Warlock

by Oakley Hall

  He broke off, for the judge was speaking. “Any man,” the judge said, and paused for their attention. “Any man,” he went on, “who has got himself set over others and don’t have any responsibility to something bigger than him, is a son of a bitch.” He stared from face to face, his cheek twisting around the great wart, his mouth drawn out flat and contemptuous. “Bigger than all men,” he said, “which is the law.”

  Then he looked at Schroeder again. “And those the same that take the law for a fraud. For the law is for all, not just against some you hate their livers.”

  Schroeder had flushed, but he said without heat, “Can’t see everybody’s livers from where I sit, Judge.”

  “See just toward San Pablo from where you sit,” the Judge said. “So where is the law?”

  “In a book, Judge,” Tim French said gravely.

  “Never been a man yet to know what it was he swore when he put on that badge,” the judge said. “Maybe you thought you swore blood on Abe McQuown and his people, Deputy. But that wasn’t what you swore.”

  The front legs of Schroeder’s chair tapped to the floor; his hand, where it still clutched a bar of the cell door beside him, was white with strain. In the easy voice he said, “Judge, I went up to Sheriff Keller and told him I’d come in here because Bill Canning got run and not a man to stand up for him. I come in here against Abe McQuown and people getting run or else burnt down by sons of bitches like him and Cade and Benner and Billy Gannon and Curley Burne. That’s what I swore to, and your law for Warlock’s in a book still, the way Tim said, if you don’t like it.” Then he laughed a little and said, “Though I have kind of got this ice water in my bowels right now.”

  The others silently avoided his eyes, except for Peter Bacon, who was watching his friend steadily. Bacon said, “I guess you could leave things up to Blaisedell, Horse.”

  “None of your put-in, Carl,” Tim French said.

  “Never said it was,” Schroeder said. “Only—” He was silent for a time, and the others stirred nervously. He drew a long breath and said, “Only if they run him. If they run him and think they are going to whoop this town like they did before.” He paused again and his face stiffened. “I guess that’d be my put-in. I guess you’d say I was looking the right way if I took that for my put-in, wouldn’t you, Judge?”

  The judge moved his head in what might have been a nod, but he didn’t speak. Skinner said, in an embarrassed, too-loud voice, “Well, now, I expect you can count on Clay Blaisedell not running, Carl.”

  “There was Texas men tried to run him out of Fort James,” French said. “I expect maybe Abe is going to bust a few teeth on Blaisedell, and choke on them too.”

  “I just wait and see,” Parsons said.

  “Every man is waiting to see, Owen,” Bacon said.

  “Well, Blaisedell looks a decent one to me,” Mosbie said. “Don’t look to be holding himself above a man, being what he is and all. I expect he will make out tonight. I expect he will make a fine marshal here, and Carl an easy job out of it.”

  Schroeder’s lips twitched beneath his colorless mustache as he glanced up at the names of predecessors scratched in the whitewash. The judge was shaking his head.

  “No,” the judge said. “Not an easy job for Carl if he does his job. No, and not enough for Blaisedell to look decent either. For he has set himself to kill men and judge men to kill. And the Citizens’ Committee has.” He glared up at Skinner as Skinner started to interrupt. “No, not enough!” he said.

  “Blow!” Skinner said. “By God, you are on the Citizens’ Committee the same as me. It seems like you could go along with what the rest of us decided had to be done or shut up about it. Blaisedell isn’t costing you nothing.”

  “He costs me,” the judge said hoarsely.

  “You damned drunken old fraud!” Skinner cried. “Nobody ever got any money out of you for anything yet but whisky. I am sick of your damned blowing! You are no more judge than I am, anyhow!”

  “On acceptance,” the judge said. He looked flustered. Clumsily he opened the table drawer against his belly, took out a bottle of whisky and started to pry the cork out with his thumbnail. Then, as he saw the others all watching him, he changed his mind and only set the bottle down before him. “On acceptance only, in this law-forsaken place,” he said.

  Tim French said suddenly, “Well, I will sure say this, Carl. How you ought to let Blaisedell take on what he is paid good money for. It is his showdown tonight and none of yours.”

  “Surely,” Schroeder said.

  Mosbie, his dark face flushing more darkly, said, “There is others but you have come hard against McQuown now, Carl.”

  “Not a man here that isn’t with you,” Pike Skinner said heavily. “Me included. And not a man here that won’t back off when it comes time to scratch, I guess. That has been proved on us hard.”

  No one spoke. The judge sat staring at the whisky bottle before him.

  “But with you all the same,” Skinner said. He slapped his hat against his leg and turned to leave, but stopped.

  “Got a help-wanted sign outside there,” Schroeder said, with an edge to his voice. “Keller says I can have another deputy in here, can I hire one.”

  Skinner grunted explosively and flung on outside. His heels hammered away on the boardwalk. Owen Parsons rose and stretched, and Peter Bacon bent forward to sweep up his shavings. His face hidden, he said, “People have been shamed, Horse. I expect next time a man needs help, there’ll be help.”

  “Uh-huh,” Schroeder said. His mustache twitched again, but his voice still held the bitter edge. “There’ll maybe be help, but I haven’t heard much about anybody offering it to Blaisedell tonight. That might need it bad.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Me included,” he said.

  4. MORGAN AND FRIEND

  IN HIS office at the rear of the Glass Slipper, Tom Morgan changed into a clean linen shirt and tied his tie by the dim last dregs of daylight. From the mirror the image of his pale face with the silver-white sleek hair and the black slash of mustache gazed back at him, expressionless and shadowy. He put on a bed-of-flowers vest, his shoulder harness, and short holster that carried his Banker’s Special flat against his side, and his fine black broadcloth coat.

  Then he poured a quarter of an inch of whisky into a glass from the decanter on his desk, and rinsed it through his mouth, gazing up now at the dull painting of the nude woman sprawled lushly on a maroon coverlet that hung, slanting sharply, on the wall over the door into the Glass Slipper. He raised his empty glass to her in a formal salute, and swallowed the whisky in his mouth. As though it had been a signal, the piano began to fret and tinkle beyond the door, the notes muted sourly in the increasing busy hum of evening.

  He went out into the Glass Slipper. The big chandelier was still unlighted. To his right the long bar was lined with men’s backs, the mirror behind it lined with their faces, but the miners had not started coming in yet and only one faro layout was going. Two barkeeps were hustling whisky and beer. The professor sat erect and narrow-shouldered at the piano, his hands prancing along the keys, a glass of whisky before him. He turned and smiled nervously at Morgan, the little tuft of whiskers on his chin popping up. Murch, brooding over the faro layout, his shotgun lying across the slots in the arms of his highchair, nodded down at him. Morgan nodded back, and, as he passed on, nodded to Basine, and to the case keeper, and to the dealer, shadowy-eyed in his green eyeshade; to Matt Burbage and Doctor Wagner. He sat down at an empty table in the corner to the left of the louvre doors, and raised two fingers to one of the barkeepers.

  There was a deck of cards on the table, and he began to sort the cards by suit and number, his pale, long hands moving rapidly. When he had finished the sorting he quickly cut, recut, and shuffled. He frowned as he examined the result. The barkeeper arrived with a bottle and two glasses, but he did not look up, sorting, cutting and shuffling as before. This time the cards had reformed in proper order. He regarded them more with boredo
m than with pleasure. He was thirty-five, he thought suddenly, for no reason; half done. He poured a little whisky in his glass and touched it to his lips, but only to taste it, and his eyes glanced around the Glass Slipper. It was the same, here as in Fort James, here as anywhere. He had been pleased to sell out there and come ahead when Clay had told him he was going to take the place as marshal in Warlock; he had been eager to move on, eager for a change, but there was no change. It was the same, and he was only half done.

  The batwing doors swung inward and Curley Burne and one of the Haggins came in. They did not see him, and he watched them go down along the bar, Curley Burne with his sombrero hanging against his back from the cord around his neck. They shouldered their way up to the bar, McQuown’s first lieutenant and McQuown’s cousin. And McQuown himself was coming in tonight, Dechine had said. He felt an anticipatory pleasure, and, almost, excitement.

  He sat regarding the slight nervousness within himself as though it were some organic peculiarity, watching the heads turning covertly toward the newcomers and listening to the heavy conglomerate noise of men drinking, quarreling, whispering, gossiping, and to the little silences from the nearby layout when a card was turned and then the sudden click of chips and counters. The piano notes flickered through the noise like shards of bright glass. The sounds of money, he thought, and raised his glass again.

  “Here’s to money,” he said, not quite aloud. After a time you discovered that it was all that was important, because with it you could buy liquor and food, clothes and women, and make more money. Then, after a further time, you went on to discover that liquor was unnecessary and food unimportant, that you had all the clothes you could use and had had all the women you wanted, and there was only money left. After which there was still another discovery to be made. He had made that by now, too.

  Still, though, he thought, putting his glass down untouched and turning again to gaze at the two at the bar, there was a thing or two worth watching yet. The eyes that chanced to meet his in the mirrors behind the bar glanced away; they all disliked him already, as always, and he could enjoy that, and enjoy, too, their displeasure and surprise that Clay should associate with him, that Clay was his friend. There were a few tilings yet.

  Basine had lowered the chandelier and was lighting the wicks with the long-handled spill. As each flame climbed and spread, the room lightened perceptibly. He noticed that the piano notes no longer filtered through the sounds around him; the professor was coming toward him, in his shiny black suit.

  “Well, sir!” the professor said, sitting down opposite him. “Place should be filling up pretty soon now, shouldn’t it?” His eyes were like bright beads.

  “Why, yes, sir, Professor. I believe it should.”

  “Well, now, this place has done fine here, Mr. Morgan. I wouldn’t have believed it, coming in here cold like we did. Nice town too, but noisy.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “However, I see that a couple of McQuown’s people are in tonight. Expecting trouble, sir?”

  “Always expect trouble, Professor,” he said, conspiratorially too. “That’s my practice.”

  The professor cackled, but he seemed distressed. The professor leaned toward him again as he shuffled the cards once more and dealt them out for patience.

  “I’ve been thinking, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Now, why is that, Professor?”

  “You know me, Mr. Morgan. I have worked for you for two years now, here and Fort James, and I’m an honest man. You know, I have to speak my mind when I see a thing that’s wrong. Well, sir, money is being wasted here. By you, Mr. Morgan, on me!”

  The professor had spoken dramatically, but Morgan did not look up from his cards. “How is that, Professor?”

  “Mr. Morgan, I am an honest, outspoken man, and I have to say it. No one can hear that piano going, with the runkus in here. It is a waste of money, sir, and I made up my mind I was just going to say it to you.”

  “Play louder,” he said; now he saw, and was bored. Taliaferro, who owned the Lucky Dollar and the French Palace, had been after the professor again. He flipped the cards rapidly, red onto black, black onto red, the aces coming out one by one; cheating yourself, he thought, as the kings appeared, queen to king, and jack to queen, and ten to jack—what use to play it out? But he continued to turn and place the cards, cheat himself, and laugh at himself for it. The last day, he thought, would be the day when he could laugh at himself no longer.

  The professor was staring at him with his face askew as though he were about to cry. “Why, I play as loud as I can, sir!” the professor said, in an aggrieved and trembling voice.

  Morgan said, “Taliaferro?”

  The professor licked his lips. “Well, sir, it is that fellow Wax that works for Mr. Taliaferro. You know that Mr. Taliaferro went and got a piano for the French Palace, but there is no one around can play one but me. Well, they have been after me, Mr. Morgan, and you know I wouldn’t leave working for you for double pay, but— Well, I was thinking, like I said, since it is a waste of your good money me playing here with nobody can hear it, so much runkus going on—I thought I might go up there to the French Palace and waste Mr. Taliaferro’s money.”

  “You are too good to play a piano in a whorehouse, Professor,” he said, and sat staring steadily at the other until the professor left him and went slowly back over to the piano.

  Morgan watched a man he had never seen before enter and move over to the faro layout to stand behind Matt Burbage. The newcomer wore dusty store pants and a dust- and sweat-stained shirt. He was not heeled, was thin, not quite tall, with a narrow, clean-shaven face and a prominent bent nose. He bent over to speak to Burbage, and straightened suddenly, his lips bent into a strained grin. As he turned away and moved toward the bar, somebody cried, “Hey, Bud!”

  Haggin flung himself upon the newcomer, and Curley Burne came up to slap him on the back. “Why, Bud Gannon!” Burne said. One on either side of him, they dragged him to the bar.

  Morgan watched the three of them in the mirror. He had heard that Billy Gannon had a brother off somewhere. A group of miners came in, in their wool hats and faded blue clothes and heavy boots, two of them sporting red sashes—heavy, pale, bearded men. It was difficult to tell one from the other among them, but they were trade. Clay appeared behind them in his black frock coat.

  Clay held the batwing doors apart as he halted for a fraction of a second, and in that fraction glanced, without even appearing to turn his head, right and left with that blue, intense and comprehensive gaze. Then, removing his black hat, he came over and sat down on the far side of the table and placed his hat on the chair beside him. “Evening,” he said.

  Morgan grinned. “Is, isn’t it? And a couple or three San Pablo boys over there at the bar, too.”

  “Is that so?” Clay said, with interest. “McQuown?”

  “He’s supposed to show tonight.”

  “Is that so?” Clay said again. He stuck out his lower lip a little, raised his eyebrows a little. “Hadn’t heard. I guess I ought to be tending to business instead of buggy-riding around.”

  Now the professor’s piano playing carried well enough. Morgan could see the eyes watching Clay in the mirror. Murch had shifted the shotgun slightly, so that the muzzle was directed toward the three at the bar.

  “Been a hot day,” Clay said. He propped a boot up on the chair where he had laid his hat. Beneath the black broadcloth of his coat his shirt was wilted.

  “Hot,” Morgan said, nodding. As he poured whisky into the second glass he watched Clay’s pursed, half-smiling mouth beneath the thick, blond crescent of mustache. “And it looks like a hot night,” he said.

  Clay grinned crookedly at him and they raised their glasses together. “How?” Clay said.

  “How,” he replied, and drank. “Look at them,” he said, and indicated the people in the Glass Slipper with a nod of his head. “They are all in a twitch. If they stay around they might see a man shot dead—you or one of McQuown’s. Only ther
e might be stray lead slung and bad for their hides. But the money’s been paid and time for the show to begin. You like this town, Clay?”

  “Why, it’s just a town,” Clay said, and shrugged.

  “Just a town,” Morgan said, grinning again as Jack Cade came in. “Smaller than most and about as dull. Hotter than most, and dustier, but it has got a fine pack of bad men. Not just tourists like those Tejanos in Fort James, either.”

  “Who’s that one?” Clay said thoughtfully, as Cade swung on down the bar, dark-faced with a stubble of beard, his round-crowned hat exactly centered on his head, his holstered Colt swung low.

  “Jack Cade,” Morgan said; he had made it his business to know who McQuown’s people were. Cade joined the others at the bar, elbowing a miner out of the way. “Next to him is Curley Burne—number two to McQuown. That’ll be Billy Gannon’s brother in the store pants, and the other is one of the Haggin twins, cousins of McQuown’s. One’s right-handed and one left. This’s the left-handed one, but I forget his name.”

  Clay nodded, watching them with a slight shine now in his blue eyes, a little more color showing in his cheeks. The room had quieted again, and there was traffic moving toward the door. The doctor and Burbage left the faro layout. As they went out they encountered another bunch of miners entering. “Doc,” each miner said, as he passed the doctor. “Doc.” “Evening, Doc.” “You’ll be needed later, I hear, Doc.”

  Clay grinned again. Luke Friendly came in. With him was a cocky, mean-faced little man who swaggered like a sailor walking the deck in rough weather. They joined the others, where the little man turned to glance at Clay, and spat on the floor.

  “I expect that might be Pony Benner, that shot the barber a while back,” Morgan said. “I haven’t seen him in before. The big one is Friendly. By name, not nature. But watch out for Cade. He is a bad one.”

  “So I hear.”

  “McQuown is sitting off to let you chew your fingernails up a while. He won’t play it your way, Clay. He will play it with a back-shooter, which is his style. Watch out for Cade.”