by Oakley Hall
Morgan saw the door of the Billiard Parlor flung open, and yelled to Blaisedell. Blaisedell had seen it too, and he stepped sideways as a man with a Winchester showed there. He didn’t know that it was Calhoun till later. The man let fly with the rifle and Morgan fired back, three times. Those were the only times that Morgan fired. The man yelled and fell sprawled out into the corral. Morgan swung around to cover Friendly, in case Friendly thought of going for the rifle in the boot, but he could see that Friendly had lost interest in the whole business.
When Calhoun had fired from the back, Benner had started for his Colt, and Blaisedell drew and fired. Pony went back hard with his hat rolling off, and didn’t move again. Billy Gannon had looked back over his shoulder and seemed to be trying to dodge when the rifle went off. It sounded to Blaisedell as though he yelled, “No! No!” and when Billy turned back to face him he thought that Billy was going to put his hands up. But then Billy changed his mind, or else it had been a trick, and made his move. Blaisedell called his name again, but Billy was too close to count on his missing, and Blaisedell fired just as Billy got his six-gun clear of the holster. Billy spun around and dropped his Colt. His right arm was hanging broken, but he grabbed for his left-hand Colt and got a shot off.
Morgan saw Blaisedell stumble back, and jumped forward to try to get out from behind Blaisedell for a shot at Billy. But then Blaisedell fired again and Billy went down.
Friendly came running and yelling toward them with his hands held up. He caught hold of Blaisedell, crying out that he hadn’t had anything to do with Calhoun being there and hadn’t wanted anything to do with any of it. He was crying like a baby. They had made him come, he said, and he hadn’t had anything to do with robbing the stage.
Blaisedell shook him off and said, “Get to shooting or get out of town!”
Friendly went running back toward the horses, still holding his hands up. Morgan thought he looked like he was going to dive into the horse trough. He could see that Blaisedell had been shot in the shoulder, but it looked no more than a crease. He saw Billy trying to get his six-shooter out, where he had fallen on top of it.
Blaisedell walked over to Billy and took the Colt away just as he pulled it free. Billy said to him, “I could have killed you if they hadn’t done that.” And he said, “I didn’t know they was going to do that. Oh, the dirty sons of b----es!”
Morgan went over to the man who had fallen out the door of the Billiard Parlor and turned him over. He called to Blaisedell that it was Calhoun. Calhoun was already dead, and so was Benner. Friendly took out on his horse and went down Southend Street at a run.
Men were starting to come into the corral now, and Blaisedell called to them to get the doctor.
VI
(From the testimony of Deputy Carl Schroeder.)
Deputy Schroeder was one of the first into the Acme Corral after the shooting stopped. He saw Luke Friendly light out on his horse as though the fiends were after him. Pony Benner was dead just inside the corral gate and Blaisedell was standing by Billy Gannon, who was still alive. Blaisedell handed Schroeder Billy’s Colt, and pointed out another where Billy had dropped it. Blaisedell had been creased on the right shoulder and it was bleeding some.
Billy Gannon was gasping and choking, and Johnny Gannon ran in and knelt beside him. Blaisedell moved off then. Morgan was over toward the back of the corral, where Calhoun was lying dead on a little adobe walkway outside the open side door of Sam Brown’s Billiard Parlor. There was a rifle beside Calhoun. He was shot three times, once through the throat and the other two not a finger apart on the left side of his chest.
Schroeder asked Morgan if Calhoun had tried to ambush them from there, and Morgan said he had, and pushed Calhoun back over on his face with his foot.
Some others came over to look at Calhoun and congratulate Morgan, who moved off. A good lot of others were standing around Blaisedell. Dr. Wagner had shown up and was bending down over Billy Gannon, but anybody could see there wasn’t anything to do.
After a while the doctor went to bind up Blaisedell’s shoulder, and Johnny Gannon laid Billy flat on the ground. Then Gannon went up to Blaisedell, and some seemed to think there was going to be trouble, for they backed away. But Gannon only said to Blaisedell that Billy hadn’t known about Calhoun, and Blaisedell answered that he was sure of it.
Schroeder busied himself asking if anybody had seen Calhoun come in, or hiding in the Billiard Parlor or anything. The Billiard Parlor didn’t open till eleven o’clock, except Sundays, but Sam Brown told him the corral door was open sometimes in the mornings. Nobody had seen Calhoun at all, which didn’t particularly mean anything as far as he, Schroeder, was concerned; because the fact was that Calhoun had been in the Billiard Parlor to try to dry-gulch Blaisedell, and it didn’t have to be proved how he had got in there.
Maybe Billy Gannon and the rest of them hadn’t known about Calhoun being there in the Billiard Parlor; he didn’t see that it made any difference. For it was all McQuown’s doing, any man could tell that.
VII
(From the testimony of Lucas Friendly, cowboy.)
Lucas Friendly had come into town with William Gannon, Thaddeus Benner, and Edward Calhoun, to protest to Marshal Clay Blaisedell that they had been unfairly and illegally posted from Warlock.
They had not come in to make trouble. They had only wanted to reason with the marshal. There had been no cause for posting them out of Warlock, which everybody knew was illegal anyway, except that some people had got down on them and their friends. They had heard that the marshal was a reasonable man, and had felt they could convince him that they had had no part in the stage robbery of which they had been so foully accused, and justly acquitted by a Bright’s City jury. There had been some talk among them on the way up that their entrance into Warlock might be dangerous, but they had felt they had to talk it over with the marshal man to man.
Calhoun’s horse had gone lame just before they reached Warlock, so the rest of them had got into town ahead of him. They told Nate Bush to go for the marshal and ask him to come to the Acme Corral so they could talk. They had not wanted to go abroad in Warlock, fearing trouble with certain townsmen who were unjustly set against them, and edgy toward them.
Calhoun had arrived while Bush was gone. They waited a long time, but the marshal did not appear, so, fearing that Bush had gone astray, Calhoun had gone into the Billiard Parlor to try to find someone there to send for the marshal.
But just then the marshal came down Southend Street. When they saw Morgan with him they knew it looked bad, and he, Lucas Friendly, was sick to see the marshal with that high-roller and both clearly coming after trouble.
Both he and Billy Gannon tried to reason with Blaisedell, but the marshal only shouted at them to go for their guns, and called them foul names.
Billy was a hot-headed boy, and Friendly was afraid that he and Benner would not stand for being called names like that. He had cautioned them to hold steady, while he tried to argue with the marshal some more. But he could see it was no use, and that the marshal and Morgan had murder in their hearts. Morgan began to curse them for being yellow—trying to get them to draw so it would be on them for starting the trouble.
Unluckily it was just then that Calhoun came back out of the Billiard Parlor, and right away Morgan started shooting, and Blaisedell drew and shot at Billy and Pony Benner. Billy and Pony started shooting back, but Blaisedell and Morgan had got first draw and shot them down as they had already shot Calhoun.
He, Friendly, kept yelling at Blaisedell that they had not come to make trouble, and trying to stop the shooting. But it was too late. They had killed the others by then, and he could not draw himself for both Blaisedell and Morgan had their six-shooters aimed at him. So he ran for his horse because he could see they were going to shoot him down whatever he did. He heard them arguing behind him which one was going to shoot him. Luckily for him, a lot of people came down Southend Street toward the corral just then, thinking the shooting wa
s over, and the marshal could not backshoot him for all these others to see it.
There had been nothing for him to do but jump his horse and ride for his life. They would have found some way to kill him if he hadn’t.
He thought they would find some way to kill him yet. He had heard that both of them had sworn to do it. He knew they would try to shoot him down in cold blood as they had three fine young fellows with nothing in the world against them except that they had somehow got the marshal of Warlock down on them.
22. MORGAN SEES IT PASS
MORGAN sat at the table in the front corner of the Glass Slipper that was always reserved for Clay and himself. What the Professor had called a “runkus” was in full bloom. The barkeepers were hustling whisky and beer and the conversation along the bar was shrill and reverberating; men called to each other over the heads of those around them, contended for attention, showed hands shaped into six-shooters in illustration, gesticulated with vehemence; in the mirrors behind the bar their eyes were bright and their faces excited. They were hashing over the fight in the Acme Corral. He could hear his own name coupled with Clay’s, and the names of the cowboys, repeated and repeated.
Three men came in together. “Morgan,” each said, in turn, and nodded to him, friendly and respectful. “That was a good piece of shooting, Morgan,” one said. He nodded in reply, and grinned at himself that he should enjoy this. Others came in, and each one had a greeting for him.
“Put two in Calhoun about a finger apart and from clean across the street, I heard,” someone said at the bar. Laughter wrenched at him that he should be a hero to them now. They were jackasses and schoolboys; either they saw that the men who had been killed might have been themselves, which made their own miserable lives more precious and engendered gratitude for the increase of value, or else they imagined themselves doing the shooting—and killing made a fellow quite a man, it made his whisky taste better and gave him a brag with the tommies at the French Palace.
Buck Slavin entered and approached him, with a hand out and his jaw shot out grimly; he was one of the second kind. “Morgan,” Slavin said. “This town ought to thank you and the marshal. I thank you.”
He shook the proffered hand, without rising. “I thank you for thanking me, Buck. But it was nothing.”
“That was fine shooting.”
“I was lucky, Buck,” he said, solemnly, and shot his jaw out too.
Slavin clapped him on the shoulder and swaggered over to the bar. Morgan laughed to himself, as much at himself as at Slavin and the rest. Oh, I am lucky by trade, he thought. More men came in and congratulated him, and he folded his arms on his chest and looked stern, or grinned boyishly, and tried to keep his contempt from showing, the better to enjoy it. Someone sent over a bottle of whisky, which he raised in thanks.
“It will pass,” he said to himself, as he poured a little whisky into his glass. He listened to his name coupled with Clay’s, proud with the old pride of being counted with Clay. But it would pass. All things would pass, even the passing itself. But for once the pleasure and excitement drowned the sourness in him, and he was very pleased that it had worked so well for Clay. They would produce a brass band for Clay if they would send him a bottle of whisky.
“Billy was the wrong man, though.” He heard it, sharp-edged, from the bar. He did not even look to see who had said it, for immediately frozen in his mind’s eye was the deeply etched track that led from Bob Cletus to Pat Cletus, from Pat Cletus to Billy Gannon. But it was all right, he reassured himself, so long as Clay did not see the track, see the wrong man again, see him, Tom Morgan— Yet abruptly his mood was broken. All things passed, he thought, except for that one thing.
There was a sudden hush in the Glass Slipper as Clay came in through the batwing doors. Then there was a chorus of greetings and congratulations, and men crowded around Clay to shake his hand, ask about his shoulder, praise him, curse McQuown for him, offer him drinks. Morgan poured whisky into the other glass and looked at nothing until finally Clay made his way over to him, dropped his hat on the table, and sat down with a long leg propped up on an empty chair. He had put on his coat, which would be a disappointment to those watching in the mirrors. Seeing his blood was something they could have told their grandchildren about.
“How?” he said to Clay.
“How,” Clay said. His face was drawn and tired-looking. He drank his whisky and set his glass down. “Thanks for coming along, Morg.”
“I’d like to have seen you try to stop me.”
His heart pumped sickeningly when Clay said, “I was wrong about that boy.” Then he sighed with relief as Clay continued. “I thought I could back him down.”
“A wild-eyed gunboy trying to be a man.”
“Man enough,” Clay said. He raised a hand toward his shoulder but didn’t touch it.
“McQuown ought to get a better sniper. That one wasn’t much good.”
Clay frowned, and said, in his deep voice, “Looks like it might’ve been McQuown behind it, sure enough. I guess I am going to have to have it out with him after all.”
“You won’t,” Morgan said, and Clay glanced at him questioningly. “You won’t have it out with him. He is not going to play your game when all he has got to do is use his own rules.”
Clay shook his head.
“McQuown is right, too,” Morgan went on. “If you are out to kill a man, kill him. It is war, not a silly game with rules.”
“There are rules, Morg,” Clay said.
“Why?”
“Because of the others—I mean the people not in it.”
“Oh, you have started worrying about the people watching, have you?”
“No,” Clay said. “But it is just so.”
“You are in damned poor shape then against someone that doesn’t think it is so. Or care a damn if it is or not. I say you can’t beat McQuown for he won’t play your rules.”
“Why, Morg, I will beat him either way. I will beat him by playing the rules, if he won’t. Because he will have to pretend there are rules whether he thinks there are or not, just like he had to today. And if he has to pretend, it means he is worrying about the others pretty hard.” The corners of Clay’s lips tilted up. “See if I’m not right,” he said.
Morgan pushed at his glass with a forefinger. He did not know anyone else like Clay who would observe the rules to the end, live or die by them. There were some who would observe them insofar as they were a benefit, and, beyond that, would not, and there were those like McQuown who would make a fraud of the rules. That was the danger, but he did not see that Clay could do anything but ignore it. Clay had to, to be what he was, and Clay was the only man he had ever known, except for himself, who knew exactly what he was. It was the basis of his admiration for Clay. He had never understood their friendship on Clay’s side. He only knew that Clay liked and trusted him, and it was the only thing that had become more precious to him than money, which, at the same time, he had come to realize was worth nothing, for it bought nothing. And so, somewhere along the line, his friendship for Clay had become all there was.
Clay’s chin jerked up as the batwing doors swung in, and the number two deputy came in. There was a deeper hush than before, and a longer one, as Gannon came over toward them. Gannon’s face was gray, his bent nose too big for his thin face; his hair was rumpled when he took off his hat. “Have a seat, Deputy,” Clay said gently.
Gannon sat down and put his hat on the floor beside him, folded his hands on the table before him.
“Whisky?” Morgan asked.
“Yes,” Gannon said, without looking at him. “Thanks.”
Morgan beckoned for a glass. Gannon did not speak until it had been brought, and Clay was silent too. The faces still stared in the mirrors, but the noise began again.
Gannon said suddenly, “I guess I had better tell you, Marshal. Before it comes out another way. Billy wasn’t with them when they stopped the stage. I don’t know whether Luke was or not, but Billy wasn’t.”
Carefully Morgan did not look at Clay; he felt the sickening rapid pump of his heart again.
“What good does this do, Deputy?” Clay said harshly.
Gannon shook his head, as though that were not the point. “He wasn’t there,” he said. “He held with them because he was caught with them and I guess it was all—he thought he could do. And came in because of being posted out, I guess, Marshal.”
“There was three of them at the stage at least,” Clay said.
“Not him,” Gannon said stubbornly. He cleared his throat. “Marshal, I know. Billy said so, and—”
“You could have told me,” Clay said.
“What good would that have done?” Gannon said. He sounded almost angry now, and he brushed his fingers back nervously through his hair. “What could you have done different than you did?” he said. “He would have come in against you whatever. He was that kind.”
“What difference does it make?” Morgan said, staring at the deputy. “He shot that posseman, didn’t he?”
Gannon looked back at him with his deep-set, hot eyes. “That is nothing to do with it.” He said to Clay, “Marshal, I am just saying there is probably others than me that know. So I thought you better had.”
Clay sat with his head bent down and his mouth drawn tight. He nodded his head once, as though in thanks, and in dismissal. Gannon pushed his chair back and rose. He hesitated a moment, and then, since Clay did not speak again, plucked up his hat and went outside.
Morgan leaned forward toward Clay and said, “What the hell difference does it make? He killed that posseman and was out to kill you. Everybody knows that!”
Clay nodded a little, but when he raised his head the flesh of his face looked eroded, and his eyes were shuttered. He said in a quiet voice, “One time wrong and then every time wrong after it.”
To himself Morgan cursed Clay and his rules, his scruples and his conscience. He cursed the Cletus brothers, the Gannon brothers, and himself. He said through his teeth, “You did everything but beg him to get the hell out of town!”