Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “If you’d let me finish,” the marshal barked back irritably, “I never had any intention of putting these deputies in a posse. What I was trying to find out was if they could manage well enough to look after the town while me and my other deputy head up some men to ride after the Shaws. And as far as what I’m in shape for—until I keel over and can’t haul my sorry ass back up again, I’ll make the decisions on that!”

  CHAPTER 33

  On the back side of the Crystal Diamond Saloon, pressed close to the side of the building so that a section of roof overhang protected them from the rain, three men were huddled in conversation.

  “You heard the marshal in there, making noises about forming up a posse,” Clayton Delaney was saying, his words coming rapidly, anxiously. “I want you, Eugene, to be part of it. Say or do whatever you have to. Lie about your background, claim to have worn a badge and ridden with other posses in the past, if that’s what it takes. Just make sure you get included in.”

  Eugene Boyd’s broad face stretched with a sly smile. “Hell, I have ridden with plenty of posses in the past. I was always the one out ahead of ’em, that’s all.”

  “This is serious, damn it,” snapped Delaney. “I’ve got to get those guns back. The information they possess, the power that having such information will give to me, is crucial beyond imagination. Far more than the mere value of the guns themselves. I tried doing it what I thought was the smart way, and what did it get me? I even had them right in my hands. And then, once again, just like that”—he snapped the fingers of his left hand—“they were gone.”

  “You did a helluva fine job of shootin’ in that contest, that’s for sure,” Boyd admitted. “I thought everything was a done deal.”

  “That just goes to show,” Delaney fumed, “that lurking around the corner at every turn of your life, there’s some no-good sonofabitch waiting to snatch away your hard-won gains. Remember that.”

  “No problem there. We learned that lesson a long time ago by always bein’ the ones to do the snatchin’,” Boyd reminded him. “That’s why I tried to tell you we should’ve used our gang to snatch them guns off the train the other day out in open country.”

  “Speakin’ of our gang,” said the third man, a smallish individual with a hangdog expression wrapped around an oversized nose that was the only thing giving him any real distinction, “are we gonna bring them into this now that the cow has kicked over the milkin’ bucket?”

  “You damn betcha we are. Ain’t we, Clayton?”

  “Naturally.”

  The third man, whose name was Chuck Peabody, raised a rain-damp hand and scratched at the whiskers on the side of his face. “That mean you’re gonna come back with me then, Clayton? I mean, if Eugene rides out with that posse, you’ll have to come and take charge of the gang, right?”

  “Not necessarily. At least, not right away.” Delaney raised and lowered his sling-wrapped right arm. “I played this up pretty good, letting on that it had been badly wrenched when that hellion on horseback yanked the gun case away from me. It does hurt, but not all that bad. The point is, it gives me a good excuse for not riding out with the posse. But it also means I can’t suddenly ride off for some other undisclosed reason, either. It would be sure to look suspicious.”

  “Yeah, I guess it would,” allowed Peabody.

  “But hanging around here—for a little while, at least—isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Since I’m not only one of the injured parties,” Delaney explained, “but also have legal claim to the stolen guns, they’re bound to keep me advised of all the latest developments. Who knows? It just might be that the local bumpkin of a marshal can somehow manage to retrieve those guns. In that case, they’ll be returned to me and everything will still have the chance to work out smooth for us.”

  “Okay. Reckon that would be a welcome thing.” Peabody frowned. “But where does that leave the gang, as far as the rest of the men knowin’ what’s up and what they’re supposed to be doin’ in the meantime?”

  “That falls to you. You’ll be taking instructions back on my behalf.”

  “Me?” Peabody suddenly looked very uncertain. “I dunno. What’s the chances of Iron Tom or Largo or some of the others payin’ any attention to what I got to say?”

  “Because you’ll be the direct link to me. In other words, you’ll be doing the speaking, but I’ll be doing the talking. They’d damn well better pay attention,” said Delaney.

  “And if there’s any balkin’,” added Boyd, “you can remind ’em that it’s just a matter of time before I’ll be comin’ back around again, and I’ll settle the hash of anybody who gives you a hard time.”

  Peabody licked his lips, trying to put on a braver front than he was actually feeling. “Okay. If you fellas say so. What’s the message I’m carryin’ back to the others?”

  * * *

  Inside his well-appointed office at the Crystal Diamond, August Gafford was pacing furiously back and forth. The long cigar he was alternately clamping in his mouth or waving around to emphasize a point had filled the air with a slowly swirling cloud of blue smoke.

  “Listen to ’em out there,” Gafford said, jabbing his cigar toward the richly paneled door that led out to the main barroom of the saloon. “Three quarters of the town jammed into my joint on opening day and I ain’t making a damn dime off any of ’em. We’re in a crisis, so the only charitable thing for a civic-minded business leader like me to do is dole out free drinks to help soothe frayed nerves and calm poor terrorized souls.” Gafford paused to wave both arms wildly, the one with the cigar in its fist making whirling patterns of smoke. “What about my frayed nerves? In addition to all the money being poured down undeserving gullets in the name of trauma, my goddamn golden guns have been stolen—twice!—right out from under my nose.”

  Sunk back in a heavily cushioned chair situated at an angle before the room’s massive desk, Ben Eames cranked his head around with a scowl. “If that last part was yet another remark concerning my failure to win the shooting contest, I’m getting a little sick of hearing about it.”

  “I’m pretty sick over the whole business, too.”

  “Look, I never claimed to be the best shot in the whole world,” Eames said. “No matter how good you are at something, there’s always gonna be somebody better. Who could have figured that ‘somebody’ would pop up out here in the middle of no-stinking-where, Wyoming?”

  “Yet he did. Of all the rotten damn luck!”

  “In the end, it didn’t really make a lot of difference,” pointed out Eames. “Even if I would have won the guns, they’d have gotten snatched away from me just like happened to the other fella. There’s where your anger truly needs to be aimed—toward that scurvy old Shaw rapscallion and his sons. They’re the ones who tore hell out of everything and everybody and stole the guns in the process.”

  Gafford waved his arms again. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I have a special hatred built up for those unwashed dogs? The thought of them even touching my precious guns—let alone actually possessing them for any length of time—makes me physically sick to my stomach.”

  “What about ’em touching and possessing those women hostages they took?” Eames said with a distasteful expression clouding his face.

  Gafford stopped pacing and leaned on the end of his desk. “You want the cold, hard truth? Here it is: If I had to choose one over the other, it would be my guns, hands down. If Alora Dane were here, all she’d represent would be another expense—on top of the loss I’m currently suffering due to the tragedy that’s taken place. Exactly the kind of unexpected problem I told you I don’t have the funds to cover. Not without those guns. That ought to make it plain enough why, as far as I’m concerned, they take precedence over anything or anybody.”

  Eames emitted a low whistle. “You’re right. That’s plenty clear and also a pretty damned cold outlook.”

  “Don’t think I’m proud to admit it,” Gafford said, setting his jaw firmly. “But, from
my standpoint, it’s only practical.”

  “But what happens if Hatfield’s posse catches up with those thievin’ varmints and retrieves the guns?” Eames asked. “With Delaney still on hand to claim ’em, that doesn’t solve the problem of you not having them.”

  Gafford’s jaw remained firmly set, the muscles at the hinge bunching visibly. “True enough. With Delaney still on hand, as you said . . . still alive, in other words.”

  Some of the color left Eames’s face. “What are you saying?”

  “Oh, come on, man, don’t act so dense,” said Gafford, straightening up abruptly. “I’m saying exactly what it sounds like—if something were to happen to Delaney before those guns were returned, then the claim to them would fall to the next man in line from the shooting contest. That would be you. And that, subsequently, would put me right back where I need to be. How much plainer do I have to make it?”

  Eames passed the back of one hand across his mouth. “If something were to happen to Delaney . . . like him getting killed, you mean?”

  “That’s the blunt way of putting it.”

  “By me?”

  “You’re the one I’m discussing it with, aren’t you? Why do you think I snuck you in here for this talk? You owe me for failing to win that contest in the first place.”

  “But I’m no killer!” Eames insisted.

  “You’re not? There’s the grave of a young woman in Boston that many see as a testament proving otherwise.”

  Eames thrust to his feet. “Damn you! I told you to quit bringing that up!”

  “Then quit backing me into a corner with your foolish demands and your shooting incompetence and now your gutless refusal to commit a simple act that would square everything.”

  “Murder is hardly a simple act. Not for me—no matter what you say or others may believe.” Now Eames began to pace. “What about that other fellow you’ve already got on your payroll? That Simon Quirt you threatened me with before. If he’s such a dangerous gunslinger, then murder ought to be right up his alley. Why not have him kill Delaney?”

  “For myriad reasons,” Gafford countered. “Number one, it would leave you—with your own hands unbloodied yet fully aware of too many details—in the position of having leverage over me. Number two, the money I am paying Mr. Quirt was based strictly on guarding the guns. So even if he would agree to take care of Delaney for me, I’m sure it would involve a significant additional fee. And you’ve heard repeatedly where I stand in that regard.”

  “If Quirt was responsible for guarding the guns, then why aren’t you holding him to account for failure, the same as you are me?”

  “Because, technically, Quirt’s job was done as soon as Delaney took the gun case out of his hands. So it still comes back to you not winning that contest, as we went to great lengths and considerable expense to arrange. Had you done so and everything else still happened exactly as it did, then all we’d be looking at would be the retrieval of the guns. Something I have faith that our fiercely determined marshal will accomplish.” Gafford shook his head sternly. “But because of your failure, Delaney still stands in the way. Therefore it is your responsibility to do whatever’s necessary to remove him as an obstacle.”

  CHAPTER 34

  In the bedroom of his house, Bob was seated on the edge of the mattress, packing items into an old buckskin war bag that had been placed on a chair pulled up alongside the bed. Bucky was assisting by bringing him spare clothing and such from a nearby chest of drawers.

  Although it showed many miles of use, the war bag was still plenty sturdy and reliable. Usually stored deep within Bob’s closet, except for occasions such as the pursuit he was now planning, the bag and its contents dated back to his outlaw period as the Devil’s River Kid. Chief among the ever-present items inside were a backup Schofield revolver Bob faithfully kept cleaned and oiled, extra boxes of ammo for the Schofield as well as additional .44 cartridges for the Colt sidearm and Yellowboy rifle he currently carried, a compass, and a pair of high-quality binoculars.

  In times past, whenever a situation called for the war bag to once again be put to use, it usually had been Consuela—the only other person who knew the full story behind it—who’d drag it out of the closet and do the necessary added packing to have it ready for Bob. Her absence today wore heavy on Bob’s mind, and for reasons far beyond not having her here to help make necessary preparations.

  As he watched his father solemnly arranging things within the fringed bag, Bucky’s youthful expression carried its own burden of concerns. “You’re gonna be able to get Consuela back, ain’t you, Pa?” he asked, badly needing to hear the reassurance.

  “I sure aim to, pal. I’ll do everything in my power.”

  “If anybody can do it, you can. That’s what everybody says.”

  “That’s heartening to hear. Faith ain’t a bad thing. Let’s hope I can measure up.”

  “You can. I know you can. But I keep thinking about what you told Mr. Bullock and the others back in the saloon. About how the Shaws might kill her no matter what. Either that or . . .”

  “Stop it!” Bob said sharply. “Don’t let your thoughts go there. Not ever. If you have faith in me like you say you do, then hold fast to that.”

  “I will. I promise.” Bucky set his mouth firmly.

  “How about the other kind of faith? In God, I mean. Should I pray?”

  “It sure can’t hurt.”

  Bob closed his war bag and pulled it closed, cinching the leather thongs tight. He stood up. His head was still pounding dully but he hadn’t experienced any dizziness for some time. He turned to Bucky, placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and pulled him close. “Like we talked about, you’ll be staying with Mike and Teresa Tuttle at the Bluebird Café while I’m away. They’ll take good care of you, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. Understood?”

  “I will be, Pa.”

  “Mrs. Tuttle is a good, devout woman. She’ll help you with the praying if you need it.”

  “I think I can handle that part okay, Pa.”

  Bob lifted the war bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Come along, then. I’m to meet the men who are riding out with me down at the jail. I’ll drop you off at the Bluebird on the way by.”

  Downstairs, as they went out onto the front porch, Bucky paused and looked back at the empty doorway.

  “What’s the matter? Forget something?” Bob asked.

  Bucky shook his head. “No. It’s just that it feels so strange for us to be leaving the house and not have Consuela standing there to see us off.”

  Bob felt it, too. There was a huskiness in his voice as he said, “She’ll be back soon, boy . . . She’ll be back.”

  * * *

  As the day slid into early afternoon, the rain had diminished into little more than a mistlike drizzle.

  After leaving Bucky with the Tuttles, Bob walked the rest of the way up Front Street to where a knot of men were huddled in the mist, waiting for him. Half a dozen of them were mounted. A seventh horse was saddled and ready for him to climb aboard. Among the others present, though not on horseback, he saw such familiar faces as Mike Bullock, Angus McTeague, and August Gafford. Fred and Peter were there, too, standing back closer to the front of the jail, looking on in grim silence.

  Bob put foot to stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Vern, who’d been holding the horse until he showed up, now turned the reins over to him. Then he handed over something else, saying, “Figured this might come in handy as well.”

  What he held out was Bob’s .44.

  “Somebody turned it in after finding it on the muddy ground back outside the Crystal Diamond,” Vern explained. “I gave it a good cleaning, loaded it with fresh shells. It’s got a full wheel.”

  “Obliged,” said Bob. He took the gun, hefted its familiar weight and feel, then slipped it into the holster on his hip. “There. That’s better.” Grinning wryly, he added, “See? All that staggering I was doing a little while ago wasn’t dizziness at all.
I was just out of balance.”

  “I doubt the doctor would agree. Nor would he see any damned humor to it,” said Mike Bullock, stepping forward. “For the last time, Bob, I’m begging you to reconsider. Especially your participation in it. Damn it, man, a bullet skimmed your head. You can’t possibly be in any condition to—”

  “We’ve already wasted too much time hashing that over. I’ll not waste any more. I appreciate your concern, Mike—all of you—but my mind’s made up. We’re heading out.”

  “Godspeed to you then, if you insist.”

  “I do. If your intentions are good, as I know they are, then save them for the deputies I’m leaving behind. I expect the town will be pretty tame for a while, but I’m still asking a lot of two wounded men. And if any loudmouth takes a notion to try and throw any blame their way on account of what happened with the Shaws . . . well, hearing about it on my return would make me very unhappy.”

  “We’ll see to it there’s none of that,” McTeague assured him. “Not that they can’t handle it themselves. Take an arm and a leg away from each of them and they’re still two of the finest men in town. Anybody with half a brain can tell you as much.”

  “I know that,” said Bob. “I just don’t want them to forget it.”

  Touching a finger to his hat in a kind of salute to the two men in question, Bob then wheeled his horse about and led his group off toward the north.

  Some distance removed from the buildings of town, Bob signaled a halt. As the men reined up around him, he turned to face them and gave them closer scrutiny than he had back at the jail. He’d left it to Vern to pick those who’d ride with them, his only instructions being to choose hardened men who could shoot and withstand several hours in a saddle over rugged country. From the look of what he saw before him now, his deputy had done well.

  Bob recognized most of the faces. Earl Wells and Heck Hembrow, two tough young riders for the Bar-K outfit; George O’Farrow, a bull of a man who did part-time work for Krepdorf’s General Store and also loaded and unloaded freight at the train station; and Pecos Ryan, a soft-spoken newcomer to town who’d been a participant in the shooting contest and had given a good accounting of his skills. The fifth man was unfamiliar but had the look of a drifter who knew how to handle himself.