Warlock

by Oakley Hall

  “Worked out so I don’t have to,” Keller said, grinning. “Whiteside talked him some turkey on that one. Told him how Blaisedell was held innocent up in court, and how Peach would just make him more of a thing down here than he is already if he tried to run him out, and Blaisedell got shot or I got shot. What he said to do was, since the Citizens’ Committee down here had hired Blaisedell and they wanted a town patent pretty bad, was tell them they could have it if they got rid of Blaisedell. It was slick to see Whiteside getting around him on that, and it worked too. Except—” He looked suddenly depressed. “Except if he don’t go, it is back to me again. But I can always resign,” he said, brightening. “Pass over that bottle again, will you, Judge?”

  The judge handed it to him. “We are a bunch of vile sinners,” he said in a blurred voice. “But I am damned if we deserve this. What about Doc Wagner, Keller? Does Peach mean to have him transported too?”

  “Yep,” the sheriff said. “Now, you just sit down, Judge. There is not a thing in the world you can do. Johnny!” he snapped. “Don’t sneak that hand up there to be unpinning that star, or I will load you on my wagon first off and you will wait it out in the hot sun till I catch the rest, which might be a while. Now you just calm yourself. All the arguing and maneuvering to be done’s been done already. I have seen Peach take out after Whiteside with that sword of his, fit to take his head off. Don’t go trying to interfere with him.”

  “He can’t do that to those poor damned—”

  “He can,” the sheriff said. “What was you going to do to stop it, son?”

  Peter Bacon stuck his head in the door. “Johnny, are you going to stand by and let those blue-leg sons of bitches—” He stopped, staring at the sheriff. “My God, are you here, Keller?” he said, incredulously.

  “I’m here,” the sheriff said. “And how’s things going out there?”

  Peter’s brown face wrinkled up as though he were going to cry. “Sheriff, they are rounding up those poor fellows from the Medusa like—”

  “Going well, huh?” the sheriff said. “Well, drop in some later and see us again, Bacon. Pass me that bottle, Judge.”

  Peter stared at the sheriff, and turned and looked Gannon up and down. Then he withdrew. Keller tilted the bottle to his lips. Gannon saw the sheriff’s hand, lying on the table before him, clench into a fist as there was a burst of shrill shouting down the street.

  Gannon started toward the door.

  “Don’t even look, boy,” the sheriff said heavily. “You might turn into a pillar of salt or something.”

  “Salt’s not what I’m worth. Or you.”

  “I know it, boy. I never said otherwise. But you can’t interfere with the cavalry, and the military governor. During maneuvers,” he added. “That’s what they are calling it; maneuvers.”

  “And you are supposed to maneuver down to San Pablo?” the judge asked.

  “Supposed to. I guess I won’t rush things, though.”

  “You might do well to rush. From what we hear they are all down raiding the Hacienda Puerto range right now.”

  “Rush,” the sheriff said, nodding. Then Keller looked at Gannon again with his sad eyes. “Nothing you can do, boy,” he said. “Nor any man. Just stand steady and let it go by. He’s put his big foot in it now, and who knows but things might change, maybe, because of this.”

  “I have thought,” the judge said bitterly, “that things were so bad they couldn’t get any worse. But they have got worse today like I wouldn’t believe if I didn’t hear it going on. And maybe there is no bottom to it.”

  “Bottom to everything,” the sheriff said, holding up the bottle and shaking it. Through the door Gannon watched a young lieutenant cantering past on a fine-looking sorrel, followed by a sergeant. He slammed his hand against his leg.

  “Hold steady now,” the sheriff said.

  “Yes, learn your lessons as they come your way,” the judge said. “And when you have learned them all they can stick red-hot pokers in your wife and babies and you will only laugh to see it. Because you will know by then that people don’t matter a damn. Men are like corn growing. The sun burns them up and the rain washes them out and the winter freezes them, and the cavalry tramps them down, but somehow they keep growing. And none of it matters a damn so long as the whisky holds out.”

  “This here’s gone,” the sheriff said. “Go cut some of that corn and stir up some more mash, Judge. Say, did you people get any rain down this way?”

  A rumble of bootheels came along the boardwalk. Old man Heck came in the door, his chin whiskers bristling with outrage, and Frenchy Martin and four others, of whom Gannon recognized only one named Daley, a tall, mild, likeable miner. Then he saw the doctor, with a trooper holding his arm. The doctor’s face was grayer than ever, but his eyes were bright. There followed two other troopers, a sergeant, and Willard Newman, MacDonald’s assistant at the Medusa, who shouldered his way inside past troopers and miners.

  “Deputy, these men are to be locked up until the wagons get here.”

  “Lickspittles, all of you!” the doctor said.

  “Now, Doc, that don’t do no good,” Daley said.

  “MacDonald is afraid to look me in the face so he sends his lickspittles!”

  Daley thrust himself between the doctor and Newman, as Newman cursed and raised a hand. “You!” the sergeant said, to Newman. “You mistreat the prisoners and I’ll drink your blood, Mister!”

  “That’s the sheriff!” one of the miners said, and Gannon saw Keller’s face redden. The doctor moved stiffly inside the cell, and the others followed him.

  “I hope you soldiers are proud of your uniforms today!” the judge said, raising his voice above the shuffling of boots.

  “You should be in here with me, George Holloway!” the doctor called, standing with the miners in the cell. “This is a thing every man who likes to think himself of a liberal persuasion should know for himself. We belong—”

  “I will stay out and drink myself to death instead,” the judge said, with his head bent down.

  “Lock them up, Johnny,” the sheriff said. He held the bottle up, studied it, and then handed it back to the judge.

  Newman kicked the door shut.

  “I’ll not!” Gannon said, through his teeth.

  The sergeant turned to look at him; he had a sour, weatherbeaten face and thick graying sideburns. Newman glared at him. “Lock them up, Deputy!”

  “By whose orders?”

  “General Peach’s order, you fool!” Newman cried. “Will you lock these sons of bitches up before I—”

  “Not in my jail!” He thrust between the sergeant and Newman, snatched the key ring from its peg, and retreated to stand against the wall where the names were scratched. He put his hand on the butt of his Colt. The sheriff stared at him; the judge averted his face.

  The sergeant sighed and said, “Mick!” One of the troopers raised his carbine and started forward. Someone burst in the door behind him.

  It was a miner Gannon didn’t know; he had gnarled, discolored hands and a stubble of beard on his long, young face. He stopped for a moment, panting; then he thrust one of the troopers aside and leaped forward to hit Newman in the face with a long, awkward sweep of his arm. Newman yelled and fell back the length of the room, while the sheriff came to his feet with surprising swiftness and slammed the barrel of his Colt down above the young miner’s ear. The miner crumpled and fell, just as Newman, cursing, regained his balance and pulled the six-shooter from his belt. “Here!” the sergeant bellowed, and there was an outcry from the cell. Gannon jerked his Colt free and stepped toward Newman. The trooper named Mick caught the miner by the collar as he scrambled to his feet, and, with the sheriff’s help, thrust him into the cell with the others.

  Newman backed up, staring at Gannon’s Colt. The sheriff came toward Gannon, pushed the gun barrel down with his fat hand, and took the key ring. The sheriff shook his head at him reprovingly. Newman’s nose was bleeding.

  “
Let’s get on, Mr. Newman,” the sergeant said, and Newman cursed and replaced his own six-shooter in his belt. He stamped on outside, holding a handkerchief to his nose. Gannon leaned against the wall and watched in silence and despair as the sergeant detailed one of the troopers to guard the cell, and, with the others, followed Newman outside. The one who remained stood before the cell door, scowling uneasily. The sheriff put the key ring on the table, and the judge hung it over the neck of the whisky bottle and brooded down at it.

  The miners were whispering together in the cell as Gannon returned his Colt to its scabbard. “That was a foolish thing, Jimmy,” he heard the doctor say.

  “It was not,” the young miner said shakily. He laughed, shakily. “Sheep up in the livery stable, goats in here. I’ll not be cheated now.”

  The doctor said, “I thought you had learned to be careful with those hands.”

  “Why, I guess there might be a day when having been in Warlock jail will be a big thing, Doc. There is more than one way to grow a goat’s beard.”

  “You young pipsqueak,” old man Heck growled. “We are all goats today.”

  “We are cossacks or peasants,” the doctor said, in a strong, clear voice. “How do you like it out there with the cossacks, George Holloway?”

  The judge said nothing, and Gannon heard him sigh.

  “Have they got Tittle yet, anybody heard?” one of the miners demanded. No one answered him. Another began to sing:

  “Good-by, good-by,

  Good-by to Warlock, good-by.

  Here comes the cavalry, lickety-split,

  Here comes MacDonald to give us a fit,

  Oh, good-by, good-by,

  Good-by, old Warlock, good-by!”

  There was laughter. “Hush that up!” the trooper growled. The others immediately began to sing it, and the doctor’s voice was loudest among them.

  “Looks like a fiesta down by Miss Jessie’s boarding house,” the sheriff commented, and Gannon joined him in the doorway. There was a huge crowd at the corner of Grant Street, extending out of sight down toward the General Peach.

  Then there was a shot. He started out past the sheriff, but Keller grasped his arm tightly. “We’ll just stay here and wait it out, boy,” the sheriff said. “That is cavalry work down there and nothing to do with us. You and me will just sit it out right here, Johnny Gannon.”

  61. GENERAL PEACH

  I

  THE troopers turned into Grant Street at a trot, eight of them, with a sergeant riding ahead beside the ninth horseman, who was Lafe Dawson. Townsmen watched them from the corner of Main Street as the dust slowly settled in their wake. The troopers carried carbines; they wore dark blue shirts, web cartridge belts, and lighter blue trousers. Beneath their flat caps their faces were bronzed, clean-shaven, and expressionless. A bugle sang off toward the west end of town.

  The troopers reined to a halt in a semicircle before the porch of the General Peach boardinghouse. The sergeant dismounted, and, on short calipers of legs, started for the steps. He stopped as Miss Jessie Marlow appeared on the porch. He and Lafe Dawson, who had also dismounted, removed their hats.

  “Miss Jessie,” Dawson said. “We are sorry to trouble you, but that Tittle is wanted. These fellows have come after him, and—”

  “He is not here any more,” Miss Jessie said. She stood very straight before the thick shadow of the doorway, with her brown ringlets shining in the sun, her hands clasped before her.

  “Well, now, not to be doubting you, ma’am—but these men have orders to look everywhere for him.”

  The sergeant said politely, “Why, you’ll not mind if we look around in there for him, will you, lady?” He had a wizened, dark, Irish face like a dried apple.

  “Yes, I mind. There are sick men in here and I will not have your soldiers tramping around disturbing them. You will have to take my word that Tittle is no longer here.”

  Dawson muttered to himself. The sergeant scratched his head and said, “Well, we can’t do that, lady, you see,” but he did not move forward.

  “Now, see here, Miss Jessie,” Dawson said impatiently. “I am sure he isn’t here if you say so. Except it’s General Peach’s orders we are to round up all the strikers from the Medusa, and I know there’s some of them in there. Now you don’t want to interfere with these men trying to do their duty, do you?”

  The sergeant signaled with his hand and the troopers dismounted. At the corner of Main the crowd filled the street now, watching silently.

  “Will you use force on a woman, Sergeant?” Miss Jessie said.

  The sergeant carefully did not look at her as the troopers came forward to join him. Dawson moved toward the steps. Then he stopped, and his hands rose shoulder high as he stared past Miss Jessie. The sergeant and the troopers stared. Blaisedell stood in the shadow just inside the entryway.

  “Now, see here, Marshal,” Dawson whispered, as though to himself. He dropped his hands slowly to his sides. The sergeant glanced sideways at him. One of the troopers tilted the muzzle of his carbine up; the man beside him struck it down. There was a rustle of whispering from the townsmen at the corner, and titters. Miss Jessie stood gazing down at Dawson and the troopers, her mouth a pinched, severe line.

  The sergeant looked at Dawson with one grizzled eyebrow hooked up interrogatively, and a ghost of a smile.

  “Well, let’s leave this for now, Sergeant,” Dawson said, and swung up onto his horse again. The sergeant replaced his cap and waved the troopers back. In silence, they all remounted and rode back up Grant Street the way they had come. The crowd at the corner parted to let them pass through, and, when they had disappeared into Main Street, someone uttered a low, tentative Apache war cry.

  Miss Jessie Marlow went back inside the General Peach.

  II

  The miners stood in silent, stolid groups, in the dining room, in the hall, on the stairs, watching Miss Jessie as she closed the door behind her and put her hand on Blaisedell’s arm.

  “God bless you and the marshal for that, Miss Jessie!” Ben Tittle said, leaning on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Looks like they might be back, though,” another miner said.

  Blaisedell and Miss Jessie stood at right angles to each other in curiously stiff attitudes; she facing him with her great eyes wide as though she had seen a vision, her breast rising and falling rapidly with her breathing and her hand nervously fondling the locket that hung around her neck; Blaisedell facing toward the stairs with his bruised face remote and frowning, his round chin set beneath the broad sweep of his fair mustache.

  “I guess they are rounding everybody up,” Harris said, in a hushed voice. “I am just as glad I’m not a Medusa man today.”

  “Ben!” Miss Jessie said suddenly. “I want your head bandaged over like Stacey’s, and you are to lie down in Stacey’s bed. Stacey will have to go down to one of the houses in Medusa Street; he can walk well enough.” She spoke to Stacey. “You help him. Quickly, now!”

  Tittle said, “Miss Jessie, I’ll not have you and Mr. Blaisedell getting in any mess trying to—”

  “Hurry!” she snapped. He turned and hobbled painfully back down the hall, Stacey, with his bandaged head, following him. Blaisedell was watching Miss Jessie. The other miners stirred uneasily.

  “That was an Orangeman, that sergeant,” O’Brien said from the stairs. “I can smell an Orangeman.”

  “Are you going to try to stop them from coming in here, Miss Jessie?” Bardaman asked. But he was looking at Blaisedell.

  Jones laughed shrilly. “You surely scared that bunch off, Marshal!”

  Blaisedell shook his head a little, and frowned more deeply. Miss Jessie was looking from face to face with her eyes blazing and the little muscles tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  A bearded miner ran heavy-footed in through the dining room from the rear of the General Peach. “Miss Jessie! They have caught Doc and old Heck and Frenchy and Tim Daley and some others down at Tim’s house. The
deputy’s got them there in the jail now. Boys, they are scouring the whole town! They have got wagons coming in and all the strikers are going to be transported out!”

  There was an immediate uproar. It was a time before the bearded miner could make himself heard again “and the general himself’s here, Miss Jessie! They are going to shoot us down if we don’t—”

  He stopped abruptly and all the others were silent as Miss Jessie raised a hand. “They will not bother you here,” she said calmly. She looked up at O’Brien, on the stairs. “Will you go up to a front window where you can see them coming? Let us know when you do. The rest of you are to go back to the hospital room.” She stood looking from face to face again until they all started down the hall, shuffling their feet but otherwise silent. Then with a glance at Blaisedell she went into her room, and he followed her.

  III

  There was a disturbance outside the General Peach, a mutter of voices, a crack of boots on the wooden steps and on the porch. A file of townsmen entered, carrying rifles and shotguns, with six-shooters holstered at their sides or thrust into their belts; their faces were set, their eyes excited—Pike and Paul Skinner, Peter Bacon, Sam Brown, Tim French, Owen Parsons, Hasty, Mosbie, Wheeler, Kennon, Egan, Rolfe, Buchanan, Slator. “Marshal!” Pike Skinner called, and immediately the miners reappeared, crowding silently back down the hallway. The door of Miss Jessie’s room opened and Blaisedell came out. Miss Jessie stood in the doorway behind him.

  “Marshal,” the townsmen said, in a scattered greeting, and one or two removed their hats and said, “Miss Jessie.”

  “Marshal,” Pike Skinner said. “It has come time for vigilantes, looks like.” His gargoyle’s face was earnest. “Marshal, we don’t know what to do but we heard you did and there is a bunch of us here that will back any play you want to make. And more coming. We’ll not see this thing happen in Warlock.”

  “Fight if it comes to that,” Mosbie said.

  “Ought to be a few of you jacks to make a fight of it, too,” Hasty said, nodding toward the miners crowded together in the hallway.