“What the hell?” she exclaimed. “What were those shots?”
“Nothin’ good,” Shorty blurted. “Lock your door!”
He went straight to the window while she watched, astonished, as he tugged on the stubborn sash. He pulled as hard as he could, but it would not open, so he drew his pistol and started to use it to smash the glass.
“Wait!” Rose yelled. “Unlock the damn thing!” She hurried to the window and turned the lock, then stepped quickly out of his way while he snatched it up and crawled through.
Outside on the narrow porch that wrapped around three-quarters of the building, Pick hurried to the short railing to evaluate his chances of dropping to the street below without breaking a leg. He hesitated, trying to decide, until he heard the sounds of pursuit through the open window, mixed with Rose’s shrill screeches of indignation. That prompted him to go over the railing and hang for a brief second before letting go to land on the snow-covered ground.
Barely four or five inches deep, the snow was hardly enough to provide any cushion, causing him to sprain an ankle. Ignoring the pain, he hobbled around to the front of the saloon where his horse was tied. Almost as an afterthought, he untied Pick’s horse, climbed into his own saddle, and fled, leading his dead friend’s roan behind him.
Chapter 7
In the wee hours of the morning, Shorty reined an exhausted horse to a stop at the barn door. He didn’t take the time to pull the saddle off either horse, but limped painfully toward the bunkhouse instead.
“Clint, Clint!” he cried out when he charged through the door. “They shot Pick!”
Shocked from a sound sleep, Clint sat up, not sure if they were being attacked, or if he was still dreaming. When he finally got his mind straight, he realized Shorty was standing by his bunk, his short, compact figure barely recognizable in the faint light of the stove.
“Who?” he asked. “Who shot Pick? Is he hurt bad?”
“He’s dead!” Shorty exclaimed. “That feller, that gunman they got for a deputy, shot him down like a dog. Pick never knew it was comin’.” Shorty had nothing more than his gut instincts to tell him that the shooter was Mace Yeager, but he didn’t believe that the man he saw could have been anyone else.
Everyone in the bunkhouse was now awake and gathering around Shorty. “Where did it happen?” Clint asked. When Shorty told him that it had happened in the Frontier Saloon, Clint demanded, “What the hell were you doin’ in Miles City?” Before giving Shorty time to answer, he said, “Never mind that. Did you bring Pick home?”
“No, I couldn’t. I just got outta there alive myself.” Feeling disapproving looks, even though the room was too dark to see them, Shorty tried to defend his actions. “I was upstairs when it happened. I just came out of a room when I heard the shots, two of ’em, and I saw Pick on the floor. They came after me then, so I had to jump out of a window to get away. I think I mighta broke my ankle.” The last he added in hopes of evoking some sympathy for himself, sensing that some of the men might think his actions cowardly.
Fully awake now, Clint took a moment to think about what to do. The problem between the Yeagers and the Double-V-Bar had gotten out of hand. It was no longer just bad blood between himself and Mace Yeager, and he could not help feeling that it was his fault. Now a good man had been murdered, if he could believe Shorty’s version of the shooting, and Clint felt it was his responsibility to atone for Pick’s death. It occurred to him that this was Mace’s method of forcing him into the gunfight that he wanted so badly.
“What are you thinkin’ about doin’?” Ben asked. He figured he could make a pretty good guess about what Clint was considering, and he wanted to make sure his young friend didn’t go off half-cocked.
“I’m thinkin’ it’s time somebody held Mace Yeager responsible for his actions,” Clint said. “And I damn sure owe it to Pick to settle his account with the murderin’ son of a bitch.”
“You know there ain’t no law to go to in Miles City,” Ben reminded him. “What if Shorty’s accused the wrong man?” He turned to Shorty then to justify the question. “You ever see Mace Yeager before?”
“Nah, I never saw him before tonight,” Shorty replied, “but it was him, all right. Couldn’ta been nobody else.”
“I expect you’re probably right,” Ben said, and turned back to Clint to ask, “But what if it was somebody else that done the shootin’?”
Clint could see what Ben was about, but he felt fairly confident that Shorty had the right of it. “Since when did you get so particular about killin’ a poisonous snake?” he asked Ben. “I’ll make sure I get the right man.”
“What are you figurin’ on doin’?” Ben insisted. “You just gonna ride into town blazin’ away with your rifle?” He was concerned for his friend, and the very real possibility that Clint would wind up getting himself shot by one of the gunmen that hung around the Yeagers. “I think maybe we’d best take half a dozen of the men into town for a necktie party.”
“Ben’s right,” Bobby Dees said. He was standing next to Ben after having been aroused from his sleep. “Only I say more than half a dozen of us oughta go in there and clean that town out once and for all.”
“No,” Clint said. “I’ll go in alone. There are too many decent folks tryin’ to make it in that town. I don’t wanna go in there with a gang to have a shootin’ war with Yeager’s bunch of outlaws—too big a chance of innocent people gettin’ killed. Besides, we’ve got a herd of cattle to take care of and a ranch to look after. We’ve already lost one man. I don’t wanna lose any more. I aim to go in to get Pick’s body. Then we’ll just have to see what happens after that.”
“All right, then,” Ben conceded. “You’re still stubborn as ever. But at least I’ll ride in with you, so you don’t do somethin’ completely stupid.”
Clint smiled and shook his head. “I need you to stay here to keep the crew workin’.”
“Damn it, Clint . . . ,” Ben complained, but he knew that it was the end of the discussion.
* * *
It’s a nice morning for a killing, Clint thought as the first bright rays of sunlight found the snow-covered ridge to his right. It was a morbid thought to have on what appeared to be the beginning of the first clear day he had seen in a while. But he had no notion of going back to sleep after Shorty woke everybody up the night before, so he had left the ranch well before sunup. He charged Ben with the responsibility of notifying Valentine about his foreman’s absence.
Behind him, he led a packhorse, carrying a canvas sheet to wrap Pick’s body in for his final trip back to the Double-V-Bar. He figured he would reach Miles City at about the time most of the people would still be having breakfast. Only the saloons would be open at that early hour, since they were the only places that served food as well as alcohol. No one had opened a dining room, and there was no hotel yet, although Horace Marshall had said that there was some talk about one in the planning stages.
It occurred to Clint that there was not much chance of real growth unless the people, especially the merchants, were able to rid the town of the criminal element that had taken over law enforcement. Clint intended to take a step in that direction on this morning. An execution was what he was resolved to do, but in respect for Ben’s argument, he decided to make sure of his victim’s guilt before he took any action. And he figured the best way to do that was to question Frank Hudson, so his first stop was to be the Frontier Saloon.
There was very little early-morning activity in the drab little town as the lone rider, leading a packhorse, rode up its one street of frozen hoofprints and wagon ruts. Passing the stables, he nodded to Jim Duffy, one of the few souls who was up and about at that hour. Duffy made a faint nod in return and stood staring at him after he went by. Clint realized why when he saw the rough coffin propped up in front of Homer Lewis’ barbershop. Instantly enraged when he rode close enough to see the display, he pulled up
short to view Pick’s body standing stiffly with a sign attached to it that read DOUBLE-V-BAR TROUBLEMAKER—DREW ON DEPUTY AND PAID THE PRICE.
Furious, Clint dismounted, snatched the sign off, and threw it in the street. He pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, and with it cocked and loaded, he tried the barbershop door. Finding it locked, he took a step back to give himself some room and kicked the door open. He stormed through the tiny shop, then through the workroom to the living quarters behind it. Homer, startled, reached for a revolver on the table beside his bed when Clint burst into the room.
“I wouldn’t,” Clint warned, holding the Winchester on him.
Homer immediately dropped it. Realizing who the intruder was, he immediately pleaded his innocence. “Hold on, mister; for God’s sake, hold on! I didn’t have no choice. Deputy Yeager told me to put your man’s body out there. He said it was a warning to anybody who drew a gun on him or the sheriff.”
“Are you tellin’ me that Pick Pickens drew on Yeager?” Clint demanded.
“No, sir, I’m not. I wasn’t there to see who drew first. I’m just telling you what Mace told me.”
“Get him out of that damn box,” Clint ordered. “I’ve got a horse out there with a canvas sheet on his back. Wrap Pick’s body up real good in that canvas and load him on the horse.”
“Yes, sir, I can do that,” Homer replied at once. “Can I take some time to pull on my boots? It’s mighty cold out there.”
“Yeah, put your boots on. Leave my horse tied behind the shop. Have him ready to go when I come back.”
“Yes, sir,” Homer said. “He’s gonna be a little hard to load on a horse—been a lot easier if you had a wagon. That body’s already stiff.”
“Just make sure you tie it on good, stiff or not,” Clint said, “and I’ll be back for him.”
Clint led the extra horse around behind Homer’s living quarters and tied it to a post. Then he continued on down the street to the Frontier. There were no horses tied to the hitching rail out front, causing him to wonder if Frank Hudson still opened for breakfast. But while he was tying Sam’s reins to the rail, the door opened and a couple of men came out, both working toothpicks vigorously to excavate the meat between their teeth. He recognized one of them as the blacksmith, so he gave him a polite nod and received a wide-eyed stare in return.
That’s the second one that’s gaped slack-jawed at me this morning, he thought.
Inside, he saw Frank Hudson seated at a table near the kitchen door, eating breakfast. Pete Bender, a man who worked part-time for him, was sitting with him. There was no one else in the saloon. The table next to Frank’s had dirty dishes on it, no doubt from the two men Clint had met when coming in. Hudson looked surprised when he saw Clint, but at least he didn’t stare openmouthed as the others had.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t expect to see you in town this morning,” Hudson said in greeting.
“Oh,” Clint replied. “Why is that?”
Hudson shrugged nervously. “Because of that little fracas we had in here last evening. I guess that’s why you’re in town.” He stretched his neck in an effort to look behind Clint. “You alone?”
“Yeah, I’m alone. What’s so strange about that?”
Hudson shook his head as if exasperated. “Because, damn it, Yeager’s declared war on the Double-V-Bar. He’s told everybody in town to no longer do business with your outfit. Hell, everybody’s afraid to buck him.”
“That include you?” Clint asked.
“Yeah. . . . No,” he blurted, changing his mind as he replied. “No,” he repeated. “You want some breakfast? Sit down here with me.”
“I don’t want any breakfast,” Clint said. “What I want is to ask you a couple of questions, and I want straight answers. You saw that whole thing in here last night, right?” Hudson nodded solemnly. “Was the shooter Mace Yeager?” Hudson nodded again. “Did Pick go for his pistol first?”
“Your man never went for his gun at all,” Hudson said. “In fact, he was trying to back away and leave the saloon.”
“That’s about what I figured,” Clint said. “I appreciate you tellin’ me the straight of it.”
“Well, I expect I’d best get up from here and clear that table off,” Pete Bender announced, obviously uncomfortable with his boss’s honesty.
Clint waited for Pete to go into the kitchen before asking Hudson the next question. “Where can I find Mace Yeager?”
“He and Simon both have a room upstairs over the Trail’s End, so this time of day I expect that’s where you’ll find him,” Hudson said as he studied Clint’s face. “You ain’t thinking about going in there after him, are you? If you do, you’re gonna have Simon and those two gunmen to deal with, too.”
“I reckon,” Clint replied. He got up from the table. “Mace has been tryin’ to call me out for a while now, so it’s time I gave him a chance. Much obliged for the information.” He turned and headed for the door.
Riding back up the street, he saw that Pick’s body was gone from in front of the barbershop, so he continued on to the end of the muddy thoroughfare and pulled Sam up to the hitching rail at the Trail’s End. As it had been at the Frontier, Spence Snyder’s saloon appeared to be closed, but Clint found the door unlocked when he tried the knob. Before stepping inside, he cranked a cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester, then slowly opened the door.
Much to his satisfaction, he saw Mace sitting alone at a table eating breakfast. That was a lucky break, because it would have made his plan much more difficult if he had had to go upstairs to try to find the right room. He stepped inside, and looked the room over quickly to see if there was anyone else he should be concerned with. But there was no one else in the barroom but Spence’s bartender, Floyd, who spotted him but said nothing as he stared spellbound. Clint watched him for a moment before continuing on to the center of the room. There were numerous risks in the bold plan that he had undertaken to seek justice for Pick, and he knew that he had to depend on luck to complete it successfully. One of the gambles he was forced to take was the assumption that most of the people in town felt the same about the Yeagers. He glanced back at Floyd again. The bartender had not moved a muscle, paralyzed by the scene unfolding before his eyes.
“How ’bout some more coffee, Floyd?” Mace suddenly yelled. Turning to see where the bartender had gotten to, he recoiled when he discovered Clint standing no more than ten feet behind him, his rifle before him, ready to fire. Unable to react in time, he knocked his chair over, trying to get to his feet to grab the pistol from the holster hanging on the back of the chair next to his.
“I wouldn’t,” Clint calmly warned him.
Mace froze, staring at the business end of the Winchester, waiting for the bullet that would claim his life. When it did not come, he recovered some of his bravado, mistakenly thinking Clint lacked the will to actually kill someone.
“You got some gall comin’ in here and holdin’ a gun on me,” he spat. “But you ain’t got the guts to do the job, have you? If you had any guts, you’d face me out in the street like a man, and we’d settle it the right way.”
“Like the way you killed Pick?” Clint calmly asked.
“He went for his gun first,” Mace charged.
“You’re a damn liar,” Clint replied.
“You son of a bitch, standin’ there with a rifle pointed at me, and me unarmed, you’re mighty damn brave. Why didn’t you just shoot me in the back like the coward you are?”
“I thought about it,” Clint said honestly. “But I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. You’ve been callin’ me out to face you in the street, so I’m gonna give you the chance you never gave Pick. I’ll be outside waitin’ for you, so if you’ve got the guts, strap on that pistol and come out to face me.”
Mace found it hard to believe his luck. The damn fool is going to try to outdraw me, he thought.
Outside, Clint wasted no time. He stepped up into the saddle and rode up to the barbershop, a distance of approximately fifty yards, before quickly dismounting. He dropped Sam’s reins on the ground, then walked out to the middle of the street. Holding his rifle by his side, he waited. And while he waited, he thought about what he was doing. Ben would give him hell, if he knew he was standing in the street, risking a gunfight with a professional like Mace Yeager.
You shoulda shot the son of a bitch in the back while he was eatin’ his breakfast, Ben would have told him.
Ben would probably never be able to understand his thinking on this. Clint wasn’t sure what the ramifications of an outright murder might be, so he hoped the pretense of a face-to-face gunfight might prevent the threat of a range war. With that in mind, he decided to give Mace his fair chance. Even so, he was not willing to concede Mace’s advantage of no doubt being the faster man. To offset his advantage was the reason Clint had put a distance of fifty yards between them, thereby reducing the accuracy of Mace’s pistol. It was still a gamble, but it gave him a better chance of riding away from there alive.
Seeing Clint dismount outside his shop, Homer Lewis opened the door and called out, “He’s loaded on your horse, just like you said. You want me to bring him around front?”
“No,” Clint answered. “Leave him back there. I’ve got another job for you. Step outside. You can count to three, can’t you?”
“Why, sure,” Homer replied. “Whaddaya want me to do that for?”
“You’ll see. I’ll tell you when.”
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