eyes that was wholly unnatural. His tone shone whitely against the beard of blood that had spilled from his mashed nose. Again he came in, again Jay dodged, and then once more—
This time Jay let him come, knife-arm leading the way. Jay bent forward at the waist, allowing the thrust to miss him by inches, maybe as little as just one, and then he locked both fists around Tom’s wrist again, twisted, and Tom howled again, his arm suddenly locked behind his back but the knife still held firm.
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