The Sixth Western Novel

by Jackson Gregory

  “You’re going to make this tough on yourself,” Seever began, and then the front door opened. Milo Bucks stepped inside. He closed the door gently behind him and leaned against it, his young face smooth and vaguely interested.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Henderson frowned at Burk Seever, who glared at Milo Bucks. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I got a sixshooter in the drawer there,” Bucks said. He pointed to Henderson’s desk. “The sheriff there forgot to give it back.”

  “I got no gun that’s yours,” Henderson said flatly.

  Milo Bucks smiled. “I was sure out cold when I got drug in here last night and I been locked up ever since, which is my way of sayin’ that I wouldn’t know what was in that desk. Howsomever, if you’d run your hand around in there, I guess you’d find my gun.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Henderson said, half rising from his chair. “What do you think you’re pulling?”

  “This, I guess,” Bucks said and reached into his pocket. In his hand was a small nickel-plated Derringer, the over and under barrels staring at the sheriff. “Keep it in my saddlebag as a little friend,” Milo said. “Now, Sheriff, if you’ll open that drawer real careful, you’ll find a short barreled forty-four Colt there with pretty pearl handles. Just lay it on the floor and slide it to where I’m standin’.” He smiled pleasantly and Henderson reached into the drawer.

  The gun was there and he slid it toward Milo Bucks. Milo stooped and picked it up. He put the Derringer away and held the forty-four loosely.

  “Won this at Klamath Falls last year. Seems like every sheriff who sees it wants it for his own.” He nodded to Seever and opened the door. “I’ll be thankin’ you gentlemen,” he added, and closed the door between them.

  “That wise sonofabitch,” Henderson said.

  “Forget about him,” Seever snapped, paying all his attention to Reilly Meyers. “Now listen to me, Reilly. I’m not suggesting that you do a damn thing. I’m telling you. I won’t fool with you.”

  “Were you ever fooling, Burk?”

  “Get smart with me and I’ll smash your face,” Seever said. “You don’t have any ax handle now.” He rolled his heavy shoulders. “Hating you is easy, Reilly. The nice part of it is, you’ve given me a damn good excuse, one that any man can understand. A woman! Every time I look at my wife I can think of you and how you used to eat out of the dish I wanted. I can blame all of it on your laughing ways and how a man can sweat his brains out wanting something and you come along and smile and she’d fall into your arms. In your case, I can get the job done and never explain anything because any man can add two and two and get the answer about you and Sally.”

  “Well,” Reilly murmured. “You’ve turned into a first class sharpie, haven’t you, Burk?”

  Seever moved with surprising agility for a man his size, knocking Reilly out of the chair and splintering it under him. Reilly struck the floor, rolling, an odd roaring in his ears and a deadness in the left side of his face.

  He heard Seever’s soft-soled shoes whisper on the floor as the big man closed in.

  CHAPTER 5

  When Burk Seever knocked Reilly to the floor, Sheriff Henderson half-rose from his chair as though debating whether to interfere or not. Then he relaxed back into the chair.

  Rolling to his hands and knees, Reilly settled there for a moment, blood dripping from his nose onto the worn wood floor. “Better lay off him, Burk,” Henderson said, but there was no push behind his words, no desire to step in and stop Seever.

  “Keep your nose out of it if you’re scared,” Seever said, and Reilly began to edge away as the big man’s shoes shuffled on the floor. Reilly regained his feet in time to be knocked against the wall. A rifle shook loose from the rack and tumbled down with a loud rattle.

  Shaking his head, Reilly tried to clear the fog that taxed his strength. He raised a hand to touch his bruised cheek. There was no feeling in his face, just a sickness gripping his stomach and making breathing a chore.

  As yet, Seever had not hit him with all his strength, but the power in the man’s arms was bone crushing.

  Grabbing Reilly by the shirt front, Seever pulled the smaller man forward, but Reilly uncoiled a fist and smashed Burk flush in the mouth. Blood spurted and Seever roared. He was hurt, but not enough to relax his grip. He blocked Reilly’s next punch and hit him twice, snapping his head back with each blow.

  Kicking out, Reilly’s boot connected with the big man’s shin and for a relaxed second he had a chance to get free. He twisted away, spearing Seever again with a knotted fist, at the same time ducking the man’s windmilling arms.

  With this new confidence, Reilly stepped in close and tried to put the big man down. Seever had a bull strength and absorbed punishment without effect. He drove Reilly backward across the sheriff’s desk and onto the floor beyond. Reilly had the will to rise, but his legs refused to obey the mental command. Sickness began to plow through him and he knew that he did not have long before he would lose this fight.

  Understanding this, Seever began to move forward and Reilly put out his hand to push himself erect. He felt the barrel and magazine tube of a rifle and folded his fingers around it. The cold feel of the metal gave his flagging strength a boost. He stood up, reversing the rifle until it pointed at Burk Seever.

  “You—want one of these in—the gut, Burk?”

  Reilly leaned back against the wall and looked at Seever. Henderson remained at his desk, his hands flat on the top. There was no sound in the room except heavy breathing.

  Henderson made some vague motion and the rifle shifted to him. Whatever the sheriff had in his mind vanished and he remained perfectly still, his breath whistling through his nose.

  Seever said, “You yellow bastard.”

  Reilly was recovering somewhat from the pounding. He said, “I’ll fight you, Burk, but let’s get this thing even.”

  Putting a hand behind him, Reilly fumbled along the wall until he found the rifle rack. He grabbed one of Henderson’s guns from the wall and tossed it to Seever, who caught it and held it stupidly before him.

  “You’ll have to take a chance on it bein’ loaded,” Reilly said and lowered the muzzle of his rifle to the floor. “Now you do as you damn please, Burk.”

  “My fists have always been good enough,” Seever said. “I don’t like a gun.”

  “Fight or run,” Reilly said. “I won’t wait long for you to decide.”

  “Let’s fight,” Seever said.

  He swung the rifle like an ax. The move caught Reilly unprepared and he barely raised the barrel before Seever’s gun caught it with enough force to jar his arms.

  The thin metal of the magazine tube split open, spewing blunt-nosed cartridges on the floor as the two men came against each other, fighting for an opening. The sound of barrel upon barrel was a loud clashing and then Reilly swung the buttstock in a sideward sweep that caught Burk on the shoulder, knocking him halfway across the room.

  Without hesitation, Reilly followed him, the rifle reversed now and gripped by the barrel. Seever tried to get up, raising his own gun to block Reilly’s down-sweeping weapon. The stock broke and the piece struck Seever on the head, bringing bright blood.

  The big man rolled, striking out at Reilly. The blow was not true, but it did catch Reilly on the hip and spin him half around, giving Seever time to get to his feet. Then they swung together, the barrels meeting with enough force to bend them.

  There was a cartridge under the lowered hammer of Burk’s rifle and the sudden impact touched it off. The room bloomed with sound. Henderson gave a frightened yelp as a foot-long gouge appeared across his desk top. Glass shattered as the lead escaped through the front window.

  The blast stunned Seever. Reilly caught him in the stomach with a backhanded swing, bringing the man double. He raised the battered gun to hit Seeve
r across the head, but the big man dropped his weapon and locked his arms around Reilly’s middle, lifting him completely clear of the floor.

  Seever carried him like a belly-hugged sack of meal and slammed Reilly into the wall with enough force to rattle the door. Pawing for Seever’s face, Reilly tried to break free. His breathing was all but cut off and hot flashes charged back and forth in his head.

  Backing up, Seever pounded him into the wall again, this time lowering his head and ramming Reilly in the mouth. For a moment, Reilly relaxed completely, drained of strength. Then Seever dropped him and brought up his knee, catching him flush in the chest.

  Seever’s knee lifted Reilly clear of the floor and flung him backward. He struck heavily and when he tried to work his elbow under him to rise, he found that he could not move. Seever swayed before him, then began a slow advance while Reilly tried to rally muscles that were too tired to obey.

  A wide grin started on Seever’s face. He said, “I’ve always wanted to stomp your guts out, Reilly.”

  He moved another step forward then stopped dead still.

  On the floor, Reilly heard the faint squeak as the door opened. He felt the draft. He turned his head slowly and saw Al Murdock standing there, a long barreled Rogers and Spencer in his hand.

  Seever said, “What the hell is this, Al? You owe him something?”

  “Some,” Murdock said. “I’m marryin’ into the family.” To Reilly he said, “Pick up your gun and get. This is the last favor.”

  Reilly pulled himself erect slowly. He stood there swaying. He went to Henderson’s desk and pushed the sheriff aside. He took his Remington and looked for his rifle, then realized that he had just battered it to pieces. For a moment he considered taking one of Henderson’s, but put the thought aside and shuffled toward the door.

  “You can get your butt in the fire for this, Al,” Henderson said. “This is jailbreak.”

  A smile creased Murdock’s lips. “I doubt it, Jack.” He cast a quick glance at Reilly who stood by the door, weaving. “Can you make it? I brought your horse around front.”

  “I’ll make it,” Reilly said in a loose mumble, and went outside. Seever and the Sheriff remained rooted under Al Murdock’s .44.

  Reilly’s horse was tied to the hitchrack and Harry Peters stood nearby, smoking one of his cigars. He looked at Reilly’s face and said, “Better get out of town, Reilly. I’ll see that you don’t have to go through this again.”

  “Why didn’t you come in and stop it then?” Reilly asked, and untied the reins.

  “Politics,” Peters said. He shifted the cigar. He had a habit of rolling it from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Sometimes a citizen like Al can do more than a lawman.” He nodded to the horse. “Can you get on him?”

  “I’ll get on him,” Reilly said, but when he tried to mount he found that there was no strength in his arms.

  “Lean against the hitchrail,” Peters said. He walked to the watering trough in front of the next building, soaked a handkerchief and handed it to Reilly. Reilly washed his face and laid the wet cloth against the back of his neck.

  Murdock called through the open door, “Still there, Reilly?”

  “Give him time,” Peters said, and Reilly swung up after the second try. Reining away from the hitchrail, he moved slowly down the side street and then cut over to take the main road to his own place.

  The afternoon sun was hot on his back as he followed the creek for three miles. He dismounted to sit in the cold water. After some of the aches diminished, he climbed out, dripping. Picking up his revolver, he mounted again and cut across the flats toward the rougher land on whose fringe his ranch lay.

  * * * *

  Sheriff Henderson and Burk Seever stayed against the wall, both eyeing the revolver in Al Murdock’s hand. After hearing Reilly’s horse leave, Harry Peters stepped to the open doorway and stood there, a slight smile on his face.

  “I’d say it was all right now, Al.” Peter’s voice was bland.

  “Just how long do you think we’ll stand like this?” Henderson asked.

  “Until I say, ‘scat,’” Murdock said.

  “I’ll have your butt for this, Al,” Seever threatened.

  “Come and get it,” Murdock invited.

  Using a different approach, Henderson said, “Damn it all, Al, I can’t figure what got into you—pullin’ a stunt like this. What the hell’s marryin’ his sister got to do with it?”

  “A man owes something, he pays it,” Murdock said. “Now I’m paid up.” He stepped backward into the doorway.

  Seever said, “I’ll remember you for this, Al.”

  “Who gives a damn?” Murdock said. He backed to the boardwalk. He reached in and slammed the door, then walked rapidly down the street with Harry Peters.

  “I hope you don’t have the idea that Henderson or Seever will let this go,” Peters said, kindling a fresh fire to his cigar.

  “He might get hurt monkeyin’ around,” Al said quietly. “Seever engineered that, Harry.”

  “Of course he did,” Peters said as they turned the corner. “Now we know who’s the law around here. It makes a man pause and think.”

  Pausing before the hotel porch, Murdock went to his horse and put the Rogers and Spencer in the saddlebag. On the porch, Tess Isham and Emily Meyers waited, grave and worried. Murdock took Emily’s arm. Drawing her aside, he spoke a few soft words, erasing the strain around her lips.

  Harry Peters sat on the railing of the porch by Childress’ chair. No one said anything until Tess Isham murmured, “Burk got to him, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Murdock said. He paused. “One of these days Reilly is going to even that up. I’d like to see it and at the same time I’m sorry. That man can cut some mighty big chores out for himself.”

  “It was bound to come one way or another,” Childress said, refilling his pipe. “Reilly’s different. There’s somethin’ in him that won’t let go when he gets his jaws locked. I’m thinkin’ he still figures Winehaven owes him for a herd of cattle, and if that’s so, he’ll get ’em back or cut the price out of someone’s hide.”

  “I believe it,” Harry Peters said. He rotated the cigar between his lips. He seemed pleased.

  At the next corner, Seever paused to say a few final words to Sheriff Henderson, then went across while Henderson came toward the hotel. Childress slapped his thighs and stood up. “Time to be gettin’ home,” he said, and stepped down to the buggy tied by the hitchrail. Emily and Tess Isham promised to see each other and then Murdock handed Emily into the rig.

  He turned as Henderson clumped up, his boots rattling the boardwalk. “By rights,” he said, “I could lock you up for interferin’, but I’m goin’ to forget it, see. If Reilly wasn’t so damned smart, he wouldn’t be in trouble all the time.”

  Childress said, “Let’s go, Al.”

  Murdock walked around Henderson and untied his horse. The sheriff followed him and when Al tried to mount, Henderson took him by the coat sleeve. Murdock looked at the hand and the sheriff let go.

  “I’m entitled to a little respect around here,” Henderson said.

  “Better start earnin’ it,” Al said, and mounted.

  “Now just a minute—”

  “Jack, you’ve been coastin’ along free and easy for a long time,” Murdock said, “but the free part is over. I think you started somethin’ with Reilly that you might wish you hadn’t. At Winehaven’s that time—you’d have been money ahead by just givin’ him back his cattle.”

  “Are you accusin’ me—”

  “Take it any way you like,” Murdock said. He swung the horse, almost knocking Henderson over. Childress pulled out in the buggy and Murdock brought up the rear, not looking back.

  * * * *

  Reilly found that riding bent over in the saddle eased the pounding at the base of his skull
, but his face still remained stiff from the drum of Burk Seever’s fists. In the lonely distance his own ranch loomed on the flatlands bordering country that rose high and rough half a mile behind the house.

  Ten minutes later he paused to study the sluggish spiral of smoke easing from the kitchen chimney. The sun was dropping now. It cast long shadows on the ground as he dismounted by the watering trough.

  Easing onto the porch, Reilly opened the front door and tip-toed through the dim hall. The kitchen door was open and he saw the man at the table, his shoulders hunched, both hands wrapped lovingly around a coffee cup. The lamp hadn’t been lighted and darkness increased in the room. A holstered revolver sat on the back of the man’s hip, the pearl handle shiny in the last remaining daylight coming through the window.

  Drawing his short-barreled Remington, Reilly said, “Sit still if you want to keep livin’.”

  The man’s shoulders stiffened and his ears moved slightly as his scalp tightened, but that was all. Reilly stepped into the room and moved around the table. He put his gun back into his belt and said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Hungry,” Milo Bucks said. “I thought the place was deserted.”

  “You thought wrong,” Reilly said. “I’ll see what we can find to eat.” In the cupboard he rummaged around until he found a can of beans. Kicking open the door of the stove, he fed wood to the blaze until it roared, then placed a frying pan on the top.

  “How long you been here?” he asked. He dumped in the can of beans and stirred them with an old spoon.

  “About an hour,” Bucks said. He squinted at Reilly’s puffed face. “The big fella get to you?” Bucks moved his shoulders restlessly. “No man would do that to me.”

  Reilly’s head came around quickly. He studied the young man for a moment. “I used to talk like that. Hit first and think afterward. That’s no good, Milo.”

  “Good for me,” Bucks said. “The big man’s got it in for you, hasn’t he?”

  “Everybody’s got it in for somebody,” Reilly murmured. He could only find one tin plate so he dished half the beans onto it. He sat down across from Milo Bucks and ate from the skillet. “Where are you headin’?”