“Steve is angry enough to kill you,” Carol said suddenly. “He’ll get over it, but the fact that you knocked him down hurt worse than the blows.”
She was realizing then that her feelings toward Steve had undergone a change. For months she had been resigned to the idea of marriage to him. He was handsome, and could be very charming, yet she had never been in love with him, and now in comparison with Sartain he seemed suddenly very juvenile, with his easy angers, his vanity and petulance. “Be careful,” she warned Sartain. “Steve might go further than we believe. He’s very sure of his rightness.”
“In a way,” he replied, “I can understand his not liking me. He’s in love with you and he can see very well that I like you!”
The suddenness of it took her breath, but before she could make any reply, he stepped from the walk and strode quickly away. Yet as he was walking off, incongruously, a remark of Carol’s recurred to him. The only way to win, she had said, would be to stay out of it and pick up the pieces.
Yet if the cattlemen and nesters fought, who would be left to pick up any pieces? He spent a busy afternoon and evening, visiting the town’s banker, the doctor, both of the lawyers, and two keepers of stores. When he left the last one he was very thoughtful. He had learned a little, but it was all very flimsy, too flimsy.
CHAPTER V
Surprisingly, the night passed quietly. When it was well past midnight Sartain returned to the hotel and to bed. He awakened with the sun streaming through his window and the street full of excited shouts. Hurriedly scrambling into his clothes, he rushed for the street.
Men were crowding the street, most of them riders from the ranches, and Steve Bayne was up on the steps of the harness shop shouting at them, his face red and angry. Sartain broke through the crowd and confronted him. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Bayne wheeled on him, his eyes ugly. “You!” He sneered. “You and your peacemaking! The damn nester killed Parrish!”
“What nester?” he asked patiently. “Who’s Parrish?”
“Parrish”—Bayne’s face was flushed with temper—“was Holy Walker’s cowhand who went after those cattle with Earl Mason. Mason killed him!”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sartain replied calmly. “You are telling us Mason killed a man who was getting beef for him?” He spoke loudly so the assembled crowd could hear.
“What you think doesn’t matter!” Bayne bellowed. “Parrish was found dead along the trail, an’ we’re hangin’ Mason right now!”
A half-dozen rough-handed men were shoving Mason forward, their faces dark with passion. Another man had a rope.
Suddenly someone shouted, “Look out! Here come the nesters!”
They were coming, all right, a tight little band of hardheaded, frightened men. Frightened, but ready to fight for what they believed.
Sartain wheeled. “Quarterman! Walker! Call off your men! Send them hack to the ranches and tell them to stay there! If one shot is fired in this street by those men, I’ll hold you accountable!”
“It’s too far gone to stop now,” Quarterman said. “Mason killed Parrish, all right.”
“Call them off!” Sartain warned. “Get them off this street at once or you’ll be held accountable! There’s going to be blazing hell if you don’t!”
Bayne laughed. “Why, you meddling fool! You can’t stop this now! Nothing can stop it! Pole, the second those nesters pass that water trough, cut them down!”
Time for talking was past, and Sartain struck swiftly. Steve Bayne never even got his hands up. Sartain struck left and right so fast the rancher had no chance even to partially block the punches. Both caught him in the wind, yet even as he gasped for breath Jim Sartain grabbed him around the waist, spun him around, and jammed a six-gun into his spine. “Pole!” he yelled. “One shot and I’ll kill Bayne! I’ll shoot him right here, and you’ll be next! Get off the street!”
He shoved Bayne forward. “Tell them!” he snapped. “Order them off the street or I’ll blow you apart!”
Bayne gasped the words: “I will not!”
Sartain groaned inwardly. The nesters were almost to the trough, and although outnumbered at least five to one, they kept coming. His pistol barrel came up and he slapped Bayne across the skull with it, one sweeping blow that dropped him to the dust.
Springing over him, his face dark with bitter fury, he faced the mob, both guns drawn now. “All right!” His voice roared in the suddenly silent street. “You wanted a fight! By the Lord Harry, you can have it and now! With me!
“Back up! Get off the street or start shootin’ an’ I’ll kill the first man who lifts a gun! I’ve got twelve shots here and I never miss! Who wants to die?”
His eyes blazing, trembling with fury, he started for the mob. It was a colossal bluff, and one from which he could not turn back, yet stop that slaughter he would, if he must die to do it.
“Back up!” His fury was mounting now and the mob seemed half hypnotized by it. Not a man in that crowd but knew the reputation of Jim Sartain and the unerring marksmanship of which those guns were capable. They recalled that he had at one time shot it out with five men and come out unscathed. To each the black muzzles of the guns seemed pointed directly at himself, and not a man of them but suddenly believed that he had but to lift a hand to die.
Behind him the nesters were equally appalled. A lone man had sprung between them and almost certain death, and that man was slowly but surely backing the crowd up the street.
Carol Quarterman, her heart pounding, watched from the door of the hotel. At first, one man shifted his feet, but the feeling of movement caught the mob and those in front, eager to be out of reach of those guns, felt their backing easing away from them, and they, too, backed away, almost without conscious thought.
Then Sartain called out. “Quarterman! Walker! You get a last chance! Order these men back to their ranches or I’ll see you both jailed for inciting to riot! If a man dies here today I’ll see you both hang for murder!”
CHAPTER VI
Quarterman stiffened. “You needn’t warn me, Sartain. I know my duty.” He lifted his voice. “Mount up, men, and go home. We’ll let the law handle this.”
Walker added his voice, and the cowhands, aware of a cool breath of relief, were suddenly finding the street too narrow for comfort.
Sartain turned to see the rope on Mason’s neck, and John Pole standing beside him, and only a few feet away, Newton and Fowler. “Take off that rope, Pole!” he said sharply.
The gunman’s face was cold. “I’ll be damned if I do!” he flared.
Sartain was suddenly quiet inside. “Take it off,” he repeated, “and with mighty easy hands!”
Carefully, John Pole let go the rope. He stepped a full step to one side, his arms bent at the elbows, hands hovering above his guns. “You throwed a mighty big bluff, Ranger,” he said, “but I’m callin’ it!”
Carol Quarterman saw Pole’s hands move, and as if all feeling and emotion were suddenly arrested, she saw Sartain’s hands move at the same instant. And then she saw the lifting muzzle of a rifle from the livery-stable door!
“Jim!” Her cry was agonized. “Look out! The stable!”
Sartain, his eyes blazing from beneath the brim of his low-crowned hat, palmed his guns and fired. It was that flashing, incredible draw, yet even as his right gun spat flame he heard Carol’s cry.
A thundering report blasted on his right and he was knocked sprawling, his right-hand gun flying from him. Throwing his left gun over, he caught it deftly with his right hand and snapped a quick shot at the black interior of the barn, just below the round muzzle of a Spencer.
His head was reeling and the street seemed to be rocking and tipping, yet he got his feet under him.
John Pole was still erect, but his blue shirt was stained with blood and his guns were flowering with dancing blooms of flame. Guns seemed to be thundering everywhere and he started forward, firing again.
Staggering, Sartain lurched
toward Pole and saw a shot kick up dust beyond the gunman, and believed he’d missed, having no realization that the shot had kicked dust only after passing through him.
Amazed, he saw Pole was on the ground, clawing at the dirt with bloody hands. A gun bellowed again from the barn door and he turned, falling to his face in the dust. He could taste blood in his mouth and his head felt big as a balloon, but he struggled to his feet, thumbing shells into his gun. Again a shot blasted from the barn, but he kept walking, then caught the side of the door with his left hand and peered into the gloom.
George Noll, his flabby face gray, stared at him with bulging, horror-filled eyes. He had a rifle in his hands and he stared from it to Sartain with amazement. And then Jim lifted his six-gun level and fired three fast shots.
Noll caught them in his bulging stomach and he went up on his toes, mumbled some words lost in the froth of blood at his lips, then pitched over to grind his face into the hay and dirt of the floor.
Sartain’s knees seemed suddenly to vanish and the floor struck him in the mouth, and the last thing he remembered was the taste of dirt and straw in his mouth, and the sound of running feet….
FOR A LONG TIME he was aware of nothing, and then there was sunlight through a window, a pump complaining, and a woman’s voice singing. He was lying now in a strange bed, and the hand that lay on the coverlet was much whiter than when he had last seen it.
A door opened and he looked into the eyes of Carol Quarterman. “Well!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t think you were ever coming out of it! How do you feel?”
“I…don’t really know. What house is this?”
“Dr. Hassett’s. He’s my uncle and your doctor. I’m your nurse, and you had four bullets in you, two rifle, and two pistol. That’s what Uncle Ed says, although I don’t think he could tell one from the other.”
“Noll?”
“He’s dead. You grazed him once, hit him three times. John Pole is dead, too. You…killed him.”
“Wasn’t there some other shooting?”
“That was Holy Walker and Dad. They finished off Newton and Fowler when they started to help Pole. Dad got hit in the side, but not badly, but Walker wasn’t scratched.”
“Mason?”
“He was luckiest of all. He was hit three times by bullets aimed at other people and none of them more than broke the skin. All of them are back in the canyons again, and not even Steve Bayne has a word to say.”
“How long have I been here?”
“A week, and you’d better settle down for a long rest. Uncle Ed says you can’t be moved and that you’ll have to stay in bed, with me to nurse you, for at least two more weeks.”
Sartain grinned. “With you as nurse? I’ll go for that, but what about Steve Bayne?”
She shrugged. “He’s gone back to his ranch with more headaches than the one you gave him. Pole had been rustling, branding some of it with Steve’s Bar B and selling the rest. Newton worked with him, and he talked before he died; he also swore he saw George Noll set the fire on the range that burned everybody out.
“Apparently he hated me, but when they went through his office they found figures showing how he had planned to buy up the ranches after the range war killed off most of the men. The questions you asked around town started the investigation of his effects, and proved you’d guessed right. As you knew, he was the only one with money enough to take advantage of the situation the range war would leave.”
“Anything on Parrish?”
“Nothing exact. However, he had been back to the ranch and talked with the wrangler after leaving Mason. Probably that was Pole. Parrish must have caught him rustling, but we’ll never know.”
Jim Sartain stared out of the window at the sunlit street. He could see the water trough and the two lone trees. A man sat on the edge of the walk, whittling in the sun. A child was chasing a ball. Farther along, a gray horse stamped a patient foot and flicked casually at the flies.
It was a quiet street, a peaceful street. Someday all the West would be like Gila Crossing….
The Marshal of Painted Rock
Late as it was, the street of Painted Rock was ablaze with light. Saddled horses lined the hitch rails, and the stage was unloading down at the Empire House. Bearded men hustled by in the streets, some of them with packs, some hurrying to get packs. Word of the strike had gone out, and the town was emptying swiftly.
Matt Sabre stood against the wall of the Empire House and watched it absently. This he had seen many times before, this hurry and bustle. He had seen it over cattle, over land, over silver and gold. Wherever it seemed that money might quickly be had, there men thronged.
Good men, many of them. The strong, the brave, the true. But they were not alone, for here also were the scum. The cheats, the gamblers, the good-for-nothings. The men who robbed, who killed, who lived by deceit or treachery. And here also were those who felt that strength or gun skill made them the law—their own law. And these were often the most dangerous. And it was for these that he was here.
Two days now Matt Sabre had been marshal of Painted Rock. Yet the job was not new to him, for he had been marshal before in other towns. And this town was no different. Even the faces were the same. It was strange, he thought, how little difference there was in people. When one traveled, got around to many towns, one soon realized there were just so many types, and one found them in every town. Names were different, and expressions, but it was like many casts playing the same roles in a drama. The parts remained the same; only the names of the cast had changed.
Darius Gilbert, who owned the gambling house, for example. And Owen Cobb, the banker. Or tall, immaculate Nat Falley, with mining interests. The three were partners in the general store, and they ran the town. They were the council, and they had hired Matt Sabre as town marshal. A tough man for a tough job.
His eyes veiled as he watched the dismounting stage passengers, considering the three men, and most of all Nat Falley. Gilbert and Cobb were good men, upright men, but not fighters. If he was to get help or hindrance, it would come from Falley. In this town or any other, a man like Falley was a man to consider.
A girl was getting down from the stage, a girl dressed in gray. Her cheekbones were high yet delicate, her mouth too wide for true beauty, yet it added to her perfection. She stepped up to the walk, stared at by all, and then asked a question. A man gestured toward Matt Sabre. At once, her eyes turned to him, and he felt their impact. He took a step forward, removing his hat.
“You were looking for me? I’m the town marshal.”
She smiled at him, a quick, woman’s smile that told him she found him attractive, and also that she wanted something from him…and she could see that he believed her beautiful.
This was a woman to quicken the blood in a man, Sabre thought. As he stepped toward her, he saw Falley come from the Empire House and look down the street toward them. Strange, until then he had not noticed. Falley never seemed to carry a gun.
The girl in gray held out her hand to him. Her eyes were clear and very, very lovely.
“I am Claire Gallatin. I came as quickly as I could, but I’ve been afraid I’d be too late.”
“Too late?”
“To see about your prisoner, about my brother.”
Matt Sabre returned his hat to his head, and when his hand returned to his side, his eyes were again quiet. “I see. Your brother is a prisoner of mine? Under another name perhaps?”
“Yes. He was known here as Rafe Berry.”
Matt Sabre somehow knew he had expected this. And yet he showed nothing in his face. “I am sorry, Miss Gallatin, sorry for you and your family. It is most unfortunate, but you see, Rafe Berry is to be hanged the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, no!” Her fingers touched his arm. “He mustn’t be! It’s all a dreadful mistake! Rafe couldn’t have done what they accuse him of doing! I just know it!”
Her face was agonized, showing the shock and pain she must be feeling. He glanced around at the curious
gathering about them. None listened obviously, yet all were attentive.
“We’d better go inside. We can talk in the dining room,” he said quietly.
When they were seated at a table over coffee, she looked across the table at him; her eyes were very large. She leaned toward him, her hand resting on his sleeve. The touch was light yet intimate, and Matt found that he liked it. “Rafe wasn’t a bad boy,” she said quickly, “although he was reckless. But he never did hurt anybody, and I am sure he would not. There’s been some dreadful mistake.”
“The evidence was quite conclusive,” Matt said quietly. “And in any event, I am only the marshal. I arrested him, but I did not try him. Nor could I free him.”
She ignored this. Her voice was low and persuasive as she talked, telling him of their Louisiana home, of her ailing mother, of how they needed Rafe at home. “I’m sure,” she added, “that if he were home again, he would never come back here.” And she talked on, her voice low. She was, he decided, just exactly what one would expect a cultured lady of Louisiana to be like.
He shook his head slowly. “Unfortunately, ma’am,” he said gently, “Rafe has already been sentenced. There’s nothing I, or anyone, could do.”
She bit her lip. “No,” she said, lifting her handkerchief, “I suppose not, but if there is anything—just anything—I could do, no matter how much it costs, would you let me know? After all, what will be gained by his death? If he goes away and is never seen again, wouldn’t that be just as good?”
“I’m afraid folks wouldn’t think so, ma’am. You see, the jury sentenced Rafe for murder, but it wasn’t only that that they had in mind. This is to be an example, ma’am. There have been a lot of murders around here lately. They have to stop.”
She left him then and went to her room, and Matt Sabre returned to the street. It was quiet that night, more quiet than usual. It was almost as if the whole town were waiting to see Rafe Berry hanged and if he was hanged on schedule…if not, the whole lid might blow off.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 39