Warlock

by Oakley Hall

  “Eat your guts out!” Morgan said, and all at once he was angrier at Clay than he had ever been before. “You are either a peace officer eating your guts up, or you are a faro banker. God damn it, Clay, wherever you go you are going to have to not give a damn what people want of you. You can quit marshaling and make it stick here as well as anywhere.”

  “I should have quit before I started.”

  “Chew on yourself!”

  Clay said, “Abe McQuown is sitting bad on their stomachs and I am supposed to give them a purge. I want no part of it. For it is me that is poisoned every time. Every time now. Who am I to do their killing for them? I just want shut of it, but I can feel them at me all the time. And Jessie—” He did not go on.

  “Well, you have quit,” Morgan said. “You did the right thing, Clay.”

  Clay’s mustache lifted, as though he were grinning, and his eyes crinkled a little. He said, “There was a time when I thought I could do the right thing.”

  Morgan poured himself a quarter of an inch of whisky, and, turning it in his hand, frowned carefully at the flat tilt of the liquor. “You were going to say something about Miss Jessie.”

  “What she says,” Clay said heavily. “She says there is a thing a man needs to be—” Morgan saw something uncertain and almost frightened cloud his eyes. “It is hard to say, Morg,” Clay said, and sighed and shook his head.

  So it was Miss Jessie pushing Clay; his mind closed down on it like a trap. It was as though in a card game with strangers he had picked on sight the one he must play against as most dangerous, and had seen himself proved right on the first hand.

  “But she is wrong,” Clay said. “For it has gone past and the rest is poison.”

  “And you have quit.”

  Clay nodded; Clay’s clouded eyes met his for a moment. “But it is not so easy here, Morg. With Kate to see every time I turn around. I see she has taken up with Billy Gannon’s brother. Came out with Cletus’s brother, and now she has taken up with Gannon. It is a thing to scare me screaming, isn’t it?”

  “Scare you?” Morgan said, and didn’t know if he should laugh at that or not.

  “Why, yes. If every man I shot down wrong had a brother, and every one came after me, I would have to die that many times.”

  “Hard to do,” he said, and still he did not know. Anxiously he watched Clay’s face. He felt a quickening lift as he saw the rueful smile starting.

  “Surely,” Clay said. “But I could do it the way I feel now. Like a cat.”

  “Listen to me now,” he said to Clay. “For a change. First thing where you have gone wrong is worrying over what everybody wants of you, or thinks. To hell with them! That is the nugget of it, Clay. And look at it like this—like a hand of cards. It is like throwing in your hand because you made one bad play.”

  “No, not one,” Clay said. “Take your card game another way. The stakes are too high now, it has got too big for me. It was jacks to open once, now it is kings.”

  Queens, he thought; he felt as though Clay were arguing with Jessie Marlow, through him. “Clay, I don’t know what we are quarreling over,” he said. “You have quit it.”

  “That’s so,” Clay said, and sighed again.

  A racket was starting up in the Glass Slipper. It was time for the miners to be coming in, but it sounded to Morgan as though every one of them in Warlock were crowding into the Glass Slipper at once. He heard their raised voices and the confused tramp and scuffle of boots on the floor. Clay turned to glance at the door. “What the hell is going on?” Morgan said, and rose just as the door opened.

  Al Murch looked inside; behind him the racket was louder. “There is some jacks here to see you, Blaisedell,” Murch said. He stood barring the door with his broad frame, but behind him Morgan could see the big miner, Brunk, and another one with a red welt along the side of his head.

  “What about?” he said, as Clay rose.

  “Proposition to put to Blaisedell, Morgan!” someone called.

  “Let us in, Morgan,” Brunk said, and Morgan nodded to Murch, who let four of them in.

  “That’s enough, Al,” he said, and Murch fought the door closed against the rest.

  Brunk looked as though he would rather be somewhere else. With him was an old miner with a goat beard, another heavy-set one with a black waxed and pointed mustache, and a fourth, the one with the bruise on his head, who was bald and had an Adam’s apple like a billiard ball.

  “You do the talking, Frank,” Goat-beard said. He said to Clay, “We have went out at the Medusa, Marshal.”

  “He is not marshal any more,” Morgan said, and Goat-beard looked at him with dislike.

  Brunk, who had a rough-cut, square face and hands the size of shovels, pointed to Bald-head’s bruise. “Wash Haggin did that,” he said. “They have dropped wages at the Medusa a dollar a day, and MacDonald’s hired himself about fifteen hardcases in case there was any complaint about it. Wash Haggin did that to Bobby Patch.”

  “Don’t do to complain,” Bald-head said, and grinned toothily. But he looked scared.

  “Winchesters and shotguns around to fit out an army,” Waxed-mustache said. “Both Haggins was there, and Jack Cade and that one Quint Whitby.”

  Morgan said, “McQuown?”

  Brunk shook his head. “Not him or Curley Burne.”

  “Put it to him, Frank,” Goat-beard said, and nudged Brunk.

  “Well, MacDonald’s got these people up there to try to scare everybody to going back to work,” Brunk said. “We kind of think they will do more, too. We think MacDonald is going to send them in here to run some of us out of town. Like he did with Lathrop last year.”

  “Run you out, you mean?” Morgan said, and Brunk’s big, red face twisted angrily.

  “What did you want to see me for?” Clay asked. “It sounds like you had better see the deputies.”

  Waxed-mustache said, “They are no good for us, Marshal.” He spread his hands out. “You are the man for us.”

  “We’ve got to keep those hardcases off us some way,” Brunk said stolidly. “They’ve got too much artillery. We need a gunman.” He stopped and swallowed; it looked, Morgan thought, as though it swallowed hard.

  “You are the one that could do it,” Brunk went on. “Schroeder is not much friendly with us, and him and Gannon couldn’t do anything against that bunch even if they wanted to. We are having a meeting tonight as soon as we see what’s happened at the Sister Fan and the rest.” He licked his lips. “And we’ll get organized and the union will collect dues. We can pay you for kind of marshaling for us,” he said. “That’s our proposition, Marshal.”

  “I guess not, boys,” Clay said. “Sorry.”

  “Told you,” Bald-head said. “Told you he wouldn’t.”

  “I guess MacDonald got to him first,” Goat-beard said. “MacDonald is a step ahead of us all the way, looks like.”

  Morgan watched Clay shake his head, apparently without anger. “Nobody’s got to me, old man. I am not against you or for you either. I’m just not in it.”

  Morgan nodded to Murch, who caught hold of Brunk’s arm. “Let’s skin out, fellows,” Murch said, in his rasping voice. “Mr. Morgan and Mr. Blaisedell’s busy.”

  “Told you he wouldn’t,” Bald-head said, starting for the door.

  “Why should he?” Brunk said, and jerked his arm away from Murch.

  “What do you mean by that?” Clay said.

  “Well, why should you?” Brunk said loudly. “We can’t pay you like any rich-man’s Citizens’ Committee, with MacDonald sitting on it. We don’t want killing done to hire you for. Only killers kept off us. So why would you be interested?”

  “Al!” Morgan said, and Murch caught hold of Brunk’s arm again. Waxed-mustache was grimacing violently.

  “Let him be,” Clay said. More color showed in his pale face. “Let him have his say out.”

  Brunk glanced down at Clay’s shell belt, which showed beneath his coat; he glanced quickly at Morgan.
He said in a stifled voice, “I’m not saying anything but that we need help, Blaisedell.”

  “Let me tell you,” Clay said. “So there is no misunderstanding here. I was hired marshal here, and I have quit it. I’m not hiring out again to the Citizens’ Committee, or MacDonald, or you, or anybody. What more is there to say than that?”

  “Nothing, by damn!” Goat-beard said. “Let’s get out of here, Frank!”

  “No, wait a minute,” Clay said to Brunk. “There is something you are choking on yet, and was last night. Go ahead and spit it out.”

  “Do you think I am scared to?” Brunk said.

  “Who asked you to be?” Clay said.

  “Get him out of here, Al,” Morgan said, but Clay looked at him angrily.

  “I want to hear what he has to say, Morg.”

  “Never mind it, Frank!” Waxed-mustache said. “Let be, can’t you?”

  Clay stared steadily at Brunk, and Brunk took a step back away from him. His face working, he said, “I was just saying—I mean, rich men can have themselves a marshal, but no dirty, ignorant muckers can. Surely; that’s all. It’s clear enough.”

  “That wasn’t what you was going to say,” Clay said. It was as though he were calling Brunk a liar. “That wasn’t what you was saying last night, either. Say it out. Say it clear out, Brunk. I would rather a man said a thing to my face than behind my back.”

  Brunk just stood there facing him with his hands at his sides and his thick shoulders hunched a little. Murch moved toward him and Brunk snatched a hand to the haft of his bowie knife. Suddenly he said, “All right, I will say it to your face! I say you would have shot me down like your Citizens’ Committee told you to, only Miss Jessie begged me off.” Brunk stopped and his head swung sideways, as Morgan moved to lean forward with his hands on the desk top.

  Then Brunk’s voice rose. “But even your respectable friends threw you down when you and your high-roller partner went to robbing stages!”

  “Holy Christ, Frank!” Bald-head whispered.

  Brunk sucked his breath in, and then cried explosively, “And when you and him went to killing cowboys to make like it was them had done it! And Morgan kicks out a broken-arm fellow’s teeth for saying it! Well, I say if your high-toned Citizens’ Committee don’t want you any more, then the damned miners don’t either!”

  Morgan slowly turned toward Clay. Nothing showed in Clay’s face. He reached for his hat, and Brunk drew back at the movement. Brunk shifted his feet to keep facing Clay as Clay slowly came out around the desk. Bald-head and Waxed-mustache backed out of his way. Clay put on his hat, and, without a word, went out the alley door and pulled it closed behind him.

  In the silence the noise of the crowd of miners in the Glass Slipper was very loud. Murch started to slide the bar back and open the door.

  “Keep it shut,” Morgan said, in a voice he could hardly recognize as his own.

  “Here, now!” Bald-head said fearfully.

  Morgan stripped off his coat, unbuckled his shoulder holster, and dropped Colt and harness on the desk with a thump. He opened the drawer and brought his knife out. Brunk’s scarlet face swam in his eyes. “Do you know how to use that sticker of yours, mucker?” he said.

  “Now hold on, now!” Waxed-mustache said. “Now, listen, Morgan; Frank here said things he had no cause to say and didn’t mean. Now let’s not—”

  “Get it out, if you know how to use it,” he said to Brunk. He pricked the palm of his hand with the knife’s point. “You had better know,” he said. He came out from behind his desk, and the others moved away from Brunk.

  “He is big, Tom,” Murch said. “You had better leave me—”

  “This is mine. Get it out!” he said. Brunk was hesitating with his hand on the haft of his bowie. “Why, I am giving you a fair shake, aren’t I?” Morgan said, grinning. “Prove you are right by sticking me. Or I’ll prove you are an over-grown, yellow-livered lying hog that’s not fit to lick his boots you just pissed all over. Get it out and talk like that to me!”

  Brunk pulled his bowie loose. He held it waist-high, his left hand out and spread-fingered, his thick forearm blocking.

  “Fair fight now, boys!” Goat-beard shrilled. “We are here to see it is fair, Frank!”

  “Come on, then, Mister high-roller,” Brunk said hoarsely, moving sideways to get his back away from Murch and toward his partners. He swung the bowie blade in a circle before him.

  Morgan did not move now, watching Brunk’s guard and holding his own knife low in his right hand, with his left close to it. He met Brunk’s eyes, and saw, in their black pupils, his own image. He heard the quickened breathing of the men watching as he thrust his right hand up, the knife cutting out. Brunk leaped back, and then immediately pressed forward, feinting with the bowie. Morgan exposed his neck, hoping that Brunk would make a high stroke.

  The bowie swept toward his throat, and he dodged to the left and shifted his knife to his left hand. He thrust it up and felt it catch home, and tear away; Brunk’s arm was too long.

  He heard the gasp, not from Brunk but from the others. He had drawn blood that darkened the breast of Brunk’s dirty blue shirt, but he had wasted his best stroke. For the first time it occurred to him that he might die.

  The knife in his right hand again, he raised the blade to touch his forehead, dropped it low once more, feinted left, feinted right. The blood spread on Brunk’s chest. Brunk lunged toward him.

  Brunk’s wrist crashed against his, the bowie blade passing over it. His own knife snubbed into the bone of Brunk’s forearm, and immediately Brunk’s big hand caught his wrist. With a wrench he freed it and dodged aside, but he had felt the power in those hands and arms, and their quickness. Brunk’s arm was bleeding now too, but he saw a light of confidence in the miner’s eyes.

  Morgan swung in to the right to get under Brunk’s guard, and the elbow crashed down against his hand. He feinted right again and drove straight in, but had to leap back again as the long arm swept around. He felt the slight tug at his shoulder, and heard the gasp again. He didn’t look.

  His breath began to tear at his lungs. There had been too many cigars, too many women, too much whisky; he laughed out loud and saw Brunk disconcerted by it. He drove in once more and this time slashed Brunk’s upper arm; he jumped back as the bowie flashed past, and immediately thrust up and in and this time his knife ripped into flesh and caught, and Brunk gasped a harsh cough. But his knife did not pull free as he retreated, and Brunk’s left hand clutched down on his. In turn he caught Brunk’s wrist as the bowie swung down. Brunk’s weight forced him back, and Brunk’s height bore him over. He tried to wrench back away, and tripped; he fell and Brunk fell with him. Brunk’s grip loosened on his knife hand and he rammed the knife farther into Brunk’s belly as he crashed to the floor with Brunk sprawled on top of him. Brunk cried out once.

  Brunk’s hand caught his wrist again between their bodies, but still he could move his hand a little, to twist and turn the knife blade in Brunk’s flesh. He felt the warm wet flow of blood on his own belly, as, grunting and straining, his elbow set and bruised against the floor, he fought to keep Brunk’s bowie from his throat.

  Brunk’s hand bore down impossibly hard. What was the use? he thought suddenly; he did not love life enough to bother to fight this to its end. What was the use? He grinned into Brunk’s crazed face and replied to himself: because he would not let a clumsy, stupid mucker beat him; or any man. He twisted the knife in Brunk’s body, to kill Brunk before the bowie pierced him, and knew he could not as the huge weight of Brunk’s arm came down against his own. Brunk’s sweat fell into his face and the muscles in Brunk’s neck were spread out like batwings; there was no sound in the world but Brunk’s grunting and his own.

  He strained his own blade from side to side and Brunk gasped. But he felt his wrist begin to tilt. He had to bend his arm to retain his grip, and so the post he had made of his forearm was gone and there remained only the inadequate strap of his muscles, and
his will—not to be beaten. He could feel his arm bending as the blood flowed from Brunk’s belly.

  He laughed and panted up into Brunk’s contorted face, and smelled the stink of him, and watched the bowie that was not a foot from his throat. He worked his own blade up toward Brunk’s vitals, up toward Brunk’s heart; for Brunk must die too. Why? he thought. What did it matter? There seemed no reason, but his hand needed none. He grinned up at the bowie’s point, not six inches from his throat now. Now three, as his arm gave like a rusty ratchet, pure pain now, and caught somehow again; now two inches, as it gave again.

  Then out of the corners of his eyes he saw Murch move suddenly, and saw the little double-barreled derringer in Murch’s hand. “No, Al!” he grunted, and his words were lost in the crash. Brunk’s head fell on him, and Brunk did not move again. “No!” he panted.

  Weakly he struggled to slide the heavy body off himself, and to his feet. His vest was soaked with blood. He stood there swaying. Murch had the derringer trained on the three miners. Someone was hammering on the door and shouting, “Frank! Hey, Frenchy!”

  “Shut up!” Murch whispered to Bald-head. He turned white-rimmed eyes to Morgan. “Christ, what the hell was I supposed to do, Tom?”

  “Fair shake!” old Goat-beard cried. “Son-of-a-bitching gambling man, never gave anybody a fair shake in your life!”

  Bald-head was leaning back against the wall with a hand in front of him as though to keep the derringer off. The door creaked as the miners in the Glass Slipper tried to force it.

  Morgan took up his shoulder holster and Colt, and could not think for a moment. He glanced at his bleeding shoulder.

  “Christ, what’ll we do, Tom?” Murch said desperately. “Christ, Tom!”

  “Sons of bitches!” Waxed-mustache said. “Play fair so long as you win. He had you by the—”

  “Shut up!” Murch cried. “Christ, Tom!”

  Morgan looked down at Brunk on the floor, with one arm under him and the other flung out, the blood beneath his head and much more blood spreading on the floor beneath his body. He sighed and said, “You had better make tracks, Al.”