“What the hell wound you up?” Ernie asked.
“Nothin’,” Reilly said. “I just want you to know that we’re in a hell of a business.”
“Name me a better one,” Walt challenged.
“I’m not tryin’ to,” Reilly said, and noticed Ernie Slaughter staring over his right shoulder. “What’s so interestin’?”
“Burk Seever and Indian Jim,” Ernie said. “Sittin’ there like toads.”
Reilly turned in his chair to see for himself. Seever and Indian Jim were in the corner, a bottle between them and in earnest conversation. “Burk’s gettin’ bold,” Reilly said softly. “Everyone knows Indian Jim’s in the wild bunch.”
“Bold or big,” Walt said.
The crowd in Burkhauser’s kept growing. Jim Buttelow came in with Otis Fielding, his advance man from Utah. He saw Reilly, sent his brief nod across the room, then sat down at a table.
The musicians were trying to get together on a number and the curtain went up. Jane Alford came out to sing. She wore a red dress that ended just below her hips and her tapered legs glistened in the yellow glow of the footlights.
Noises began to die as she went into her song, a sad tale about a wandering father and an unpaid mortgage. The applause was scattered and indifferent and the men began to pick up their dropped conversation before she walked off the stage.
Reilly glanced at Ernie Slaughter and found him sitting with his hat tipped forward over his eyes, his face boxed in shadows. Reilly understood that there had been something between Ernie and Jane, but Ernie made no mention of it and Reilly knew of no way to bring it up without prying.
“Are we holdin’ a wake or somethin’?” Walt asked. He looked around the table but no one brightened.
Reilly turned in his chair again and looked at Burk Seever. Somehow he kept remembering the man’s face when Tess Isham had stepped out into the hall, half dressed. The fact that Seever also had that picture of her in his mind drove a deep rage through him.
Turning back to his friends, Reilly said, “I think I can lick that sonofabitch.”
Their heads came up. “Seever?” Walt’s voice held amazement.
“Yes,” Reilly said.
“Man,” Walt said, trying to grin the idea away, “you drunk already?”
“Cold sober,” Reilly told him, and looked at Seever again. “I mean it. I got my reasons for tryin’, too.”
“Hell, this is your wake we’re celebratin’,” Ernie stated. His smile faded and he bent forward. “You’re serious!”
Reilly slid his chair back and touched Milo on the shoulder. “Keep ’em off my back, will you?”
“Just worry about the big one,” Milo said, and Reilly stepped away from their table, threading his way through the crowd.
Indian Jim stopped talking when Reilly dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Take a walk for yourself,” Reilly said.
“Well,” Seever said. “I’m surprised you can leave that poor girl alone long enough to come to town.”
“I want to talk to you about that,” Reilly said. He jabbed his thumb at Indian Jim who still remained seated. “I won’t tell you again, Jim.”
“He’s bluffing,” Seever said. “Sit still, Jim.”
“Am I?” Reilly smiled and then backhanded Indian Jim out of the chair. Jim hit the floor, grunted and pawed for his gun. Reilly kicked out and sent the gun spinning and Milo’s cool voice said, “Forget him. He’ll behave himself.”
Facing the table where Seever sat, Reilly leaned on the edge and said, “Burk, I think you and me have a waltz comin’ up.”
“Not with a gun,” Seever said. “Insult me all you want with that gun on, but take it off and I’ll tear you in two.”
“I think you’ve made a deal,” Reilly said, and unbuckled the gunbelt. A ring of men had formed quickly and there was little talk in the room. On the stage, Jane Alford peered around the curtain, her face pale and strained.
Reilly saw Walt raise his hand. He threw the holstered gun. He did not hear it hit the floor so he knew Walt had caught it.
“There’s no gun now,” Reilly said, and he waited, his hands once again on the edge of Seever’s table.
The only sound was the ticking of the large wall clock.
CHAPTER 7
Because Reilly Meyers had fought Burk Seever off and on all his life, he knew the man’s style and was able to anticipate Seever’s move as he made it. The big man’s hands dropped to the kidney-shaped table’s edge and he threw his weight against it, shoving. This was calculated to push Reilly back and bring the table over on top of him, but Reilly pulled a scant second before Seever shoved and the big man lost his balance. Propelled by his own impetus, Seever sprawled face down, knocking cards and chips to the floor and sending bottle and shot glasses flying.
The sprawl carried him a good ten feet and Reilly found his shoulder point pressed against Walt Slaughter’s chest. Walt pressed the cold neck of their whiskey bottle into Reilly’s hand and said, “Take it. We can get another one.”
Catching Seever as he rose, Reilly swung his arm in an arc and brought the bottle down across the crown of Seever’s head. Whiskey and fragmented glass sprayed into the sawdust.
Behind Reilly, Walt Slaughter swung on a man, driving him back. When the man came in again, Walt hefted another bottle and fractured it. Reilly heard the body hit loosely and did not bother to glance back.
Seever was getting up.
The big man rolled over before propping himself up on all fours like a bear. Reilly threw the jagged neck of the bottle away and seized a chair. He splintered it over Seever’s head and shoulders.
A mild commotion built up behind him and Reilly shot a quick glance that way. Walt was standing over the man he had downed, Ernie beside him. They faced four men who had an idea about fighting, but were making no move to start it.
Burk Seever had been flattened by the last blast but he gathered himself and rolled, his knees drawn up to protect his belly, the result of dim remembrance of brawls past. When he came erect, Reilly moved in on him with an oak chair leg.
Seever was dizzy and weaving. Reilly hit him with his fist, a blow that merely bounced off although he had put all his power into it. An animal lived in Seever, beneath that veneer of handsomeness. A big-boned, indestructible animal. Reilly used the chair leg like a setting maul, opening up ugly cuts on Seever’s face and head. This was different from hitting a man with a fist and bringing quick blood. A fist distributes power over a wider area and has some give to it, but the oak chair leg left gashes that reached to the bone. The wounds showed white and stark, not bleeding at all for the moment.
With a mind numb from the sledging, Seever pawed out blindly and Reilly went over backward in a flailing somersault. The blow had lacked full power; actually it was a gigantic shove that punished severely. Reilly rolled his head aside in an effort to determine whether or not his neck had been broken. He had seen it coming in time to swerve and take the brunt of it on his neck muscles, but now his whole side was numb from the shock of it.
Moving forward, Seever planted his feet solidly. Reilly came erect in time to duck a wild swing that would have torn his head off and then jabbed viciously with the chair leg. This wrung a grunt from Seever, nothing more, and the big man tried to grapple.
Understanding what would happen if Seever ever managed to get his arms around him, Reilly struck out with the oak leg, cracking it across Seever’s heavy forearm. Seever’s eyes grew round with shock. He stood there flat-footed, looking at the sliver of bone sticking through the bloody coat sleeve.
Seever’s fancy vest had been tom open and blood made ink splashes on his white shirt front. Reilly charged. He split open a four inch gash over Seever’s eyebrows, then threw the chair leg away. He speared Seever in the mouth with his fist.
Somebody behind Reilly yelped in sudden fright and he s
hot a rapid glance that way. Milo Bucks had his pearl handled gun out and three men stood against the bar. One was Indian Jim, scowling darkly.
Bleeding freely across the face now, Seever moaned and moved toward Reilly like a mechanical man. His muscles were battered, his mind blank. He acted purely from some deep primeval instinct.
“This is the kiss-off, bully boy,” Reilly said, and hit Seever in the stomach. Behind his fist went all his strength, fed by many galling defeats in the past, beatings taken from this man with no hope of repayment. He had worn Seever numb and now he wanted to cut him down with his bare hands.
Reilly closed with a vengeance.
This was a near fatal mistake for Reilly misjudged the man’s brute staying power. Seever reached out with his good hand and grabbed Reilly by the back of the neck, bringing him to his knees with the power of the grip.
The great difference in weight told. Reilly weighed no more than a hundred and seventy pounds, while Seever stood a head taller and topped that by fifty pounds.
As Reilly gasped, Seever lashed forward with his bloody head, smashing his brow against Reilly’s cheekbone. Dimly Reilly recalled a man in prison, a Negro, who had played ‘pop-skull,’ breaking the bones of another man’s face with his own smashing head.
The blow left him sick and half conscious and Seever used Reilly’s head like an extension of his fist, battering it against his own massive brow until blood ran from Reilly’s mouth and nose.
With a head that felt beaten out of shape, Reilly felt the sudden pain revive him. He gathered his strength for one last try. He understood that one was all he would get, for he was near gone now. Using his feet like flails, he raked Seever’s shins then cracked the hard heel of his boot down across the man’s instep.
A howl of pain rewarded him and a slackening of the grip followed. Breaking free, Reilly raised one knee and caught the big man squarely in the crotch. Seever doubled over, his eyes suddenly glazed. Whirling, Reilly lifted a chair, then threw it aside in disgust.
He’d finish this with his hands.
Bringing one up from the floor, he connected solidly. Seever arched backward and struck with enough force to bring bottles down behind the bar.
The man was more dead than alive and still he struggled to his feet, swaying blindly as blood flowed into his eyes. He walked in a short choppy circle, bent over like a chicken searching for bugs. His movement had no direction, no purpose. It was just movement.
Reilly began to stalk him.
He forced Seever back against a supporting post and tacked him against it with a whistling fist. He beat him with the steady cadence of a drum major leading a parade, literally supporting the man with the killing power of his fists.
Seever did not lift his hands.
Finally Reilly stepped back and Seever fell like a heavy tree. A nude on horseback broke free of the wall hanger, showering glass on the floor as it struck the baseboard.
Reilly stood there, legs spread wide to keep from falling, the wind tearing in and out of lungs that were afire. A muttering began to grow in the crowded saloon and Ernie Slaughter gave a shrill whoop. But Milo Bucks said something in a quietly dangerous voice to the group of men he faced and Reilly felt the power drain from his legs.
He sat down in an awkwardly cramped position, trying to decipher the loud talk that filled the saloon. He heard Milo Bucks shout something to Indian Jim, heard a fist strike meatily, heard a chair break into splinters.
Walt and Ernie were lifting him and Ernie was saying, “Damn it to hell, I sure never seen the beat of it. Damned if I have.”
Milo Bucks was still standing before the three men. Indian Jim lay on the floor, stirring now and daubing at a bloody nose. Milo’s voice came easy and unstrained: “Whoa there now. You fellas want more than you can handle, then come right ahead.”
Walt and his brother got Reilly outside and Ernie plunged Reilly’s head into the horse trough. He brought Reilly up twice, then ducked him a third time.
Walt said, “Stop it, Ernie. You tryin’ to drown him?”
Reaching the point where he could finally control his legs, Reilly pushed Ernie’s arm away. He weaved back and forth and Walt held him so that he would not fall. Water dripped down Reilly’s ripped shirt front in a steady stream.
Milo Bucks came out on the saloon porch, his pearl handled .44 still relaxed and ready. Seever had friends who resented this. They began to crowd Bucks, but would not close completely with him.
Walt said, “Better get a doctor over here,” and trotted across the street to the office above the barber shop. Reilly was able to manage by himself now and Ernie handed him his gun. He buckled it on, feeling his head expand and contract with every heartbeat.
Henderson hurried down the street and mounted the porch. Milo Bucks turned to him, the Colt still in his hand, and said, “Your boy just got his guts stomped out.”
“I’m going in there,” Henderson said, and put his hand on Bucks’ shoulder to spin him out of the way.
Milo spun, but the short barrel of his Frontier arced up and down and Henderson cascaded limply off the porch. His rolling body hit one of the hitchrail posts and the dry wood split, dumping him into the street.
Putting the gun away, Milo said softly, “That was for nothin’. The same reason you pistol whipped me for, tin star.” He was a cold man now, a driving man with a powerful force surging within him. He faced Seever’s friends on the porch and said, “Move on, now. Move out.”
He waited, cold, implacable, and one by one they bent to his will. In a minute the porch was bare, the men having gone back inside or drifted down the street.
Walt and the doctor came across on the run. The doctor stopped by the watering trough where Reilly stood, but Milo said, “In there. Seever’s the one who needs you.”
“Seever?” The man seemed amazed. He was short and peppery with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and an enormous watch fob that slid back and forth with his breathing. “Did Reilly lick Seever?”
“Better get on,” Ernie murmured. “He’s in a bad way.”
“Of course,” the doctor said, and hurried into the saloon.
“I’m goin’ to get a new shirt,” Reilly said. He walked across the street to the mercantile. The large room was bright with lamplight and the clerk stepped away from the door with a good deal of respect.
Reilly looked the hickory shirts over, chose one his size and went into the back room to change. A mirror hung on one wall and he stared when he saw the face reflected there. One eye was nearly closed. Skin was missing from his cheekbones and forehead. He saw a gash high on his head that he did not remember getting.
He shrugged and slipped into the new shirt, tucking it into his waistband. A stiffness was beginning to creep into his shoulder and back muscles and just walking set up protests.
The clerk waited behind the counter and Reilly asked, “How much for the shirt, Roscoe?”
“One and a quarter, Mr. Meyers.” He made change quickly and Reilly stepped to the doorway. The doctor came out of Burkhauser’s, followed by four of Burk Seever’s friends. Burk lay flat on a door that had been removed and they walked clumsily across to the office above the barbershop. Reilly could hear them cursing as they wrestled the weight upstairs.
Milo Bucks had disappeared and Reilly wondered where he was. Milo had proved to be somewhat of a big man in the saloon and Reilly wanted to talk to him. Ernie Slaughter pushed Burkhauser’s swing-doors open and stepped outside. He saw Reilly and came across, peering anxiously at Reilly’s face.
“How you feelin’?”
“Like somebody took an ax to me.”
Ernie blew out his breath and rolled a smoke. “The doc ain’t brought Burk around yet,” he said, and scratched a match. “Henderson’s got a split in his scalp where Milo banged him with the gun. Hell, that little rooster’s got a craw full of sand, ain’t he
?”
“Where’s he now?”
Ernie shrugged. “Walked off down the street with Walt ten minutes ago.” He turned to look up and down the street, halting the motion of his head when Jane Alford came to the saloon doorway. She looked over the top at Ernie for a scant moment, then went back inside.
“I’ll see you later,” Ernie said. He crossed the street and moved along darkened store fronts until he came to the express office. Then after one final look up and down, he fitted himself into the narrow gap and traversed it with side steps.
He paused in the inkiness of the alley, carefully skirting the stacked litter. Three buildings down, the saloon’s back door opened flush with a loading platform. Ernie moved toward this. He slid past the back of the feed store and jumped when Jane Alford reached out of the darkness and touched him.
“Hey,” he said. “You gave me a scare.”
“Talking’s better here,” Jane said. “Burkhauser’s walls are too damn thin.” She shivered slightly for her shoulders were bare and the night held a sharp chill. “Get Reilly out of town, Ernie. Do it now while he’s still alive.”
Ernie’s relaxed manner changed to caution. “What’s goin’ on, Jane?” He touched her round shoulder and when she didn’t draw away, he pulled her a little closer to him. “Jane—”
“No, Ernie.” Her voice was like a hand, pushing against him, but he closed his mind to it. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he saw the pale oval of her face, the gentle bow of her lips. He pulled her to him, all the way.
His was the kiss of hunger and loneliness and of a man in love when he knew there was no reason for it and no certain happy ending to it. For a heartbeat her arms remained at her sides and then she moaned and clung to him, returning his love in a way that left him shaken.
That moment passed and she strained against him until she was free. He looked at her with solemnity and wonder, unable to believe what she had said without words.
“That was a fool thing to do,” she said. “I ought to slap your face.”
“You’ve been lyin’ to me, Jane,” Ernie began, the words tumbling together in his haste to say it all at once. “You love me—you’ve never stopped.” He took her shoulders and shook her. “I know somethin’s after you, somethin’ you won’t tell me about, but come with me. Nothin’ will ever bother you.”
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