by Nelson Nye
This was why he wanted the Bench, not for the grass — though he could use that, too. But the road came first, that was where his money was. When the Company got their preliminary report, a survey crew would be sent into the region and the value of land would go up like Apache smoke. Which was why he’d held back his beef so long, not for the rain but for how it would look to the rest of this country when Bar 40 scrapped boundaries and moved onto the Bench.
That high shelf would be the obvious choice of any survey. There was no other practical place for a roadbed. It wasn’t only that he had to protect his investment; that Bench ran for twenty miles through this country and control of it would net a handsome profit to the man who could deliver it. Tomorrow Bar 40 would start moving cattle.
He heard the creak of the stairs and, guessing this would be Bill Grace again, went over and quietly opened the hall door. His foreman slipped in, and said as soon as the door was shut: “Gurden’s bought into this!”
Kimberland grinned. “Joke — ha ha.”
“It’s no joke,” Grace said.
“How could he buy in when he don’t even know — ”
“He knows, all right. First thing your star-packer done when he went over there was ask what Brackley was doin’ in Chip’s place. Gurden wiped off his mouth an’ said he’d come for a loan which he had made him — secured by a lien against Brackley’s stock and range.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“The point,” Grace said, “is what do we do about it? I told you when we took over Chip’s ranch that feller was goin’ to lay for you. You better let me shoot him.”
If it was just Gurden, Kimberland reflected, it might be better to let him get away with this. But it wasn’t just Gurden. Bar 40, on the climb, had tramped roughshod over everyone. The slightest evidence of weakness would bring the whole bunch swarming, and Gurden wouldn’t quit with this. He had too long a memory.
“I’ve got to think,” Kimberland said.
“You better think fast if we’re pushin’ those cattle over there in the morning.”
“How did Frank take it? I mean about Brackley’s killing and that plaster of Gurden’s.”
“Acted damn suspicious.”
“Good,” Kimberland nodded. “Now has Chip really got a lien?”
“He’ll damn well produce one — ”
“Keep your voice down,” Kimberland grumbled. “We don’t want my girl getting up to come in here.”
“She wouldn’t know a jughandle from a tomato can,” Grace said. “All she’s got any time for is — ” He let go of that line when he caught Kimberland’s look. Abruptly then they were both standing tense, faces whipped toward the window. There was a far sound of shots, a sullen rumble like thunder with a shout lifting through it, thinly soaring, suddenly gone. The racket, as Kimberland threw up the window, could mean but one thing to any listening cowman.
“By God,” Grace cried, “it’s that trail herd!”
Louder, nearer, laced with the terrified bawling of cattle, that trampling roar was like the sound of an avalanche. Cries flew out of the street. The hall door burst open. “Father!” A girl with a quilted wrapper clutched about her ran barefooted past the scowling red-cheeked foreman, the loose mass of her hair tumbling about slim shoulders like a cascade of gold in the light from the street. “Father — ?” More guns went off and there were yells from below. Bill Grace, swearing, dashed for the stairs.
Kimberland, still at the window, dropped a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulder. The tautness of strain was in his muscles, too.
Honey said, “I’m afraid — ”
His watch said 2:30. He allowed her to coax him as far as the rocker. “We’re as safe right here as we’d probably be anywhere.” He took the girl’s hand. “Tonight we’ve got a new marshal, Sugar. I think you could turn his head very easily.”
There was no change in the lovely face but her voice was compliant. “Would that help you, Father?”
“I suppose,” he said with just the right inflection, “a woman might find that young scamp attractive.”
“Do I know him, Father?”
He smiled down at her quizzically. “He’s the fellow who saved you from Church’s bull that time.” He spoke as to a child. “Perhaps you’d enjoy having lunch with him tomorrow. Of course,” he added doubtfully, “Frank’s pretty much of a roughneck.”
“I could do that,” Honey said.
“Town’s growing up. Never does any harm to be well thought of by a marshal. Sort of like to have him get the idea us folks from Bar Forty…. Look, just act natural, Sugar. Friendly. That’s all I want you to do.”
• • •
Frank, at the marshal’s office, had turned in at two. Danny was tipped back in one of the chairs against the wall, snoring with his mouth opening and shutting with each breath. Frank had left Chavez in charge of the town. Sleep wouldn’t come to Frank what with all the banging and clatter being stirred up by that gale. His thoughts were like horses; every fourth or fifth jump they’d take him back to those bodies in the rear of Ben’s store. Chavez had shown up with Ben, and the furniture-selling coroner had officially pronounced Brackley dead. Frank had then assembled the contents of his pocket which had included a dog-eared wallet. This last, upon inspection, had proved to contain a handful of silver and thirty-four dollars in hard-used bills. Frank had stared at these blankly.
“What’s the matter?” Ben had asked, and Frank had explained about the loan Gurden claimed to have made Jace. Chavez had looked frankly skeptical. Ben had asked, “What about those fellers that carried him over here?”
Frank shook his head and, figuratively speaking, was still shaking it. The men who had brought Brackley here might have taken the money if Brackley’d had it on him but Frank couldn’t dredge any confidence from the notion. If a man made up his mind to robbery, where was the sense in leaving part of the haul? It would all have been in Brackley’s wallet if he’d had it. Yet Frank had no doubt if he was made to, Gurden would produce a signed lien on Brackley’s ranch. There was only one question about this in Frank’s mind: Had Gurden had such a paper before Brackley’s killing?
But this question bred another. Had Gurden arranged Brackley’s death or had somebody else? He could foresee the kind of rumors that were no doubt already flying — that would certainly fly if Bar 40 put cattle on Brackley’s range. Kimberland or Gurden — which one of them had hired this?
Chavez had put up Frank’s dun or he might have gone on the prowl again. He needed sleep. This had been a hard night, about the hardest one he had ever put in. He got up, pulled his boots on, and walked over to the door. Danny was still snoring. Frank stood there a moment, thinking, then went back, got his hat and shrugged into his brush jacket.
He pulled open the door. The suck of the wind put the lamp flame out. Frank heard the shots then, the distant yell, the rumble that followed it. Swearing in the testiness of temper, he ran over to the wall rack and jerked down a rifle. Pausing only to make sure it would take the shells in his belt, Frank hurried into the street.
The night was wild with wind and tumult. The pounding rush of crazed cattle was like the roar of a giant falls. They were nearer now, coming fast, straight for town. He remembered with a sense of bleak irony telling Chavez that cows were the one thing he didn’t have to worry about. Looking around, Frank could see there were plenty of others coming out just as he was, armed to do battle for the town’s preservation. He caught faintly the excited whickering of horses where a dozen were still uneasily huddling in the grip of tied reins at the rack before the Flag. Why the hell didn’t some of those fools climb on them!
The wind flapped his clothes, staggering him with its violence. Digging chin into his collar, he tried to beat his way against it, needing to get into the lee of something, knowing the danger of being trapped in the open. Already those fellows across the way had got under cover. Grit stung his eyes. Dust boiled up by the running herd got so thick he couldn’t see ten yards in front
of him.
He locked his teeth against their chatter, trying to find Fentriss’ barn. To move at all was like bucking a blizzard. Above the racket of hoofs, the shots and the bawling, Frank caught the screech of rending wood, the yells and crash as a building toppled. Those steers wouldn’t leave enough of this town for kindling.
He found a wall and stumbled along it, drunkenly reeling, cursing floundering feet that wouldn’t track. He could almost feel the snorting breath of those beasts as the leaders funneled into the far end of the street, bawling, horns clacking. The gunshots sounded like cork stoppers popping. Frank reached the end of the wall and the wind hit him solidly, driving the breath back into him. The dust-laden gusts tore at him, half blinding him. He staggered through the stable’s door hole into a blackness impenetrable as lamp soot. Loose boards shook and rattled. The place was noisy with the clamor of frightened horses. Frank wiped his streaming eyes on the back of an abrasive wrist.
Across the street through the blowing dust there were patterns of foggy radiance where turned-up lamps shone through the windows, but these didn’t make seeing any easier to speak of. The dust cleared a little as the gusts slid into a lull. The herd had been stopped, was beginning very slowly to revolve on itself; but Frank knew, without riders, how chancey was this respite, how swiftly those steers would run again should something upset them. He took his chance while he had it and darted into the open, thinking to get up on the roof of the Mercantile where he’d be able to see a little better.
In the dust and confusion he miscalculated someway and wound up before the half-leaf doors of the Opal. He shouted for Gurden but got no answer. The stopped cattle were still milling in front of Minnie’s. He heard Chavez’s voice:
“Douse them lamps before you burn up this town! Pronto!”
This seemed to make sense to quite a number of folks. One by one the nearer lights winked out. The horses tied in front of the Flag had gone away with their hitchrail. Gurden hadn’t locked up; Frank saw the batwings flap as wind picked up the dust again with a howl. Something flapped, too, behind the herd. Frank felt the ground quiver under him as every steer in it suddenly churned into motion. Frank dived for the Opal.
He knew where the lamps were. He got one, letting go of the rifle, and dragged a match across the seat of his pants. A lantern would have been better, but he took what he could get. His fastest wasn’t any too quick. There they came, boiling out of the dust with their eyes big as wash tubs. As Frank crossed the porch and ran into the street some woman cried shrilly, “Is he crazy?” And then the herd was engulfing the street like a monster, so near he could see their slobber-flecked chests and the sharp wicked glint of their tossing horns.
Frank flung the flaring lamp high above them.
The herd broke like splatter, the whole front melting away, panicked by the sight of that flame diving at them. Several steers crashed head-on into buildings, adding their terrified bellows to the uproar, but the great bulk of the mass veered off south after the lead steer who, by the kindness of God, took for the largest chunk of open space in sight, trailed by his followers in a curve that tipped east back of Fentriss’ livery. One crazed brute, lone-wolfing it up the street through the dust, almost ran Frank down while he was standing there shaking. He fired twice pointblank with his pistol, yet blind panic or momentum carried the animal the length of the Mercantile’s front before collapsing.
Frank’s legs folded under him. Cramps ravaged his stomach.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dragging a hand across his mouth Frank shoved up off his knees and got out of the street. There was much random shouting, lights were commencing to flare up behind windows as anxious merchants and the incurably curious came forth out of hiding to assess the damage. The wind — after the manner of that rail and those horses — seemed to have gone somewhere else. Frank could hear occasional gunshots but these were scattered, sporadic, probably mercy slugs for cripples. He supposed he ought to get back to the office where he could be found, but that plaster of Gurden’s was still on his mind and he went down Krantz’s wagon pass and thumped on the Opal’s back door with his fist. He kept at it a long while before convinced he would not get any answer.
He dragged himself around to the front, unutterably weary, almost out on his feet. He guessed he ought to be hunting Tularosa but he just wasn’t up to it. He went back to the office and, finding Danny Settles in the bunk, collapsed on the floor.
He woke up in the bunk with the morning sun nearly three hours high. He was so crammed with aches when he tried to move he didn’t much care if he never got up. He heard steps outside and Danny Settles came in with his breakfast, his old-young face looking cheerful as a man who has just been handed a king full on aces. “Good morning, Frank.”
Frank said contentiously, “Is it?” and grimaced.
Danny, chuckling out of the wealth of his good humor, put the tray down on the desk. Frank sat up. The sight of food nauseated him. “Better eat that yourself.” He lay back and stretched out his legs. “Well?” he growled when he discovered Danny watching him.
“It probably doesn’t amount to anything,” Danny said, “but that pianist at the Opal — Sleight-of-Hand Willie — was over here before daylight. He looked pretty banged up — ”
“What’d he want?” Frank asked, showing interest.
“He seemed to think you ought to know Kelly’s into some deal with Gurden. Seemed to have the idea that gun — ” He broke off as someone pounded the door.
“Come in,” Frank said impatiently.
It was Councilman Krantz, the Mercantile’s owner. His eyes looked like they would jump through his glasses. “That pizness last night — ” He shook his head. “I haff mizchudged you, my poy. But you vant to look out for that Chip, he iss after you. He vas ofer to mine house pefore breakfast yet. He vants to take that star avay from you — says you von’t enforce that new gun law.”
“He was never more wrong in his life,” Frank growled. He flung off the blanket and stamped into his boots. He’d lost his hat last night in the wind and reached for Danny’s. He said, glowering at Krantz, “Do I look like the kind that would sell a man out!” and caught up his shell belt, slapping it around him.
Danny Settles, alarmed, said, “Frank, where are you off to?”
Even Krantz looked worried. But Frank had had about enough of Chip Gurden. “I’m going to do something I should of done last night!” he said hotly.
He tramped across to the hotel, went up to the barber’s room and talked Pete into shaving him at the point of a pistol.
“But gol darn it, man, this is Sunday!“ Pete protested.
“If you want to see Monday,” Frank said, “get busy.”
He felt more himself as he went down the stairs. He’d cooled off a little, too, and decided he might as well stop for a cup of coffee, secretly hoping he might catch sight of Honey. He had the dining room to himself except for Joe Wolverton who owned the saddle shop and, not being married, was enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Sight of Joe eating suddenly whipped up Frank’s appetite. “Ham and eggs,” he told the hasher. “Wreck ’em and fetch the java right away.”
He was midway through this food when the swish of a skirt and the tap of high heels swung his face around. A warm pleasure rushed through him when he saw Honey moving between tables. He looked — as the saddle man later told his cronies — “like a winter-starved dogie catchin’ a whiff of fresh alfalfa.”
It was the first time Frank had got near enough to speak since he had saved her from Church’s bull. She completely took his breath away but at least he had sense enough to drag off his hat.
“How are you, Frank?” She came right up to him and put out her hand. She saw the star on his shirt. “So you’re our new marshal. Frank, I’m proud of you.”
He felt her hand squirm and finally let go of it. Fussed up and grinning, he stood twisting his hat. She’d filled out a lot, he thought — looked prettier than a basket of chips. Honey, squeezing his arm, laughed u
p at him softly.
Somebody scraped back a chair and Frank, recollecting Wolverton, became self-conscious and awkward, knowing the man would be taking this in.
Honey, still hanging onto him said, “I think — I’m almost sure — I will be staying over tonight. Abbie’s been making some new hats for me. Perhaps we could get together for dinner….”
Frank stared and gulped, his grin showed embarrassment. Then remembering his job he said glumly, “I’ll be on duty tonight.” But he wasn’t on duty this noon — he wouldn’t go on before one. He said, brightening, “Could I take you this noon?”
Honey, hesitating, smiled. “That will be all right.”
“Swell!” Frank said, forgetting Joe Wolverton, and the waitress who was also watching them with an interest not untinged by envy. “Twelve o’clock?”
Honey took a deep breath. “We’d better make it twelve-thirty. I might not be through by twelve.”
Giving his arm a final squeeze, she moved off toward a table by the windows where the hasher, stiffly smiling, was holding a chair out. She had been nourishing a hope of catching Frank for herself.
The marshal saw Wolverton drop some change on his table and then he noticed Gurden by the cigar case lighting a stogie. Gurden, completely ignoring Frank, was taking Honey apart with his stare. Frank was starting to shove up with his face black as thunder when Kimberland turned into the room from the lobby.
The boss of Bar 40, pulling off his gloves, said: “Hello, Chip — Frank, how are you?” even nodding to Wolverton as he stopped by Frank’s table. A cropped black beard concealed the most of his expression. His shrewd eyes probed Frank’s and he said with approval, “I think, from what I hear, you must have established some kind of a record last night, stopping that herd with a lamp singlehanded. South Fork certainly owes you a large vote of thanks.”