Cross-Draw

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘Reckon she’ll keep her word?’ Herne asked when they were nearer Liberation.

  ‘Long as it suits her.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you trust her, Dan.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Jed, I don’t trust any woman. Not no how.’

  ‘Well, she sure acts sweet on you. There’s got to be something in that.’

  Dan Stewart nodded and set his face: ‘Damn right, Jed. Just one thing ...’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Trouble.’

  Herne would have liked to ask more, but he sensed it was the wrong time. He dropped back a few yards and gazed at the outline of the hills on either side, darker now and misted at the tops. The sky sat heavily on them, a dull slate grey.

  ‘Rider coming Jed!’

  Herne had seen him, though a few seconds after Stewart, who already had his rifle in his right hand and had pulled his horse to the right of the track. Herne freed his .55 Sharps and went to the left. Whoever it was didn’t care too much about running his mount into the ground; whatever his reasons for riding like that they had to be pretty damned important.

  Forty yards away from the two lawmen, the rider started to slow down and Stewart put up his weapon.

  ‘It’s young Radley. Helps out at the livery stable.’

  Herne kept his own rifle at the ready and waited.

  ‘Marshal Stewart! Marshal Stewart!’

  The youngster reined in his horse, both of them lathered with sweat. He jumped down from the saddle, almost losing his balance.

  ‘Take it easy, Radley. What’s the all-fired hurry?’

  ‘It’s Tolly, Marshal. Tolly!’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone! What in hell’s name you talkin’ about?’

  The boy coughed and stumbled over his words, breathing roughly. ‘They ... he ... they come and bust him out. Smashed the jail plumb open. They ...’

  Stewart got down and went towards him. ‘All right, easy now. Who’re this “they” you keep on about?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know. Didn’t see ’em myself. Maybe a dozen men. They came roarin’ into town, shootin, an ...’

  Stewart put his hand on Radley’s shoulder. ‘I thought you said you didn’t see ’em.’

  ‘Well, no, but that’s what folks are sayin’.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Herne put in. ‘Stick to the facts.’

  The boy looked up at Herne: ‘Fact is, mister, they bust Tolly from the jail and rode off out of town with him. Guess that’s the only fact I know for sure.’

  ‘An’ that’s the one we want. You did well, son.’

  ‘Sure,’ added Stewart, giving the kid a friendly slap on the back. ‘You done well to ride out for us.’

  The youngster blushed deep red and smiled in spite of himself. A broken-toothed grin under freckled cheeks. ‘Thanks, Marshal. Thanks.’ He looked at the two lawmen expectantly. ‘You goin’ t’ ride like all hell into town and chase after ’em?’

  Stewart shook his head. ‘No point in that, son. If Tolly’s gone, he’s gone. No amount of racin’ around’s goin’ to alter that.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘No sense in breakin’ an animal for no good reason.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Damn it, Radley, you’re gettin’ to sound like one of them telegraph machines, buttin’ an’ stutterin’ all the time. You take that horse of yorn down to the stream and let her water an’ rest up a while before you come back.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Jesus, Radley, quit that an’ do as I say. You done a good job already. Don’t go spoilin’ it.’

  ‘No, sir. An’ thank you, sir.’

  Radley started to walk his mount down to the stream, looking over his shoulder all the time at the two lawmen as they rode slow and easy back to town.

  ‘What d’you reckon, Dan?’ asked Herne.

  ‘Can’t say. Don’t see how it could’ve been the Double C. An’ I don’t figure anyone else wantin’ to bust Tolly loose. Guess we’ll have to wait an’ see.’

  Herne set his face into the wind: the marshal was right —it was all that they could do. For now.

  Chapter Eight

  There was still a crowd of townspeople around the front of the marshal’s office. Men who didn’t have any work to do, women and small kids, a handful of down-and-outs who hoped someone would get excited enough by what had happened to toss them a few cents for beer. The crowd began to separate as soon as the two lawmen appeared at the end of the street, making a channel through which Herne and Stewart could ride.

  As the two men got nearer, Quentin Faulkner began to hurry across the street from The Cattlemen’s House, anger showing clearly in his face and the determination of his stride. The burly shape of Wilbur Merz appeared at the far side of the crowd, hands resting over the slope of his belly.

  ‘See here, marshal, what right had both you and your deputy to be riding out of town and leaving your prisoner unguarded? I demand ...’

  Stewart gave Faulkner little more than a glance. ‘Demand away, Faulkner. It ain’t goin’ t’ get you anywhere.’

  ‘It is my belief,’ the owner of The Cattlemen’s House shouted at their backs as they passed beyond him, ‘that you left town with the specific purpose of allowing your friends at the Double C to ride in and take that Tolly to freedom.’

  Herne saw Stewart flinch: a wave of amazement and surprise ran through the crowd. Dan Stewart turned in his saddle and looked at Faulkner as though he were nothing more than dog vomit.

  ‘Tell you what to do with your beliefs, Faulkner. You can choke on ’em till you drown.’

  Faulkner’s face blazed. ‘Look, marshal, I’d best remind you that I’m the head of the town council and you cannot talk to me in that manner.’

  Stewart swung his horse round. ‘An’ I’ll remind you that I’m marshal here in town an’ it ain’t for you to tell me how to do my job.’

  ‘I don’t call giving the Double C a free hand ...’

  ‘Who in hell’s name says it was the Double C? You see ’em Faulkner?’

  Faulkner waved a podgy hand in Stewart’s direction. ‘I didn’t have to see them to know. Who else would want to free that gunman but those friends of yours?’

  Stewart’s fingers tightened about the saddle pommel. ‘Careful what you’re sayin’ about the Double C bein’ my friends.’

  Faulkner allowed himself a smile. ‘Come now, marshal, do you deny that’s where you have just returned from? Why the whole town knows about you and that Emerson woman.’

  There was a blur of movement and the Remington that was holstered on Stewart’s chest had been pulled clear in the fastest cross-draw that Herne had ever witnessed.

  Faulkner stammered, stuttered, went white. His arms fell to his sides. ‘Don’t... you can’t... you ...’

  ‘Damn you, you snivelin’ bastard! You take back what you just said!’

  ‘I didn’t...’

  Stewart eased back the hammer of the gun.

  ‘No, please. Please!’

  ‘Get down on your knees and take back what you said!’

  Quentin Faulkner stared around the crowd, open-mouthed and desperate for some sign of assistance. But folk either looked away or stared back at him with obvious relish. When his eyes met those of Wilbur Merz, the banker’s glazed over as if his fellow councilor wasn’t even there.

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Get down, you lyin’ bastard!’

  The gun moved an inch; Faulkner closed his eyes and, tears almost bursting from his face, he knelt in the dirt of the street in front of a crowd of drunks and hangers-on, women and fool kids. His head was bent low so that no one could see the humiliation pictured there.

  ‘Now say you lied.’

  Faulkner’s body shook, but no words came.

  ‘Say it!’

  The crowd was totally silent.

  ‘I ... I didn’t know what ... what I was saying about ... about the marshal and the Dou
ble C ...’

  ‘Or Miss Emerson.’

  ‘Or Miss Emerson.’

  Faulkner’s head went all the way forward, till the ends of his hair were touching the dirt. People at the back of the crowd began to snigger, then one or two laughed outright. Wilbur Merz turned his back and walked slowly towards the bank.

  As the noise from the crowd rose to a crescendo, Stewart released the hammer of his gun and slid it back into its holster. Herne dismounted and tied up his horse, then stepped onto the boardwalk.

  ‘Get away!’ he ordered the crowd. ‘Get on with your business. Whatever there was to see, you seen it.’

  He walked through the open door into the office, Stewart following him a few moments later. The desk had been pushed up against the side wall and a couple of chairs turned over; generally the place looked a mess. But that hadn’t been what the men were interested in.

  The door that led through to the cells had been ripped off its hinges and lay back against the wall, smashed beyond repair. Inside, the lock to Tolly’s cell had been shot away; the iron-barred door was half open. Whoever it had been had come in force.

  ‘We’d best be movin’.’ Stewart started to take boxes of cartridges from the wall cupboard.

  ‘Know where to?’

  ‘No. But with that many it shouldn’t be hard to pick up their trail’ Herne took some .45 shells for his own gun. ‘Guess they’ll know that sure enough.’

  ‘Right. They’ll either split up or else send someone back to watch for us—that’s the way I see it. You?’

  Herne looked up. ‘Sounds reasonable. Only way we’re goin’ to catch up with Tolly is by trackin’ ’em down, though.’

  'Surely is. Let’s go.’

  As the two men rode out of town, the crumpled shape of Quentin Faulkner sat hunched in the privacy of his office. Two lines ran down his face where the tears he’d been unable to stop had coursed through the caking of dust that had risen up from the street. The knees of his suit were marked with dirt. He sat there, alone, trying to wipe the memory of it from his mind, knowing that it would not be easy.

  The trousers he could brush, his face he could wash— but his mind. There would be only one way to bury his humiliation—and that would mean burying Dan Stewart as well.

  ‘Trail breaks off here, Dan.’

  Herne pointed down to a mess of hoofprints on the ground. ‘Small group of ’em fork off south, rest stay west.’

  ‘Well, wherever they’re headin’, it sure ain’t the Double C.’

  ‘No, but if it was them, they wouldn’t be likely to lead us straight back to the ranch.’

  The two men rode on cautiously, anticipating an am-bush. The slate sky had cracked apart and the sun spilled its warmth over them as they travelled. To the west aspens quivered in the breeze; out of sight beyond the hills to the east came the sound of lowing cattle in the mid-distance.

  Once Herne stopped short at a movement in the trees, his Sharps pulled clear, but it was only a large, black bird.

  And still the tracks of the larger of the two groups headed forwards; whoever it was had made no attempt to cover their path. Half a mile further on, Herne and Stewart found out why.

  The tree was on a crest that pushed up against the sky-line; the middle one of three. Their branches all pointed towards the east, set by winters of wind. From the strongest branch of the tree, Tolly’s body twisted slowly, a rocking movement, side to side.

  ‘Well, I’ll be ...’

  ‘Now that’s somethin’ I guess we neither of us figured.’

  ‘Sure answers a few questions, Jed.’

  ‘Guess it does. Asks a whole lot more, though. Let’s get to it.’

  They set their horses to a trot and crossed the open stretch of plain that led up to the three trees, both men grim-faced and thinking their own thoughts.

  Tolly’s arms had been secured behind him and his legs had been tied fast at both ankles and knees. It was a tall branch and impossible to hang a man from his saddle. They would somehow have had to have made Tolly stand on his horse instead of sitting on it—then whipped it away.

  The thick cord of rope about his neck had burnt through the skin and a double necklace of blood shone above and beneath it. The head lolled to one side, purple tongue pushing between darkened lips. Yet Tolly’s face looked younger than Herne remembered it, more peaceful. For all the world like a kid who’d been out picking blueberries and eating them.

  Except for the angle of the neck.

  Except for the mass of flies that swarmed around the seat and legs of his pants where he’d shat himself in the moment of dying.

  Dan Stewart climbed the trunk and shinned along the branch until he was within reach of the rope. He sliced through it with his knife and Jed caught the body as it fell, laying it out on the ground.

  ‘Jesus! One of us’s got to take this stinkin’ thing back to town.’

  ‘Hate to say it, Jed, but you’re the deputy.’

  Herne grinned ruefully. ‘Yep, but like you said the other day, you pull a lot more money than I do. You got to do somethin’ extra to earn all that.’

  Dan Stewart made a face, but he picked up the stiffening body nonetheless and draped it over his horse, tying it down with rope.

  ‘Boy,’ said Herne, ‘am I goin’ to ride well downwind of you!’

  The two lawmen stood in the middle of Liberation’s main street. Tolly had been deposited with the local undertaker and the crowd that had gathered to watch his return to town had dispersed just as quickly.

  ‘Jesus! I need a drink after that. Ain’t seen too many hanged men close up that it don’t get to my gut.’

  Herne, who had seen a good many killed by hanging and worse, looked at the younger man and said nothing.

  ‘Only thing is, with you unpopular at The Five Aces an’ me at The Cattlemen’s House, we’re runnin’ out of places to buy us a beer.’

  Herne grinned: ‘Never did know a lawman any good at his job who was popular with very many folk—’specially them he was hired to protect. ’Sides, you ain’t afraid of Faulkner, are you?’

  For an answer, Stewart set off towards The Cattlemen’s House. He ordered a beer for himself and a bourbon for Herne and pushed a way through the idlers and gawpers who were chewing tobacco and discussing young Tolly’s lynching.

  ‘What you goin’ t’ do ’bout it, marshal?’

  ‘Yep, marshal, you goin’ t’ catch them lynchin’ bastards?’

  ‘Marshal?’

  Stewart sat in one of the booths near the stairs and Herne sat opposite him, drinking and waiting for the demands of the men round the bar to die down.

  Josie came bustling out of the kitchen and gave Herne a wave and a bright smile. ‘Hey, Josie!’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Herne?’

  ‘Jed.’

  ‘Jed, then.’

  ‘I could use a steak and eggs. How ’bout you, Dan?’

  Stewart made a face and shook his head.

  ‘Now, marshal,’ joked Josie, ‘you know my cooking ain’t that bad.’ She hurried off back to the kitchen.

  Stewart looked at him. ‘That why you took a room down the street, ’stead of usin’ the one by the jail?’

  Herne sat forward, elbows on the table: ‘Maybe it is an’ maybe it ain’t. One thing, though, whatever the reason, it’s sure my business an’ nobody else’s. You may have good reasons for your feelin’s ’bout women, but they ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘Hey, steady on, Jed. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Josie’s nice enough—for a woman.’

  ‘Huh!’ Herne sat back and swallowed his bourbon. The door to Faulkner’s office opened a little then shut fast. Round the bar folk were still busily talking about what had happened to Tolly.

  Herne waited till he was half way through his steak before he asked Dan the same question most other folks in town were asking.

  ‘I don’t rightly know who done it. Whoever it was split up the other side of that hangin’ tr
ee an’ we’d be fools to try an’ track all of ’em. Course, I got a few ideas, but ideas don’t prove nothin’.’

  ‘That’s right, but I’d like to hear ’em just the same.’

  Stewart sank the last of his beer and wiped his hand round his brown moustache. ‘There’s ...’

  He didn’t get any further. There was a shout from out in the street and a whole lot of commotion down at the bar. The name ‘Emerson’ drifted through the welter of noise and then there she was standing in the doorway.

  She was wearing black this time, the cloth smeared and stained with the dirt of a hard, fast ride. Her dark hair was pushed up underneath a fawn hat and she wore a gun belt with a curved-handled Smith and Wesson .32 in the holster. Her green eyes were blazing with more fury than Herne had even seen in one woman.

  Nor was she alone.

  Scott Miller was right behind her, whip and pistol in their usual places, anger showing in his face also. There were other Double C men just through the doors on the boardwalk. .

  The saloon was silent.

  ‘Marshal Stewart!’

  The woman’s voice rang through the large room like a bell tolling the end of the world.

  Dan Stewart stood away from the booth, moving slow, not wanting to start anything before he knew what he was into.

  ‘Miss Emerson.’

  ‘We brought you something, marshal.’

  She flicked her hand at Miller, who turned to one side and called a couple of his men forward. They walked into the saloon and a gasp went up from everyone round the bar.

  They were carrying one of the cowboys between them, holding an arm and a leg each. They moved him head first, so that the head itself fell forward and stared up at Stewart with eyes that were open and dead. The man’s mouth was open, too, and below another, wider mouth yawned where his throat had been cut. The bubbles of blood that had sprung from it had dried into crimson lips.

  ‘Set him down, boys.’

  The Double C men laid the dead cowboy out on one of the tables, head and legs falling over the edges. Bathsheba Emerson stepped up alongside the body and pointed at it.