by C. M. Curtis
Al Tannatt spoke in a voice that was at once contemptuous and belligerent. “You’ve got no authority here in town, Beeman; you’re not the town marshall. I’ll need my gun tonight; I’m riding back to the ranch.”
There was no mistaking the distaste in Beeman’s eyes as he listened to Tannatt’s complaint. “I’m duly authorized to act in Marshall Bradley’s place until his broken leg mends. If you don’t like it, take it up with the town council.
“I want my gun, Beeman,” said Tannatt. His voice had the demanding petulance of a child long accustomed to getting his way.
Beeman, acting deaf and blind, wheeled and left the barroom, carrying the two pistols.
Jeff stepped over to the bar, watching Tannatt in the mirror. There was a man he had noticed before, leaning heavily on the bar, too drunk to be aware of events taking place around him. A pistol butt protruded from the holster on his right side. Jeff positioned himself next to the man and turned, leaning back against the bar, resting his hand on the butt of the drunken man’s pistol—a clear message to Tannatt, who, unlike Jeff, had friends in the room with weapons.
Tannatt sat at his table glowering at Jeff while Jeff, using his left hand, reached over, retrieved his unfinished drink and began sipping it.
For a time neither man moved from his spot and though some of the men had returned to their games and their drinking, everyone was careful not to get too close to either of them or to walk between the two. Taking his time, Jeff finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. He gingerly lifted the drunk man’s pistol from its holster and slid it into his own. Keeping his eyes on Tannatt, he wagged a finger to motion the bartender closer. “Tell him he can pick up his gun at the sheriff’s office tomorrow morning,” he said, tilting his head toward the drunk man. He put his coat over his arm and started toward the door. Tannatt stood up and walked over to intercept him.
Jeff had been halfway expecting this. Tannatt still had to save face and would feel safer now without a gun, knowing Jeff would be a fool to use one on him unarmed as he was and in a room full of witnesses. By disarming them, Beeman had put things back on Tannatt’s terms and now the bully was going to take advantage of that fact. Jeff turned wearily to face him.
Tannatt said, “Lucky for you the sheriff turned up when he did, but that don’t end it. There’s more ways to fight than just with a gun.”
“What’s your quarrel with me, Tannatt? I’m sure I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”
“You’re the one who started it,” lied Tannatt. “Me and the boys just came in to have a good time.”
Jeff stepped forward and stood eye to eye with him, and when he spoke his voice was very low. All talk in the room ceased as men strained to hear what he was saying. “You and I both know what happened here, Tannatt, and I want you to know something. If you tangle with me, you won’t have a good time.”
At that, Tannatt took a step backwards and folded his arms on his chest. Taking this to mean the confrontation was over, Jeff started once again toward the door. It was a trick and he would later reproach himself for not having seen through it.
Al Tannatt lunged forward and swung a heavy fist that struck Jeff a wicked blow on the side of the head. Jeff was knocked off balance and had to side-step to keep from falling. Tannatt again folded his arms on his chest and smiled, cock-sure and arrogant.
Having no other choice, Jeff unbuckled the gun belt and laid it, with his coat and hat, on the bar. He walked over to face Tannatt, and the two men began circling. Tannatt was smiling, savoring the moment and Jeff knew he could expect no fairness or mercy from the man. He had known men who loved to fight simply for the sake of the contest, but they were not cruel, and they found no joy in hurting another man. They would never stomp on a man’s head or kick him in the guts after he was down. Al Tannatt was not one of these. He was of another ilk, of which Jeff had also known more than a few. These were men who derived pleasure from inflicting harm and who delighted in cruelty.
Tannatt threw two punches, a right and a left, both of which Jeff easily dodged, pleased to see there was little speed behind them. His opponent was big and powerful, and Jeff knew he would have to rely on speed and skill to win this fight. He dodged another right, aimed at his chin, then moved in quickly and delivered a jarring blow to Tannatt’s out-thrust lower jaw.
Tannatt staggered backward a couple of steps, and when he moved forward again it was with his guard held higher and a new respect in his eyes. He swung again, missed again, and again Jeff moved in, this time swinging from the other side, striking Tannatt’s jaw a glancing blow which the big man partially blocked. Jeff backed off and Tannatt moved in, aiming two more blows at Jeff’s face, which Jeff was again able to dodge. Immediately, Jeff stepped in swinging, but this time before he could connect, Tannatt hit him with two lightning-fast jabs that jarred him backward and made his legs go weak. Tannatt pushed forward and Jeff saw he was in trouble. The slowness had been a trick; the man was fast.
Tannatt struck Jeff on the left ear with a hard right and Jeff staggered sideways and slammed up against the bar. Tannatt moved in for the kill, but he was over-confident. Jeff shifted his weight, braced his left hand on the bar and brought his right fist up in an upper-cut that had all his strength behind it. It connected with the underside of Tannatt’s chin with a resounding thud that rocked the big man’s head back and sent him reeling backwards.
Tannatt caught himself and stood there for a moment, his feet wide apart, his body swaying a little. Jeff was bent forward, supporting himself with his hands on his thighs. Neither man seemed eager to continue the fight at this moment. For the first time Jeff became consciously aware there was cheering and betting among the crowd of men that encircled the two combatants.
Presently, Tannatt started moving again, his guard up and a murderous look in his eyes. Jeff shifted his position, not wanting to have the bar at his back. There would be no more tricks now; they had taken each other’s measure. From here it would be an all-out, bloody battle until one of them dropped.
Tannatt came on suddenly, swinging hard with both fists, clearly intending to end the fight. Jeff took several blows to the body and head and dodged several more, giving back as good as he received. He aimed one well-timed blow at Tannatt’s mouth and split the man’s upper and lower lips straight down the center. Jeff’s left eye was either swollen shut or filled with blood—he didn’t know which—and his vision was gone on that side.
They were both deeply winded from the exertion of the struggle and their movements were slower now. Speed had ceased to be an issue and little attempt was made to block or dodge or feint; it was simply give and take, as they dragged in hoarse, rasping lung-fulls of air.
Jeff’s thoughts were as clouded as his vision, but he was aware that, by sheer virtue of size, Tannatt was pushing him gradually backward. He was about to side-step in an effort to change his position when, abruptly, he felt his shoulder blades make contact with the wall. Tannatt, seeing an opportunity in this, put all his strength into a solid blow to Jeff’s left cheek bone which slammed his head back against the wall. There was an explosion of light inside Jeff’s skull, and he felt his knees threaten to buckle. His only thought was to get out from between his opponent and the wall. Unwittingly he had dropped his guard to the level of his waist. Now he turned the palms of his hands outward, and with all his strength thrust them forward. The heels of his palms slammed into the middle of Tannatt, forcing a grunt out of the laboring lungs.
Jeff took advantage of the momentary pause and moved around to the side. From there he swung a right at Tannatt’s skull. His fist connected, but there was no power behind it and none inside of him to draw upon—he could barely lift his arms. Jeff knew he was beaten and he saw in Tannatt’s eyes as the man turned and came toward him, that he knew it too. Tannatt raised his bloody fists and moved in to end the fight. He threw a hard right-hand punch, which Jeff was lucky enough to dodge.
Jeff had one trick left and it was one Amado had
taught him. As Tannatt’s fist slipped past his head, Jeff reached forward and grasped his opponent by the front of the shirt. Tannatt’s weight was behind the punch and he was leaning forward, slightly overbalanced. Jeff pulled the big man toward him and bent his legs, pulling him down. Then he simply allowed himself to fall backwards, taking Tannatt with him. Just before they hit the floor, Jeff twisted and levered his good knee viciously into Tannatt’s groin.
Tannatt’s cry of agony sounded more like a death rattle as it blended with his struggle for air. He rolled over and lay curled on his side on the floor, each breath a groan. Jeff lay on his back, grateful for the respite, fighting to drag air into his lungs. The shouting and cheering in the room were deafening. The men who had bet on one man or the other knew the fight was not won or lost until one of the combatants was down, and the other on his feet. One man was on hands and knees, begging Tannatt to get up.
Jeff lay there for a few moments, then rolled onto his stomach and with great effort hoisted himself to his feet. As he did so, the pitch of the noise in the room increased to a roar. He looked down at Al Tannatt, who showed no signs of moving, staggered to the bar, and retrieved his holster. He pulled the borrowed pistol out and laid it on the bar. Someone handed him his coat and hat and said, “Good fight.” He walked unsteadily toward the door and as he passed Tannatt—still lying on the floor—he looked down and croaked in a half whisper of a voice, “Hope you and the boys had a good time tonight.”
The men who heard him bellowed with laughter and the circle opened up to let him pass. He didn’t even notice the slaps on the back he received as he moved through the door into the cool evening air.
Alvah Beeman had been making his rounds and had just returned from the opposite end of town. Having heard the commotion, he was approaching the saloon from the far side of the street when Jeff stepped out onto the boardwalk. Seeing Jeff’s battered face, Beeman quickened his step and walked past him to peer over the bat-winged doors into the interior of the saloon. Al Tannatt had not moved from his place on the floor. Beeman stood watching him for a moment, then turned and spoke to a man who was standing by the door.
“Fair fight?”
“Yep, an’ a good one. I lost nine bucks on it and it was worth every penny just to watch. Took enough hide off each other to half-sole an elephant.”
Jeff was standing at the edge of the boardwalk, still breathing hard, drinking in the cool air and enjoying its feel on his overheated face and body.
Stepping over to Jeff, Beeman said, “I thought I told you I didn’t want any more trouble out of you.”
Jeff didn’t look at him. He leaned out and spat blood into the dirt of the street. He said, “I was a big disappointment to my Sunday school teacher too.”
Beeman’s eyes hardened. They lingered for a moment then shifted to the entrance of the saloon, but when they swung back to Jeff, there was a grudging respect in them. “I told you if you got into any more trouble in this town I’d arrest you and if it was anyone else besides Al Tannatt lyin’ on the floor in there, I would. But I guess I’ll just ask you to move on.”
“Too bad,” said Jeff, “I was hoping to stay in this town; folks have been so friendly to me.” He paused and leaned against a post. “Alright with you if I stay until morning?”
“That’s fine, just stay out of trouble.”
A quick, involuntary laugh burst out of Jeff, and as he pushed away from the post and started across the street, he muttered, “That would be nice.”
Part way across he remembered something and stopped. Reaching into the coat pocket he withdrew the note Catherine Marcellin had given him for the sheriff.
“Almost forgot, Sheriff; I’m supposed to give this to you.”
Beeman accepted the note, unfolded it and read it. He gave Jeff a long, frankly appraising look.
“Mrs. Marcellin says you’re a friend of hers, is that true?”
“I’m honored she thinks so.”
“Have you known her long?”
“About twenty-four hours.”
Beeman smiled and shook his head, “Well, mister, I ain’t seen another one like you. I don’t know how you did it, but somehow in the space of twenty-four hours you managed to make the best friend and the worst enemy a man could have around these parts. You’ve had a busy day.”
Jeff smiled a wry smile that hurt his lips, which were already scabbing over. “You’re right about that, Sheriff, and I feel like it’s bed time.”
Beeman said, “Come on over to the jail, you can spend the night in one of the cells.”
“You arresting me?”
“Nope, just offering you a dry place to sleep.”
Jeff was still not sure how to take this. “Locked or unlocked?”
“Don’t make it so hard for a man to do you a favor. Catherine Marcellin says you’re her friend, and she’s the best judge of people I’ve ever known. She says you’re a little down on your luck and asked me to give you a hand in any way I can. I’m making the assumption you don’t have a place to sleep. If I’m wrong be on your way and go there. If not, we keep our jail clean, there’s a cot and some blankets you can use. “
“All right,” said Jeff, “I reckon it works both ways: if Catherine Marcellin trusts you, I will too.”
Despite the fact that he slept like a dead man, Jeff awoke early as was his custom. He folded the blankets Beeman had loaned him and let himself out through the unlocked front door of the sheriff’s office. His head throbbed, and every joint and muscle ached. His face felt like a plaster mask that would crumble and fall off if he so much as smiled. He went to the stream and stripped to the waist and shocked himself out of his morning lethargy by washing up in the icy water. Shaving was out of the question—his face was so badly cut and swollen that he knew it would be days before he dared to drag a razor across it. He thought about breakfast but realized he wasn’t hungry, and the very thought of chewing made his sore lips and jaw ache.
Jake Sharp was hitching the team to the first wagon when Jeff arrived. He stared for a moment and broke into grin. “Well ain’t you as pretty as a little red heifer in a flower bed this morning.” He moved closer and eyed Jeff’s face critically. He gave a low whistle and said, “Your ma wouldn’t know your face from a fresh hide.” But he didn’t ask any questions, and Jeff suspected the news of the fight had already gotten around. Jeff, not in the mood for humor, managed a half-hearted smile that made him wince, and he set about helping Sharp hitch up the horses.
“Well,” said Sharp, “don’t matter how you look, don’t matter how you feel; you showed up on time, and ready to work. That’s the kind of man I need. Now, if you’re any good at driving that wagon you’re hired on permanent. That suit you alright?”
Jeff nodded, and it made his headache worse.
A slender, grey-haired woman came out of the store and was introduced to Jeff as Sharp’s wife. She smiled, and Jeff, feeling uncomfortable about his appearance, smiled back.
She handed Sharp a sack and said, “Lunch.” To Jeff she said, “Hope you like fried chicken.”
“There’s nothing I’d rather eat, ma’am.”
“They do say it’s good for bruises,” Mrs. Sharp said.
Jeff studied her face for a moment, not sure if she was joking, and caught the same mischievous glint he had seen the day before in her husband’s eyes. The two, he concluded, shared the same, dry sense of humor.
“I’ll be grateful if that’s true, ma’am.”
The sun cast a gray light over the land through thick layers of clouds, making the mining camps look bleak and dull. There were three main camps, several miles apart on the steep road that threaded its way up the side of the mountain. They were wild places, populated chiefly by rugged men with beards and coughs. There were few women and fewer children.
Jeff had mined in the past, but his visit to these places inspired him with no desire to return to that occupation. It was late afternoon when the two wagons, with their weary drivers and tired hors
es, rolled into town and pulled up in front of Jake Sharp’s Mercantile. A man who had been sitting on the edge of the boardwalk directly across the street, stood up and walked across. It was Eli Marcellin. Ignoring Jeff, he walked directly up to Sharp who turned to face him.
“What happened, Jake? I was going to drive for you today.”
“I won’t be needing you to drive for me anymore,” replied Sharp.
Eli shot a dark glance at Jeff who realized Sharp had just given him Eli’s job.
Looking back at Sharp, Eli said, “You’d let another man drive my wagon without even telling me?”
“No, Eli; he drove my wagon today. I drove yours because you weren’t here to drive it.”
Eli seemed less sure of himself now; as if he knew his next argument was a feeble one. “You should’ve come and got me like you usually do.”
“I won’t do that anymore. A man works for me, he’ll have to stand on his own. I’m tired of propping you up Eli.” There was a pause as the two men stood contemplating each other, then Sharp continued, speaking more gently now, “Go home, son; you have a family, you have a place to go. You need to change. A man don’t last long the way you’re living. Your pa’s got that ranch and one day he’ll need to have someone to leave it to. That should be you.”
Eli wheeled abruptly and stalked across the street to disappear into the saloon.
Sharp stood silent for a moment, gazing after him. He turned to Jeff. “Pride’s a strange thing: it’ll make a man ruin his life and turn away any chance for happiness, just so he can show folks they can’t tell him what to do.”
“I hate to take a man’s job,” said Jeff.
“You didn’t.”
“You know, Mr. Sharp, I used to think of myself as a reasonably likable man, but lately I’ve been making enemies without even trying.”