by Ray Hogan
“Applies to everybody—”
“Nope, not to him,” Huckaby persisted stubbornly, verifying the other’s contention. “You giving me an answer, Lynch?”
Mason said: “Came back for some things I’ve got stored away, left with some folks.”
“What folks?”
“The Schmitts. A trunk of family things, keepsakes and the like.”
“Heine Schmitt’s place burnt down five year ago,” Homer said. “Him and his missus were lost in the fire along with everything else inside the house.”
Mason Lynch’s head came up slowly as if in disbelief. The livery-stable man clawed at his chin. Beyond the doorway in the street a voice reported loudly: “Claims he come back to see old Heine Schmitt—”
“You’d best come up with a better answer’n that,” Huckaby said drily.
“Only one I’ve got,” Mason said in a weary tone. “The truth.”
“Then there ain’t no reason why you can’t climb back on your horse and move on,” the lawman said with finality. “The both of you.”
“Don’t count on me,” Starbuck drawled, pushed as far as he intended to be. “I came here on some personal business, and I intend to see it through. I wind it up, I’ll ride out. Now, that’d better suit you, marshal, because that’s the way it’s going to be.”
Huckaby’s face colored darkly. Homer glanced at him, then at the pair with him. He wagged his head in dissatisfaction. “I don’t like this, Virg—not a damned bit. Them two are up to something. They’ve got no call coming back here except to even up that score.”
“Whatever that means—it’s wrong,” Shawn snapped. “Business I’ve got here is with a man working on a ranch called the Box C. Don’t figure that it’s any of your put-in, but a stranger seems to need a reason for coming to your town.”
The room was in complete silence. Finally Huckaby spoke. “You say the Box C?”
“Got nothing to do with the Canfields and the trouble I had with them,” Mason said hurriedly. “My friend here is named Starbuck, and he’s looking for his brother. Thinks maybe one of the hands out there could be him.”
Homer looked in scorn at the others, centered his attention on the lawman. “Man’d sure have to be mighty goddam dumb to swallow a yarn like that! Just happens to be going to see a cowboy who’s working for the Canfields—the brothers of the man his partner Lynch here spent ten years in the pen for killing! Any fool can see what they’ve got in mind.”
Shawn stared at Mason. The puzzling things concerning the man were making some sense now; the gap of years that had elapsed since the war’s end, the deep-seated bitterness, the desperate but reluctant hopefulness overshadowed by some deep fear.
Mason felt the pressure of Starbuck’s thrusting gaze. “Guess I should’ve told you—explained—”
“Something I’d best do—want him to get it straight,” Huckaby broke in, his manner toward Shawn relenting somewhat as it became apparent to him that he was making a mistake insofar as the tall rider was concerned.
“This fellow you took up with on the trail is Mason Lynch. Born about twenty miles west of here—on the ranch you’re talking about, the Box C. Only then it belonged to his folks and was just called the Lynch place. His pa and ma were the first people to settle here in the valley—that’s why the town’s named Lynchburg, after them. He tell you that?”
“Some of it,” Starbuck replied, not wanting to make it any worse for Mason than it already was. But within him there was a smoldering resentment for the man; he had been a friend—Mason had not returned that friendship, had instead permitted him to become a part of his trouble, whatever it was.
“Before the war started everything was going along everyday like. Then Mason went off and when he came back four years later, he found his folks had died, and that they’d sold off their place to the Canfield brothers. Deal was made a few months before they passed on—a runaway accident. They’d been living right here in town, in Homer Boyd’s hotel.”
“Nobody’ll ever make me believe they just up and sold out,” Mason said in a low, dogged voice.
Virg Huckaby slapped the top of his desk in exasperation. “Goddammit—that’s what got you in trouble before! They sold—and the Canfields have got the papers to show it.”
“Anybody around here see my pa sign them papers? You see him do it, marshal? Names can be forged.”
“Wasn’t nothing like that happened. Deal was all straight and legal, even if it wasn’t made right under your nose. Anyway,” Huckaby said, coming back to Shawn, “Mason here got all worked up and jumped Wade Canfield—there was three of the brothers—and they both went for their irons. Mason was a mite quicker, killed Wade. I barely got him out of town and hid before Kit and Barney Canfield, and a bunch of their hired hands and friends, could get to him to string him up.
“Finally got him to a trial and the judge was right generous to him—because he’d been a soldier, I suspect. Gave him ten years in the pen instead of hanging him or putting him away for life, way most folks figured he ought’ve done.”
Shawn Starbuck had listened in silence. It was not a new story, simply a variation of the old one; a man makes a mistake, pays for it—but there are those who will never let him forget. Unconsciously, his sympathies drifted to Mason.
“Most folks,” Starbuck repeated the words carefully. “That include everybody besides the Canfields and their friends?”
Huckaby bristled slightly. “Most folks—just leave it at that,” he said.
Mason stirred. “Reckon you can see now why they ain’t exactly happy to see me around here.”
Shawn nodded. “Think you’ve come back to kill off the rest of the Canfields—cause a lot of trouble for everybody.”
“Only that’s not it at all. I aim to move on. What I said was the truth—I left a trunk full of family belongings with the Schmitts. They say it got burned up so I’ve got no reason to hang around. I’m ready to ride on—”
“Except you’re not going anywhere until that horse of yours gets some doctoring.”
“The bay? What’s the matter with him?” the livery-stable owner asked, looking through the dust-filmed window.
“Dry hoofs. Starting to split. Left front’s pretty bad. I packed them in mud last night but having to ride him today sort of undid all the good. Needs more rest and doctoring.”
The lawman swung to the stocky stable owner. “That right, Pete?”
“Can’t tell from listening—have to look him over. Splitting sure can cripple a horse. But he was rode in and I don’t recollect him being too lame. Expect, was I to work on him, he could be in shape tomorrow.”
“Make it noon,” Starbuck said, “and we’ll both ride out. I’ll have my business done with by then—and I sure don’t want to hang around this town any longer’n I have to.”
Huckaby’s features darkened and his mouth tightened. “No need to get all het up now, friend. Only natural we’d be suspicious of Mason, showing up here like he has. And you riding along with him—how was we to know you wasn’t some hired gun he brought along to help out?”
“Same way that I know you’re not Santy Claus,” Starbuck answered, his voice sharp. “One thing the bunch of you could learn—don’t go jumping to conclusions the first time you see a man. Could get yourself hurt bad one of these days.” He paused, faced the lawman squarely. “It’s settled?”
“It’s settled,” Huckaby replied. “You got till noon tomorrow. Long as you don’t start trouble, you won’t be bothered by me.”
“Supposing somebody else starts it?”
“Don’t let them. Walk off. I can’t be responsible for what a lot of folks’ve got stuck in their craw, and if you think—”
“Virg,” Homer Boyd cut in, staring through the open doorway into the street, “maybe you’d best hold up on that there agreement you’re making. Here comes the Canfields, Kit and Barney both. Could be they might not go for it.”
Six
A splintery light came into H
uckaby’s black eyes and the corners of his mouth pulled down to hard lines. Mason Lynch shifted nervously.
“I’ll be taking my gun back, marshal.”
“The hell you will,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. “I’m the law around here—not the Canfields.”
Horses pounded up to the hitchrack fronting the jail, halted. A babble of words sounded in the street and then boot heels rapped a quick, angry cadence on the pine landing. Shortly a ruddy-faced redhead with snapping blue eyes came through the doorway, followed by a larger, dark-haired man. The Canfields sure didn’t look much alike, Shawn thought.
The redhead shot a hasty glance around the room, planted himself squarely before Mason Lynch. Lower jaw outthrust, hands on hips, he said: “You’ve got a hell of a lot of gall coming back here!”
“Ease off, Kit,” Huckaby said stiffly. “Reckon he’s got a right to—”
“No he ain’t! Got no rights at all around here, far as I’m concerned! The sonofabitch lost them when he murdered Wade!”
“Went to the pen for that,” Mason said woodenly. “Cost me ten years out of my life.”
“Should’ve been hung!” Canfield snapped, whirling to Huckaby. “I want him out of here, Virg!”
The lawman’s anger blazed instantly. “You want him out of here! Where do you get off giving orders like that? I’m the marshal here—not you.”
The rancher’s eyes squeezed down to narrow slots. “You heard me, Huckaby. I want him run out of town—clean out of the county, in fact—now!” He hesitated, again swept the men in the tension-filled office with his brittle glare. “You don’t—then by God, I will!”
“No,” Huckaby said, plainly struggling to remain calm, suppress the anger that was ripping through him, “you won’t do nothing! You hear me, Kit? I won’t stand for you horning in!”
Canfield threw a glance to his closemouthed brother, Barney, looked beyond him to the crowd packed around the doorway looking in, avidly absorbing the controversy. A smirk crossed the rancher’s face. He settled back on his heels in a satisfied sort of way, bucked his head at Huckaby.
“You forgetting who you’re talking to?”
“No—it’s you who’s doing the forgetting—that I’m the law around here.”
“Maybe not for much longer.”
The marshal drew himself up to his full height. “Meaning you’ll get my job. . . .”
Canfield’s eyes shifted to the three men standing behind the desk, touched each with a warning definite as if it had been put into words: this was a matter in which they were not to meddle.
“Could say that. I recollect your appointment comes up again in a couple of months. Might just be the town could stand a change.”
Huckaby’s expression did not alter. “Been the law around here since before you come. Like as not I’ll still be after you’re gone.”
“Don’t bet on it,” the rancher said, and, turning his back on the marshal, faced Mason. “Mount up!”
“Tomorrow,” Lynch said, shaking his head. “Be gone by noon.”
“Hell with that. I want you out of here now.”
“He stays till noon, if he’s of a mind,” Huckaby said. “He has my permission.”
“Permission—hell . . .”
“He can’t leave, Mr. Canfield,” Boyd interrupted, evidently feeling pressed to ignore the rancher’s visual warning. “He’s got a lame horse. Pete Fortney’s aiming to work on him tonight. That’s the reason Virg’s letting him stay.”
Kit Canfield wagged his head stubbornly. “I don’t give a goddam for his reasons—his or anybody else’s, I want him gone!”
Starbuck, silent through the exchange, shifted angrily, unable to restrain himself any longer. “Back off, Canfield,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “The man’s paid for his mistake. You’ve got no call riding him.”
Canfield shot a quick look at Shawn, his pale eyes sparking as he took in the well-worn trail clothing, the ragged, soiled hat. His lip curled back in disdain.
“Best you keep your snoot out of this—unless you’re looking for trouble.”
“Which maybe I am,” Shawn said mildly.
Canfield’s ruddy face darkened. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Friend of Mason’s. Like you’ve been told, we’re pulling out tomorrow, come noon.”
“Not good enough!” Canfield declared stubbornly. “I want him gone by sundown—and if he ain’t—”
Barney Canfield reached out, laid a restraining hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Simmer down, Kit. Tomorrow’ll be all right. He ain’t about to try anything.”
The redhead threw the hand off impatiently. “How do you know he ain’t?” He hesitated, as if struck by the thought, pivoted to Huckaby. “I’m asking you that, Mr. Marshal. How do you know he ain’t here to bushwhack me and Barney like he did Wade? You tell me how?”
The lawman’s mouth tightened. “Man tells me he won’t, I take his word.”
“Word!” Kit Canfield exploded. “You mean you’d take the word of a goddam killer? What’s the law coming to in this town?” he asked, turning to Fortney and the others. “I’m mighty sure we’re needing a change when the man we’ve got wearing the star sides with a murderer against decent folks.”
“I’m not taking sides,” Huckaby said quietly. “You’re twisting things around to suit yourself. Like Starbuck there said, Lynch’s paid for what he’s done, got a right to do what he likes long as he hurts nobody.”
“Well, that ain’t the way I see it!” Kit shouted, again knocking aside Barney’s hand. “I’m serving notice on you right now, if you don’t get him out of town by dark, I’m taking things into my own hands, doing it myself.”
Fortney cast an alarmed look at Homer Boyd, the hotel owner. Spearman, the third man, who had stood by the entire time in stony silence, suddenly came to life.
“Now, Mr. Canfield, we can’t go doing something that’ll upset—”
“Upset—hell! What if it’d been your brother he shot down?”
“That was ten years ago,” Huckaby said, gaining confidence from the support he appeared to be getting. “About time you forgot it. I gave Lynch and his friend permission to hang around until noon tomorrow—mostly because there’s not much else they can do. I’m standing by it—and you’re not to come busting into town later with a bunch of your hired hands and trying to change it. You do and I’ll get word to the United States Marshal in Tucson.”
“He’s right, Kit,” Barney Canfield murmured. “We don’t want no more killings. If Huckaby’s willing to stick his neck out, guarantee we’ll have no trouble from Lynch, I don’t see nothing wrong with letting things slide till tomorrow noon. If he ain’t gone by then—well, I figure we’ve got us a call coming.”
“Be smarter to do something about it right now,” Kit Canfield muttered. Sullen, he faced Huckaby. “All right, go ahead and do it your way, but you damn well better keep them locked up tight until it’s time for them to travel—”
“Not much you don’t lock us up!” Starbuck said, coming into the conversation. “We’ve done nothing to get jailed for—and we’re sure not sitting out the next eighteen hours in a cell just to please you.”
The rancher spun to Shawn. “Goddam you—told you to keep your nose out of things that ain’t none of your business!”
“Getting locked up in a cell for nothing is my business, and it’ll take more than you—”
Canfield’s hand swept down to the gun at his hip, checked abruptly as Huckaby caught up the double-barreled shotgun from his desk, brought it to bear on him.
“Figured it’d come to that,” the lawman said in a low voice. “When you don’t get your way, you try taking it. Now, best thing for everybody is for you to get out of town, and stay out. Forget about Lynch and Starbuck. I’ll see to them.”
Kit Canfield swore angrily, glared at Mason, who returned his stare with unblinking eyes.
“Huckaby’s right,” Barney said, taking a firm g
rip on his brother’s arm this time. “Be smart to pull out, leave it up to him. It goes wrong, it’ll be him we’ll blame.”
The redhead nodded slowly, seemingly calm now. “I’ll do more than blame him,” he said in a promising sort of tone, “I’ll make him sorry he ever pinned on that badge!” Wheeling, he strode to the doorway, a rigid, outraged figure teetering on the edge of total violence, and halting, leveled a finger at the marshal.
“I’m not agreeing to this—want you to remember that. I’m just going along with you and them gutless bleeding hearts there behind you because Barney wants me to. Either one of us gets bushwhacked, I—”
“Ain’t nobody going to get hurt—”
“You willing to guarantee that?”
The lawman, with the hating look of a man pushed to the wall, nodded impatiently. “All right, I’m guaranteeing it!”
Kit Canfield spat into the dust beyond the doorway, nodded abruptly, and with Barney at his heels, stepped out onto the landing. Immediately there was a flurry of questions from the bystanders in the street, all of which were ignored, and then the Canfields were mounted and spurring away.
For a time the men in the lawman’s cramped quarters were still, and there were only the sounds from the street—the muffled words of those loafing about the front of the building, the more distant noises of the town’s normal activities. Finally Pete Fortney heaved his bulk away from the wall against which he had been leaning, and rubbing his sweaty palms together in a nervous way, started for the door.
“Expect I’d better get that horse over to my place, start working on him. Sure don’t want that to be the reason you can’t leave tomorrow, Mason.”
Boyd scratched at his beard, equally shaken. “God, no! Don’t let nothing mess things up. If I know Kit, he’ll do what he’s threatening to.”
Turned edgy by the words Canfield had whipped him with, Huckaby spun to the hotel man. “You saying I can’t keep him or anybody else in line around here?”
“Not saying no such a damn thing! Only—”