by Ray Hogan
Starbuck stepped into the sudden breech that could lead to more wrangling. “Be obliged if you’ll take my sorrel along with the bay,” he said to Fortney. “Give him a measure of grain along with the hay. Better watch the water—and I’d be obliged if you could find time to rub him down.”
“Got the time,” the stableman rumbled. “Two hostlers laying around the place most of the day, doing pure nothing. What about your gear?”
“Leave my saddlebags at the hotel when you go by. Aim to put up there for the night.”
The tension in the heat-filled room had cleared. Fortney went through the doorway, muttered something to the crowd outside, crossed the street and took charge of the two horses. Homer Boyd and the tight-mouthed Spearman followed immediately, separating as they stepped into the open. Shawn looked questioningly at the lawman.
“We free to go?”
For a reply Virg Huckaby, his expression blank, slid Starbuck’s pistol across the desk to him. Mason extended his hand. The marshal shook his head.
“Be getting yours back when you’re ready to ride out, And I’m putting Starbuck in charge of you.”
“Now, hold on!” Lynch protested. “That ain’t right, you loading me onto his back. Doubt he’ll want to be bothered anyhow.”
“Said he was your friend, didn’t you?”
“Sure, but that was before—”
Shawn stirred, wiped at the sweat on his face. “It’s all right. I’m owning up to being considerable put-out at the way you kept me in the dark, but it’s over and done with. Best thing we can do is forget it.”
“Reckon I did look at it wrong, but I couldn’t see no reason for telling you my troubles—not after what you done for me back there in that sink.”
“What was that?” Huckaby asked, watching the two move for the doorway.
“Apaches. Had me cold. Starbuck saved my hide.”
Huckaby nodded, thought for a moment. “Good. Then you ain’t likely to cross him up, do something foolish.”
“Not about to,” Lynch replied soberly. “I ain’t so stocked up with friends that I can afford to lose even one.”
Again the lawman signified his approval. “See that you keep thinking that way. And watch your step, the both of you. Where you headed now?”
“After that beer we were thirsting for when you and that reception committee stopped us,” Shawn said.
“Then you’re going to the hotel—”
“Going to find ourselves a square meal first. Both a might gaunt.”
“Try Ma Chuckson’s. Grub’s real good there. What about that personal business you mentioned? When you taking care of it?”
“Figured to ride out to the Box C first thing in the morning.”
“And get your head blowed off,” the lawman said sarcastically. “You loco or something?”
Starbuck scratched at the stubble on his jaw. He hadn’t given that side of it much thought, being anxious to meet with Jim Ivory, but since the Canfields seemed to think he was a close friend of Mason Lynch’s, possibly even a hired gun, it would be stupid just to go riding in. But it was an errand that had to be completed—the reason, in fact, that he was there. He shrugged.
“Have to manage it somehow.”
“Best thing’ll be for me to ride with you,” Huckaby said. “Me and the Canfields don’t see eye to eye on much of anything, but they ain’t apt to try nothing with me along.”
Starbuck agreed. “Be obliged to you. How about a beer with us?”
“Maybe later, thanks,” the marshal said, and then as Shawn and Mason Lynch stepped out into the street, added, “You watch yourselves. Don’t want no trouble.”
“No trouble,” Starbuck assured him, and with Mason at his side, walked through the few remaining onlookers yet gathered in front of the jail and crossed to the saloon.
Seven
Hostility, like a dark and solid mass, met them as they pushed through the saloon’s swinging doors and halted in the smoke-filtered lamplight. The silence was abrupt, and as Shawn and Mason angled for the bar extending along the opposite wall, two men lounging against it took up their drinks, sauntered off into the scatter of tables and chairs to their right.
Starbuck, his sardonic eyes probing the large room, settled his attention on what appeared to be a congregation near center. He saw it was the man who had earlier pushed him and that he had subsequently dissuaded from further participation in the affair with a blow to the belly. Kemmer, Virg Huckaby had called him. Shawn remembered then: THE MARICOPA SALOON … FRED KEMMER, PROP., the sign outside had proclaimed. The man he’d slugged was the owner of the place. He gave Mason Lynch a wry grin.
“Seems I flattened the proprietor. You reckon our money’ll be any good here?”
“Maybe not,” Lynch replied as they halted at the long counter. “Not the only place in town.”
But a moment later a balding man wearing an apron separated from a knot of sympathizers gathered around Kemmer, and moved in behind the bar.
“Beer,” Shawn said, holding up two fingers.
The bartender drew two large mugs of the foaming brew, slid them across the counter. Starbuck passed a coin to the man, said, “Hold the change. We’ll be wanting more,” and followed Mason to a nearby table, where both sat down.
“Feels good,” he said, sighing gratefully. “Tail of mine was beginning to grow to the saddle.”
“Same here,” Mason replied in a preoccupied sort of way. He took a long swallow of his drink, set the glass back on the table. “Don’t blame you for getting riled some at me. Reckon you’d like to hear some explaining now.”
Starbuck shrugged, swished the amber liquid about in the container he was holding. “Little late,” he said indifferently. “No surprises left. Don’t bother if you’re not of a mind.”
Lynch bobbed his head. “Expect that’s it—I want to. Nobody ever much listened to my side of the thing.”
“That judge must have. Man’s usually hung or sent to the pen for life when he kills somebody. Was something in your favor or it wouldn’t have worked out that way. . . . You did kill Wade Canfield, didn’t you?”
“Never denied that. Plenty of witnesses saw me. We were talking—was right out there in the street, in front of Gabaldon’s Feed Store—about this thing of my pa selling out the place to him and his brothers.
“I was just back from the war feeling plenty busted down and out of everything. Then I was hit with the news of my folks being dead and the ranch being sold only a little while to the Canfields. Didn’t make sense to me, and I told Canfield that. He didn’t like the way I said it, I guess, and real quick got all fired up. He was a hotheaded one, like Kit. Next thing I knew I’d called him a liar. He went for his gun—I beat him to it. Was a dozen men who saw it.”
“Long as he drew, seems more a fair fight to me.”
“Only Wade Canfield was big shucks around here. Him and his brothers had brought a lot of money into the country and the town was doing right well from Canfield business. Me, the way they looked at it, brought nothing but trouble. Only natural they stood by the Canfields.”
“Huckaby—seems I remember him saying he was the marshal here then, that right?”
“Virg’s been marshal ever since I can recollect. Why?”
“He side with the townspeople and the Canfields?”
“About all I can say is that he seen to it that I didn’t get lynched and that I got a trial.”
Starbuck stared into his glass. The animosity that existed between the lawman and the Canfields was a definite force. It evidently had a basis other than Mason’s trouble with the three brothers.
“But that judge was a square shooter,” Lynch went on. “Guess he sort of figured I had a break coming, sentenced me to only ten years.” He hesitated thoughtfully, added: “Ten years—that’s a hell of a long time.”
Shawn took another swallow of beer. Some of the weariness had slipped from his long frame now as he sat in the cool depths of the shadowy saloon talking w
ith Mason Lynch, hearing the voices of other men, savoring the odors of spilled liquor, sweat and dust, that were somehow agreeable.
“Your coming back here—it for the reason you say?”
“That’s it. Wanted to pick up the stuff I’d left with the Schmitts.” Lynch straightened slowly, eyes fixed upon Shawn. “You think I’m lying?”
“Not that, but since we’re hashing this out I just want to get it all straight.”
“You’ve got the truth. If my horse was able, I’d ride on right now. Got no more use for this bastard of a town than it has for me.”
“Seen friendlier places,” Starbuck murmured. “You still think the Canfields crooked your folks out of their ranch?”
“Thought about it a lot when I was laying it out in the pen. Still not convinced they sold—willingly, anyway—and I never will be.”
“But you had a place of your own down in the Mescals and they knew you wouldn’t be taking over their land when you came back. Makes sense to me they’d sell when they got the chance.”
“Told myself that, and maybe down deep I believe it. But something won’t let me admit it.”
Shawn stirred. “You figure you’re right, you ought to fight about it—only not with a gun. Get yourself a lawyer, let him dig into it. If there’s been some crooking done, he’ll find it.”
“Mighty sure he would. Like—for one thing—where’d the money go? If the Canfield’s paid the folks in cash, what happened to it? Nobody’s ever been able to answer that, and there was so much dust got kicked up when I got hauled in for shooting Wade that it was lost in the shuffle.”
Lynch settled back in his chair, moved his shoulders indifferently. “What the hell—I don’t care now, anyway. It’s all over and done with. The Canfields can have the damned place—and if I never set foot in this town again it’ll still be too soon.”
“Grew up here, didn’t you?”
“Sure—”
“Little hard to forget that.”
“Not for me—not when everybody figures you for a sonofabitch.”
“Such a thing as a man coming back, facing up to what he’s brought on himself, and living it down.”
“Not worth it, far as I’m concerned. I’m going to crawl into my place in the Mescals and stay there. Be damned few times when I’ll be visiting what folks call civilization because I aim to go only when starvation or something like that forces me to. I’m plumb sick of people and what they think and the million stinking laws they want a man to live by.”
“There’s only ten—the Commandments,” Starbuck murmured. “Once heard a preacher point that out. All the rest, he said, were just little two-bit rules that men have added to the book and could be forgotten if a fellow would stick to the others.”
Mason Lynch was silent for a time, then spoke again. “Reckon he’s right, but it don’t matter much to me now. All I want is to get off to myself, be left alone—see if I can learn to live again like a human’s supposed to. In ten years a man can get out of practice.”
Starbuck picked up the empty glasses, stepped to the bar and obtained refills. Setting them on the table, he resumed his chair, noting as he did that the crowd in the saloon was increasing steadily as the evening wore on.
“Being alone’s not going to help much,” he said after a bit. “There nobody waiting for you—a girl, maybe?”
“Was one,” Mason said heavily. “If I hadn’t of wound up in the pen we’d likely have married. Doubt if she’s around now—and if she is, she’d be married and have herself a passel of kids.”
“Never know about women. Wouldn’t hurt to look her up.”
A frown drew Mason’s brows together. “You think—after ten years she might—”
“Like I said, women are hard to figure.”
Lynch dropped his eyes. “No, not much chance of that,” he said disconsolately. “But I reckon it wouldn’t hurt to ask about her. Aim to go out to Ma and Pa’s graves, too. Can do it all in the morning when you’re seeing this Jim Ivory fellow. Good thing you’ve got the marshal going with you. Them Canfields’d never let you get off the place alive.”
“Not so sure the marshal will get any better welcome than I will. Seems to be plenty of fire between him and Kit.”
“Got the same idea. Canfields are pretty strong around here now, got the say-so, more or less, as to who’ll wear that star, and they figure Virg Huckaby ought to be kowtowing to them.”
“Only he doesn’t see it that way. Look on his face when Kit made that threat was pure hate. Speaking of looks, Kit and Barney sure don’t favor each other. This Wade, the one you tangled with, he look like either one of them or was he something different yet?”
“Him and Kit are alike—both redheads. Barney’s no blood kin—a stepbrother.”
“What about those three the marshal called in?” Shawn continued. “You know them from away back or are they Johnny-come-latelys?”
“Pete—Pete Forney, he’s the stable owner, I know him. And Homer Boyd, the one with the black beard. He runs the hotel—the Mogollon. One he called Spearman is a stranger to me. Sign down the street says he runs a saddle and gun shop.”
“How about Kemmer, owner of this place?”
“He was the bartender when I was last in here—ten years or so ago. Don’t know what happened to Tom Keuhne. Like my folks and the Schmitts, he was one of the old bunch. Some’ve died off and there’s a few I guess who’ve moved on where they can maybe make a better living. Why?”
“Always like to get things squared away in my head so if trouble pops up I sort of know who I can figure will do what.”
“If it does, don’t look for help from anybody around here. Whole bunch’ll be looking out for themselves.”
“Reckon that’s normal,” Shawn drawled, stretching his long legs and sighing comfortably. “Folks sort of lean to looking out for themselves, especially if they’ve invested a lifetime getting where they are.”
“You think Virg Huckaby’s that way, too?”
“Can’t quite make up my mind about him. Got a tough job trying to keep the peace and still make everybody happy. Always somebody with an ax to grind putting the heat on a lawman.”
“Like Canfield was doing today.”
“Yeah . . . and all the time he was standing there bucking Kit Canfield he knew the merchants would probably line up with him and his brother if it ever comes to a real showdown.”
“Kind of surprised me—him bellying up to Kit the way he done.”
“Didn’t have a choice if that star means anything to him. Figured once he let the Canfields grab the hoe handle, he’d be walking on his knees to them from that minute on.”
“Lot of hate inside Virg Huckaby for Kit,” Mason said thoughtfully. “Like to know what caused it—but then Kit’s the kind that’s easy to hate, always causing trouble—”
“Which I reckon’s on the way now,” Starbuck cut in lazily and nodded at the Maricopa’s entrance.
The Canfield brothers had just entered and halted in front of the batwings. Kit, jaw outthrust, swept the saloon with his arrogant glance. Locating Shawn and Mason Lynch, he said something over his shoulder to Barney, and then the two started forward.
Eight
Both Canfields had been drinking, Starbuck observed, but they were far from drunk as the pair swaggered up to the table. Kit stopped in front of Mason Lynch. Barney Canfield was a stride or so behind him.
“Get out, jailbird,” the redhead said, jerking his thumb at the doorway. “You’re leaving town.”
Mason did not stir as the racket inside the saloon died rapidly. Shawn, tension building suddenly within him, drew himself up in his chair, draped one arm over the back.
“Move on, Canfield,” he said softly. “We don’t want trouble.”
“Asked for it the minute you rode into town,” the rancher countered. Swinging half around, he touched the saloon patrons with his glance as if inviting all present to hear and bear witness. “Changed my mind about the two of you
—you’re pulling out.”
“No, I reckon not,” Starbuck said. “We made a deal with the marshal, and you agreed to it—”
“Huckaby made you a deal, not me! Told everybody plain I thought it was a fool thing to do.”
“You agreed, just the same—”
“The hell I did!” he shouted, wiping flecks of saliva from his mouth. “Was Huckaby and you in on it. I just went along. Got to studying on it, knew I was right, so I come back to straighten it out.”
Canfield’s raised voice was a powerful magnet drawing the crowd in nearer. Men began to line up along the polished counter; others continued the string into a half-circle that enclosed the Canfields and the two men at the table. The bartender, joined now by a recovered Fred Kemmer, had changed his position, stood now at the near end where he would miss nothing.
Shawn wagged his head slowly. There was a coolness to him, a quiet, unruffled veneer on the surface, but underneath all was boiling turbulence, crystallizing steadily into the hard-core anger men such as Kit Canfield always created within him.
“No matter how you brand it,” he said, “you’re backing out—welching—not standing by your word.”
Canfield’s red-lidded eyes flared. “Don’t you go lecturing me, you goddam saddlebum!”
“Somebody ought to. Leastwise, somebody ought to teach you that a man’s only as good as his word. Now Mason couldn’t leave here if he was willing. Horse of his can’t be ridden. You know that.”
“You’re goddam right I know it—and I fixed it! I’m giving you a horse, Lynch. Trading you a sound animal for that bonerack you’re forking. No reason now why you can’t move on.”
A rueful smile crossed Mason’s face. “Expect that’s just what you’re hoping I’ll do—light out on a Box C horse. Wouldn’t get five miles before you’d be coming to string me up for a horse thief.”
“You’ll get a bill of sale,” Barney Canfield said, breaking his silence. “It’s an honest offer—and better’n you deserve.”
Starbuck came up stiff in his chair, irritated by the statement. “Why’s that? Why is it more than he deserves? Way I see it his debt to you has been wiped out. He paid what the law said he owed for doing what he did. Come to think about it, maybe it’s the other way around—maybe you owe him something. So why would trading him horse for horse be more than he deserves?”