by Oakley Hall
“As well as you people!” one of them cried.
“Well, we didn’t all come to make a fight,” Peter Bacon said. A chew of tobacco worked in his brown, wrinkled cheek. “But we will make a decent enough stand, and I guess fight if we have to do it.”
Blaisedell leaned on the door jamb. His intense blue eyes traversed the faces before him. He smiled a little.
Paul Skinner said, “Marshal, it is time folks in this town stood up to things some. You tell us how we’re to do, and we’ll do it.”
“They won’t fire when there’s a town full of us against them,” Kennon said. “It is a pitiful sight; they are stacking miners in my stable there like cordwood.”
Blaisedell still said nothing; Pike Skinner looked at Miss Jessie anxiously.
“We are with you, Marshal,” Sam Brown said, cracking the butt of his rifle down on the floor. “You lead us on and we’ll chase blue breeches right on back to Bright’s. We are with you sink or swim.”
“Or stuck in the mud,” Bacon said, sadly. “Marshal, the sheriff is down here and got Johnny Gannon hobbled. That couldn’t do anything anyway. But we are with you, U.S. Cavalry or not.”
“It is his place,” Miss Jessie said. Their faces all turned toward her. Blaisedell straightened.
Then they were all silent, watching Blaisedell.
All at once he grinned broadly. “Well, boys,” he said. “Maybe we can pull some weight here between us.”
There was a concerted sigh. “Why, now then!” Mosbie said.
“You want us in here or outside, Marshal?” Oscar Thompson asked.
“I’ll make my place on the porch there, if that’s all right with you boys. I don’t mean to take it on for myself, but it looks like if I can’t handle it without going to shooting maybe we all couldn’t.” His face turned grave again. “For if it came to shooting there’d be dead men and too many cavalry for us, and nothing gained in the end.”
“Except by God we fit the sons of bitches!” one of the miners cried in a high, cracked voice.
“You mean to bluff it, Marshal?” Wheeler said worriedly.
Pike Skinner said, “Don’t leave us out of it, Marshal!”
“Marshal,” Sam Brown said. He sounded embarrassed. “Well, Marshal, no offense, but—well, that time those jacks tramped you at the jail. I mean, a bluff’s a bluff, but—”
Blaisedell looked at him coldly. “You asked me how I wanted to do it,” he said. “I am telling you how. I am not going to fire on the U.S. Cavalry, or you either. Do you hear?” He gazed from face to face. “I said I will stand by on the porch here. I’ll ask the rest of you to do some climbing and get up on the roof of the barn, and the other places on down the street.” He grinned again, in a swift flash of teeth. “We will have the U.S. Cavalry surrounded and we’ll see if they don’t bluff.”
Tim French laughed out loud. “Why, if we could call old Espirato up from his grave we could hightail Peach out of here at a run!” The others laughed.
“No shooting!” Blaisedell said sharply. “Now maybe you had better move, boys.”
“Squads left!” Paul Skinner said, and limped toward the door. The others started after him.
“General!” someone called back. “Send up chuck now and then, and we will hold out for a month.” They tramped out, laughing and talking excitedly.
“Let them have their fun,” a miner said bitterly. “They don’t want any help from us.”
“Looks like we are having it from them, though,” Bardaman said. “Marshal, you sure you know what you are doing?”
“No,” Blaisedell said, in a strange voice. “No man ever is.”
“You had better get your six-shooters, Clay,” Miss Jessie said. She said it as though she were the general, after all, and turned back inside her room as Blaisedell started for the stairs. Three miners who stood there glanced at him covertly, each in turn, as he mounted the steps past them.
“I hope MacDonald’s black soul rots in hell,” a miner in the hallway said. “And General Peach with him.”
“Amen.”
“This might be a fine show here today,” the bitter one said. “But we will get shipped further and harder for it.”
“Shut up,” Bardaman said. “It’s a show worth it, isn’t it?”
They were silent again as Blaisedell came back down the stairs. He had taken off his coat, and was bareheaded. The sleeves of his fine linen shirt were gartered on his upper arms, pulling the cuffs free of his wrists. He wore two shell belts, two holstered Colts hung low on his thighs. Their gold handles gleamed in the light as he threw the front door open.
“The best show there is,” Bardaman whispered, to the miner next to him. Miss Jessie came to stand behind Blaisedell in the doorway and they watched the men appear on the rooftops across the street.
There was a yell from upstairs. Boots thumped in the upstairs hall; O’Brien yelled from the top of the stairwell, “Marshal! Here they come! It is the whole damned army!”
IV
The troopers made their way down Grant Street with difficulty through the crowd that had collected. There were more than thirty of them, and with these were MacDonald, on a white horse, and Dawson and Newman from the Medusa. At the head of the troop were a major and a young captain. A still younger lieutenant rode beside Dawson. The crowd jeered and cheered as they came through. MacDonald toppled in his saddle as someone pulled on his leg, and there was a burst of laughter. MacDonald lashed out with his quirt, blindly, for his hat had slipped forward over his eyes. His left arm was folded into a black sling.
“Mister Mac!” someone shouted. “You have got yourself a passel of new foremen!”
There was more laughter. The lieutenant grinned sheepishly, the captain looked angry; the major was glancing up at the men on the rooftops along Grant Street, and their weapons. MacDonald spurred the white horse toward the porch of the General Peach, where Blaisedell stood, with Miss Jessie Marlow behind him in the doorway.
“This is the United States Cavalry, Marshal!” he cried. As soon as he spoke the crowd fell silent. “You interfere at your own peril! Major Standley has orders—”
Blaisedell’s voice boomed out, drowning MacDonald’s. “Can’t be the U.S. Cavalry. They would not ride down here to do your blackhearted work for you, MacDonald. Own up, now, boys; what quartermaster wagon did you rob for those blue shirts?”
There was another roar of catcalls and laughter. The major raised his hand and the troopers halted. He said, not loudly, “Mr. Blaisedell, we are here under orders to arrest all the strikers from the Medusa mine, and we propose to search this house for a man named Tittle. You won’t be fool enough to try to stop us?” He was a plump man with a half-moon of faded blond mustache and eyelashes that looked white in his dark face.
“Why, yes,” Blaisedell said, and laid his hands flat against his holsters. “I am fool enough.”
“We have orders to shoot if we have to, Marshal!”
“Why, I can shoot too, Major!”
There was a shout of approbation from the crowd. It ceased immediately as Blaisedell raised a hand for quiet. He pointed a finger at the major. “You will be first, Major. Then you, MacDonald. Then you, Captain. Then I will take those two they couldn’t find britches to fit,” he said, indicating Dawson and Newman. “And then you, young fellow, if you don’t mind waiting your turn.”
“You won’t get that far!” the captain shouted furiously. He rose in his stirrups. “Major—”
The major motioned to him to be silent and said, “You are now in armed rebellion against the United States government. Do you realize that, sir?”
Blaisedell stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his fair hair gleaming in the sun. Behind and to the right of him Miss Jessie stood straight and proud, with her chin held high.
“Major,” Blaisedell said. “The United States government was got in armed rebellion before either of us was born. And got for one thing by people wanting to keep soldiers from busting t
hrough the houses they lived in, if I remember my history books right.”
“Hear, hear!” someone cried hysterically. The captain swung his horse and spurred it toward the crowd. There was a rising clamor. A number of whores from the Row had gathered on the far side of Main Street and now the shouting had a higher pitch to it, as they added their voices to the rest.
“—a woman behind you so no man can shoot!” MacDonald was heard to cry.
“And a troop of cavalry behind you, Mister Mac!” Hasty called, from the roof of the Feed and Grain Barn.
The major said, “You are held in some respect, Marshal; but no man can bluff the army. I advise you to stand aside before this has gone too far!”
“Bluff?” Blaisedell said grimly. “Why, I advise you not to find out whether it is a bluff or not.”
“Marshal!” Pike Skinner bellowed, and instantly there was a flat, echoing crack. A trooper’s hat flew off. Blaisedell stood wreathed in smoke, one of his Colts in his hand. In the silence, as the smoke blew apart, he said harshly, “Throw it down, sonny.” The trooper, who had raised his carbine, pitched it from him as though it were red hot. He raised a hand to feel his bare head. MacDonald’s horse was pitching and side-stepping. The captain cursed. The major backed his horse away from the porch. Miss Jessie had disappeared.
The major shouted to make himself heard. He raised a gauntleted hand and the troopers with one movement brought their carbines to the ready. Blaisedell unholstered his other Colt, aimed one at the major, one at MacDonald. Otherwise he did not move, except to glance quickly around as Miss Jessie reappeared. She had a derringer in her hand; another wild shout went up. Some of the troopers lowered their carbines. The major looked frozen with his hand still raised.
“Major, you will go down like Custer!” Pike Skinner shouted. The men on the rooftops had their weapons pointed down on the troopers in the street. Peter Bacon spat tobacco juice onto the cap of a trooper below him.
“You are surrounded, you blue-leg bastards!” Mosbie bellowed enthusiastically. “We will cut hair today, if you fire on those two.”
The major swung his horse around and snapped an order. The lieutenant saluted; with eight of the troopers in line behind him he trotted south down Grant Street, and there dismounted with his men, where they could cover the men on the roofs, some of whom now knelt behind the parapets. The major’s face was shining with sweat.
There was a new disturbance in the crowd packed into Main Street. “Shame!” a woman’s voice cried shrilly. “Shame on the United States Cavalry! Shame, General Peach! Shame—”
“Peach!” someone yelled.
“Here comes the general!”
He appeared at the corner, with another officer behind him. The crowd gave way before him. “Shame!” the shrill voice cried. “Shame! Shame!” General Peach did not appear to notice. He looked huge on his great gray horse; he rode heavily, slumped in the saddle. His white beard lay against his chest, his blouse was unbuttoned, and an unlit cigar jutted from his mouth like the bowsprit of a sailing ship. His great, black, broad-brimmed hat flapped with the motion of the gray’s pace. One side of his hat was pinned to the crown with a silver eagle and there were great yellow eagles on the rear corners of his shabrack. He carried a leather-bound stick in his hand. The townspeople in the street thrust aside, and the gray horse came down the alleyway between them at a slow walk. Behind him rode Colonel Whiteside, a frail, worried-looking man with gray mutton-chop whiskers.
“Shame!” the voice continued to cry, increasingly hoarse. “Shame, General Peach! Oh, shame! Shame!” There were a few catcalls, a gobbling Apache cry. General Peach did not even move his head.
The captain saluted. The major spurred forward to speak to General Peach, but the general ignored him and the gray horse continued steadily forward, with Whiteside close behind. Peter Bacon spat over the parapet again, while Pike Skinner rose to his feet, with his shotgun over his arm. Blaisedell moved only to replace his six-shooters in their scabbards where one of the golden butt-inserts caught the sun like a flame. Miss Jessie stepped slowly to the far side of the porch, the hand holding the derringer at her side.
General Peach reined to a halt close to the steps of the boarding house that bore his name. He spoke in a huge, hollow, reverberating voice. “A long-haired gunman and a pretty woman with a pretty ankle and a pretty little derringer.”
Having said it, he sat more erectly in the saddle, blinking sleepily. His eyes looked too small for his broad, squat, fleshy face, his mouth was a pinched dark hole in his beard. He raised his leatherbound stick and scratched behind his ear with its tip. His beard blew and his hat flapped in a gust of wind that ruffled Blaisedell’s hair as well.
“All right!” Now there was an edge of anger to the great, blown voice. “You have made your show—” He did not go on, slumping in the saddle again, as though speech had tired him. He sat as though he were waiting for the two on the porch to disappear. There was silence except for the occasional stamp of a hoof or the jingle of harness among the troopers. Blaisedell did not move. Miss Jessie’s face looked drawn.
Colonel Whiteside edged his horse forward until he was almost in a line between the general and Blaisedell. “I’m sorry, Miss Marlow!” he said, in his high voice. “We will have to clear the strikers out of your house.”
“Have you a warrant, sir?” Miss Jessie said.
“We don’t need a warrant, ma’am. We—”
“I say you need a warrant. And I think there can be no warrant for this disgraceful conduct!”
“You stubborn little fool!” MacDonald cried. “This is the military government you are presuming to—”
“Mineowner’s government!” a thick Cornish voice shouted, and there was a roar of mocking laughter.
Someone yelled from the rooftops, “Sound the charge, bugler! It is Bull Run all over again.” General Peach rose in his stirrups and glanced slowly around him, and up at the roofs.
“We have no government here!” Miss Jessie cried. “Each of us has had to learn to defend his own house!”
“Hear, hear!”
“Shame, General Peach! Oh, shame on you!” The clamor began all around. Buck Slavin appeared on the roof of the Feed and Grain Barn. He climbed up on the parapet, waving his arms and shouting for silence.
“When are we going to get a town patent, General?” Slavin shouted. There were cheers. “When do we get a county of our own without the law a day’s ride away?” The cheering and whistling swelled and rose, while Slavin waved his arms again. Colonel Whiteside had swung around in his saddle, but General Peach sat staring stolidly at Blaisedell.
“When are we going to get a town patent, General?” Slavin shouted. There were cheers. “When do we get a county of our own without the law a day’s ride away?” The cheering and whistling swelled and rose, while Slavin waved his arms again. Colonel Whiteside had swung around in his saddle, but General Peach sat staring stolidly at Blaisedell.
“Mineowners’ law!” the man with the Cornish accent bellowed, and MacDonald rose in his stirrups to try to see the offender. There was jeering.
Slavin waved his arms for quiet. “People of Warlock!” he cried. “A motion! A motion! That we call our county Peach County in honor of the general. And Warlock the county seat! All in favor!”
There were groans mingled with cheers. “Medusa County!” someone cried, and the groans drowned the cheers. “Blaisedell County!” and the cheers drowned the groans. General Peach looked around as though he had been waked from sleep. The catcalls and the jeering grew louder and louder, there were rebel yells, Apache war cries. The general waved his gauntlet holding the leather-bound stick high above his head, and there was a sudden hush.
“A county of jackasses run by a murdering gunman and his doxy?” he said, in his huge voice. “Call it Espirato County for all of me!” Then, as there were boos, he shouted, “Standley, clear the damned jackasses out of the street!”
The major spurred his horse toward the cr
owd with obvious reluctance, the captain more eagerly. The troopers swept into line behind them, and, horses sidling forward, they pushed the townspeople back into Main Street. The Apache cry was taken up now throughout the crowd until the street was filled with turkey gobbling. General Peach sat glowering, chewing on his cigar. Whiteside was whispering to him.
He thrust the colonel aside with a motion of his stick. “Madam!” he roared. “You asked a minute ago if I had a warrant to go through your house. I ask you if you have a warrant to keep such a house!” He stopped, and waited; there was silence again. Then he said, “A disorderly house! A brothel for dirty miners complete with pimp and madam!”
He raised his stick and cut it viciously through the air, so that the gray shied. “Madam, you are a vile disgrace!” he shouted hoarsely. “And your macquereau with his pistols has killed more decent men than the typhoid. Filth cohabiting with murderous vile filth and prostituting to filth! And time you were stamped out like filth! You are a notorious pair and a public scandal! I will give you and your—”
There was another flat violent crack, and smoke swirled up before Blaisedell again. The general’s raised gauntlet no longer contained the leather-bound stick. The troopers swung their horses around as the major shouted a command; a huge sigh rose from the crowd, an aghast and awed intake of breath that blew out instantly in one great cry of approval and triumph. Colonel Whiteside leaned forward in his stirrups with an arm stretched out toward the general and his mouth wide with some inaudible cry. General Peach snapped his fingers and pointed down, and the colonel dismounted and scampered around the gray to find the stick. The cheering grew louder. The general’s face was dark red.
Whiteside handed him back the stick, and then hurried to remount. The clamor slackened and died. General Peach continued in the same voice, as though he had not been interrupted at all. “—thirty seconds to get off that porch. And exactly one hour to get out of this town!”
Then he sat motionless and silent, slumped and sleepily blinking once more. He did not heed the colonel’s attempts to whisper to him, waving his stick finally as though to brush away a fly. Blaisedell stood facing him with his boots planted apart and his still smoking Colt slanting down in his hand. Slowly he replaced it in its scabbard, and Miss Jessie retreated a little, one hand still gripping the derringer at her side.