by John Benteen
But neither he nor Crippled Deer found any sign that the blaze had been set deliberately. The prairie hay had been horse-belly high and as dry as tinder; a traveling grubline rider careless with match, then cigarette butt, could have set it along a wide front and ridden on without knowing what he had done. It had to be left at that, Gaylord thought with relief; he was about to ride down to town and make sure that everyone knew he had been here and done his best when he saw the horseman galloping across the burn.
Gaylord rode to meet him, stiffening in the saddle as he recognized Lew Morrell.
They met in the center of the burn, reining up their mounts. In daylight, Gaylord could see that the Texas man’s face was mottled with burns and blisters, where sparks had landed. They made him no prettier nor less vicious-looking. “Gaylord,” Morrell said challengingly. “What you doing here?”
“It’s my county; I’m the law—remember?”
Morrell grinned. “Not for long.” Then he was sober. “Clint and I already searched. There ain’t no evidence we could find. But I still say it was Gruber’s work.”
“You and Clint ... You’re mighty thick.” Gaylord looked at him with narrowed eyes. Again Morrell wore two tied-down guns; everything about the man clashed with Gaylord’s lawman’s instincts. “All right,” he said. “Suppose you tell me why you’ve dealt yourself in to this, Morrell. You drift in here, take up with Billy Dann, then latch on to Clint. I put up with it at first, but you tote more hardware every time I see you. You’re the kind I generally roust. I think it’s about time you account for yourself.”
Morrell sat very straight, both hands laid on the saddle horn, his eyes like chips of glass. “You roust Lang,” he said quietly, “and I’ll go on my own. Otherwise, far as you’re concerned, Sheriff, I’m on the payroll of the Ranchers and Cowboys Political Committee. Steady job, workin’ for our candidate.”
“As what?”
“Let’s say I watch his back,” Morrell answered evenly.
“And let’s say you’re also an organizer for the Knights of Labor,” Gaylord said. “Here to stir up a cowboy strike.”
“If I was,” Morrell said, “I’d sure as hell want another sheriff rulin’ the roost here besides Frank Gaylord. One that would give the cowboys an even break if they stood up for their rights.”
“And maybe that’s not what you are at all,” Gaylord went on. “I never met a labor organizer, but I’ve met a lot of gunhawks. I know one when I see him.”
Morrell’s singed brows raised sarcastically. “That a fact? Well, I reckon it takes one to know one. And maybe a gunhawk’s what Clint needs if he aims to stay alive long enough to wear a badge. Anyhow, I’ll give you some advice, Sheriff. If you’re aimin’ to ride down to Spear Creek, save yourself the trouble. We’ve got it locked up solid.”
“We’ll see,” said Gaylord. “It’s my county; I go where I please.”
“Suit yourself,” Morrell answered, shrugging. He wheeled his horse and galloped toward the town.
At a slower pace, Gaylord and Charlie Crippled Deer followed. But the moment they entered the settlement’s single street, Gaylord knew that Morrell had spoken truth. Wallace posters and signs were everywhere, and he could feel the hostility of the people. Clint himself awaited Gaylord outside the general store.
“Frank,” he said, with a lopsided smile. His voice was still a husky whisper. “Light. I’ll buy the coffee.”
“Good,” said Gaylord. “I want to talk to you alone.”
“You think I’m a fool?” Clint whispered across the table in the shabby little restaurant. “Sure, I know he’s a hard-case.” That warped smile again. “I sent a wire to the rangers down in Texas. He’s clean with them, not in their Blue Book.” The smile went away. “He’s played it straight with us so far, a hundred per cent. Chain’s long on his kind and so is Wagon Rod; our committee’s short on men like him. Me, I’m glad to have him at my back.” His eyes were cool. “Don’t try to roust him, Frank.”
“I would have long ago if he hadn’t laid claim to your friendship. Me, I think he’s using that friendship to hide behind.” Gaylord sipped his coffee. “Listen, boy, I’ve been around longer than you and Fielding put together. Men like Morrell don’t throw in with folks like you and Dann and the rest outa pure love for law and order. And you sure ain’t payin’ him fightin’ wages. So he’s playin’ some kind of game of his own. My guess is, for the Knights of Labor.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Clint said. “All I know is, he’s a damned good man to have around. He’s helped us build our home place, and he watches over Joey when I ain’t around and he’s like he was her big brother. These days, that’s a load off my mind. He says he’s been stepped on by the big boys down in Texas in his time and he knows what we’re up against. The way things are, I ain’t about to run him off—and if you try it yourself, you better be ready to deal with me.”
“Time I decide to roust him,” Gaylord said thinly, “I’ll roust him, check with nobody.” Then he eased. “Clint, I’m just talkin’ for your own good. These union organizers—they’re every bit as tough as Gruber, and as coldblooded. If he’s one of ’em, he’ll use you for everything he can; but if the time comes when you get in his way, he’ll turn against you like a rattlesnake. I’m telling you this: You watch him, and you watch him close.”
“It won’t wash, Frank.” Disgust settled on Clint’s face. “Damn it, play your cards fair and square. I know you want to be sheriff so bad it gripes your bowels; you’re on the gravy train and you’re scared to death I’ll pitch you off! But this is pretty lousy, spreadin’ this kind of poison among friends. Tryin’ to divide us, make us distrust each other.” He stood up. “Next you’ll be spoutin’ stuff about Joey or maybe Carla. I never thought you’d come to this, but I reckon that yeller headed hunk of fluff at Chain has got you where it hurts. Now I’ll say this one time, no more: I trust Lew Morrell. I trust him as much as I ever trusted anybody in my life except Joey and … ” his voice faltered “the old Frank Gaylord I used to know. Well, I don’t know where that old Frank Gaylord went. Damn it, I wish I did. But meanwhile here’s the gospel for you. You worry about that shotgun man out at Chain, Tom Lang, if it’s gunmen that bother you. I’ll take responsibility for Lew Morrell!”
Gaylord rose, swallowing his rage. “It’s your funeral,” he said thinly. “But keep your mouth off of Florence Gruber, you hear? And—” He drew in breath. “I’ll give you one more piece of advice, take it or not. Until you’re damned sure you know what game Morrell is playin’, you better have somebody watch your back-watcher!”
“I’ll worry about my back,” Clint whispered, “thank you kindly.”
Gaylord threw money on the table. “All right, kid. I’ll buy the coffee.” He looked at Clint for a moment, his anger ebbing. “Incidentally, that smoke you sucked in’s played hell with your voice. How you aim to campaign when you can’t talk?”
“I’ll talk soon enough. Meantime, I got people to talk for me. Joey, for instance. And Fielding. Don’t you worry about me.” He grinned tautly. “Just cover your ass, Frank—because I’m comin’ after it.”
“Anytime you’re man enough,” Gaylord said. He stalked out to where Charlie Crippled Deer waited with the horses; and by the time they were back in Warshield there was no more anger in him. But there was fear, plenty of it—for Clint Wallace. He spent the rest of the day writing telegrams, and had them all on the wire by nightfall.
And now the gloves were off, both forces electioneering at full throttle. If Clint wanted it, he’d get it. Gaylord campaigned with all his wit and strength on two fronts simultaneously.
First a string of barbecues and rallies held in Warshield and strategic points across the county. Chain supplied the beef, beer, booze, the fiddler and the banjo picker; Gaylord joined Gruber’s other hand-picked candidates—for territorial legislature, county surveyor, assessor, and the like—on the speaker’s platform. Everything was laid on lavishly, including the kind of spread-eagle or
atory the voters loved to hear, and every rally was jammed and overflowing. Squire Hamp Melton, candidate for Territorial House of Representatives, carried the burden of the speechifying, a man who could really make the eagle scream. Later, Gaylord himself talked briefly, plainly, making the same promises about strict, fair, even-handed law enforcement he’d used from the beginning of his career. In the past, his manner and the simplicity of his talk and bearing had always been effective. Now, though, things were going sour.
The first rally, held in Warshield, set the pattern for the others. “And now, good folks of Colter County,” Melton roared, “I give you a man you all know and respect, a man with decades of experience in law enforcement, a man devoid of fear, a man of fairness, honor, courage! I give you that paragon of Wyoming lawmen, Sheriff Frank Gaylord!”
There were cheers, but as Gaylord rose, coming to the lectern, they were drowned by boos and catcalls. “Ladies, gentlemen!” Squire Melton bellowed. “If you please … ”
“That’s all right, Squire,” Gaylord said grimly. “I can wait.”
He stood there patiently, and finally his big presence dominated the crowd that jammed the street. Meanwhile, he swept it with his eyes. Yes. There was Fielding, and Billy Dann, and there was Carla. His gaze met hers; she did not drop her eyes; Gaylord turned his face away. Women, he thought, more women than he had ever in his whole career seen at a campaign rally. Women from ranches, town, saloons, decent and shady, all rubbing shoulders, mingling, and ... it gave the crowd a different temper, one with which he was not used to dealing.
Finally there was silence. Gaylord said in a deep voice that carried: “I’m not sure I deserve all those nice things Squire Melton said about me, but—”
“You sure’s hell don’t!” a man’s voice shouted.
“But,” Gaylord went on inexorably, “I will say this: I have done my best to enforce the law in Colter County without fear or favor. I have tried to keep this county clean. And I think I have done it as well as any lawman could. Moreover, I have experience—more than twenty years’ experience as a county sheriff. I was ramrodding the law in Kansas when my honorable opponent was still learning his ABCs. I think you all know me and you know my record. And it’s on that record that I stand or fall, on that record that I ask you good people to reelect me—”
“Don’t ask us!” a woman’s voice shrilled out. “Ask Chain Ranch!”
Another woman cried, “Those cattle Ross Gruber gave you free in your record? How do you explain that?”
“Gruber’s bought you and you know it!” a female voice shrilled.
“And Clanton and Garrison, and half the bigwigs in Colter County!” a man shouted. Shouts of approval, boos, and the tumult rose.
Gaylord tried to speak, but it drowned his voice. “What about fear or favor?” somebody hollered. “We’re afeared of bein’ shot like poor Phil Hoff as a favor to Ross Gruber!”
“Shut your goddamn face!” a Gaylord man roared, and the crowd swirled, seethed. Fists were raised and a woman screamed, and Gaylord caught a glimpse of Carla Doane, wearing an expression of half triumph, half anguish, that pierced him. There was no hope of being heard now, and in a moment there’d be fighting down there in that mob.
Gaylord whirled. “All right!” he roared at the musicians. “Play something And play it fast and loud!” The musicians broke into a thundering reel, and the music drowned the shouting and gradually calmed the crowd. By then Gaylord was off the platform and had disappeared, so the rest of the candidates could be heard.
Ross Gruber was furious, pacing the back room of Clanton’s saloon, chewing an unlit cigar. Suddenly he halted, turned, took the stogie from his mouth, and gestured with it. “All right,” he said harshly. “If that’s their game, we can play it, too. From now on, Frank, by God, we’ll have armed men at every rally. Let’s see if they got the guts to carry on like that if it’ll earn ’em a busted head!”
Gaylord stared at him. “You gonna bust the women’s heads? They’re the ones doing most of the carrying on.” He poured himself another drink and stood up. “Don’t be a fool, Major. If it was all men, we’d keep order, yeah. But nobody can keep order in a crowd of females.”
“Let a few of ’em see their husbands catch a pistol barrel across the head,” Gruber rasped, “and it’ll quiet ’em down. And more than that. Wallace and his speakers get the same treatment at every rally they try to hold. Hart and I can have enough men there to break his parties up in a hurry!”
“And get somebody killed! Men like Wallace, Lew Morrell, Billy Dann, they won’t take that lying down! No—”
Gruber went on as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s another thing. That saloon bitch that Wallace married. How long you think those women’ll stick with Wallace when it sinks into ’em that half their men have probably slept with that slut one time or other?” He grinned. “From now on, we drag her through the mud at every rally. And I’ll see the word gets spread—”
Gaylord said, in a tone that shut him off: “Major.” Then he looked at the other two men in the room. “Sam, Herb, leave us alone a minute, huh?”
Looking at his face, Clanton and Garrison left without a word. When the door was shut behind them Gaylord turned on Gruber. “Major,” he said thinly, “We’d better get some things straight.”
After a moment Gruber said, “Yes. Yes, I think we’d better. Before this goes any further.”
“All right,” Gaylord said. “Here it is, and it’s gospel. One: There ain’t gonna be no bully-boys at our rallies. I’ll not see any women get hurt in that kind of scuffle.”
“They’re asking for it—” Gruber began, but Frank Gaylord went on, overriding him.
“Two: You can put all the disturbers you want to at Wallace’s rallies, but they don’t break ’em up. No rough stuff. If there is, I’ll arrest the whole kit and b’ilin’.”
“Now wait—”
“Three: What Joey Wallace used to be will not be brought into this campaign in any way.” Gaylord’s voice rang like iron on iron. “You understand me? Not in any way.”
Gruber’s face was red. “She was a—”
“I know what she was. So does Clint. She was what she had to be to stay alive. But what she was don’t count. It’s what she is now, and what she’s gonna be.”
Silent for a moment, Gruber said finally, “Frank, what do you think Florence will think when she hears you’re defending such a woman?”
“I can’t help what she thinks,” Gaylord said. “I reckon it will offend her. Maybe it offends you. But it ain’t the way things work out here. Especially not for women—not so far, anyhow. Maybe it will be different when we’ve got as many as they have in the East. But right now women like Joey are about the only kind there are that ain’t already married. So if a man wants a wife, he takes one of those and he tries to forget and so does she. Clint and Joey are doin’ a good job at that. Other people are willin’ to go along. There’s a song, Ross: ‘What Was Your Name in the States?’ It’s about people that start fresh out here. That’s one thing about Wyomin’: Your luck went sour somewhere else, you can start over and nobody’ll crowd you. So—”
“The hell with that,” Gruber rasped. “She’s going to be up there on the platform, speaking for Wallace while his voice is gone. It’s the perfect time to rub her nose in what she used to be—right in front of a crowd!”
“And have Clint Wallace come lookin’ for me to call me out. And then I’ll have to kill him—or he’ll kill me. Which, if he does, you’ll be the next on his list. No, I won’t stand for that. Put all the loudmouths in at Clint’s rallies you can git there. Screw ’em up as bad as he messed up mine. But no pistol-whippin’, no gunplay—and especially no word spoken against Joey Wallace.”
Gruber looked at him strangely. “That’s your say, is it?”
“That’s my say.”
“All right. Now I’ll have mine.” Gruber fished in his pocket and drew out a few strips of cheap newsprint, long and narrow. “Look at those
.”
“Ballots,” Gaylord said.
“That’s right. Four so far. The regular Republican ticket; the association ticket, I control. Now, you see these other two? They were printed up by men who control better than two hundred votes apiece. They came to me and said, ‘Carla Doane’s offered us three hundred dollars to print Clint’s name on our private tickets. You want to better that?”
His mouth twisted. “I bettered it, all right, and it cost money. And, Frank, that’s what you’d better understand. To get elected, it all comes down to money. Money for the rallies, money to buy the votes, money to do any damned thing that’s needed. Carla Doane has got the money. Chain Ranch has got more of it. She can break herself backing Wallace, but we’ll swamp her all the same.”
He paused. “There’s an old saying, Frank: The man who pays the piper calls the tune. Well, in your case, I’m paying the piper and I insist on calling the tune.”
“Major—”
“You wait,” Gruber said, and his eyes glittered. “Without Chain’s money, you don’t have a prayer of winning. Even with it, things can still go wrong. This election’s important to me, damned important, and I’m not taking a chance of losing it and turning over control of this county to the rustlers. Now we’d better get this straight. You’ve got to make a choice. Either you go along with me or there’ll be a new sheriff in Colter County, and his name won’t be Frank Gaylord—or Clint Wallace, either.”
“You’re not making sense,” Gaylord said. “All right, I need you, but you need me just as bad.”
“No,” Gruber said. “Don’t fool yourself.” He smiled faintly. “I want you, yes, but you can be replaced.” He waved the ballots. “On every one of these tickets. It’s a very simple matter. Chain owns the board of county commissioners. Chain could have them fire you tomorrow for inefficiency and appoint Tom Lang in your place. Then we’d have stickers made and paste in Lang’s name over yours on all these ballots—perfectly legal, here in Wyoming. And you’d be out, Frank—out as sheriff, out as a lawman altogether when word got around you were fired for cause. And out with Florence, too, sad to say.”