Gaylord's Badge

by John Benteen

  “Florence … ” Gaylord said thickly.

  “I’m her only living relative, her sole support. She does what I tell her to. Except for me, she’d starve—unless she married well. Marrying a jobless man with a ruined reputation wouldn’t be marrying well. She loves you, Frank, but when push comes to shove, she’ll do what I say. And I’d never let her marry a man with no prospects.” He threw the chewed cigar into a spittoon. “Now, do we understand each other?”

  “No,” said Gaylord. “You don’t understand me at all. You and your threats. Major, you don’t scare me. I’ve been scared by experts. If that’s the way you feel about it, you can take your badge and ram it, crosswise. I’ll throw my support to Clint Wallace and ask him for a job as chief deputy.”

  Gruber stared at him. “You’re crazy.”

  “No. I won’t be threatened, not by anybody.”

  “And Florence ... ?”

  Gaylord drew in a long breath. “You said she loves me. And, God knows, I love her. I’ll take my chances there.” He unpinned his badge and held it out. “Here, you want it that bad, take it.”

  Gruber looked down at the star in Gaylord’s big palm. His face worked. Then he smiled a little crookedly. “All right, Frank, you win. We’ll compromise. We’ll still break up Wallace’s rallies, but no real rough stuff. And—we’ll respect Mrs. Wallace’s reputation.” He raised his head. “Pin that badge back on.”

  “As long as we understand one another,” Gaylord said.

  “We do,” Gruber said heavily. “We do.”

  Frank Gaylord left that meeting with no sense of triumph, only a strange feeling of being dirty, smeared with something foul. Nevertheless, he had done the best he could. For his own sake, for Florence’s, and for the county’s. He had to win—the alternative, he knew now, was Tom Lang. For if Clint won, Gruber would find some way to oust him and install Lang behind the star. And with Lang and his shotgun ramrodding the law, no one except those allied with Gruber would be safe.

  So he threw himself into the second phase of his campaign, and this went better—at first. Personal contact, long horseback journeys all across the county, stopping at every isolated homestead, ranch, and crossroads, one man to another. He was good at this; he liked, understood, people; and they sensed something in him to which, always before, they had responded with their trust—and votes. But as the campaign swirled on even this started going sour. Now he was met with a hostility that soured him.

  “All right, Jud,” he asked one little rancher as they squatted, chewing grass stems, before the man’s log shanty, while his wife boiled clothes in an iron wash pot in the yard. “We been friends a long time. I’ve done you some favors. Now you tell me you won’t vote for me. Let’s have it—why?”

  Jud Tripp raised his weathered face. “Well, because I’m fed up, Frank.” Rising from his squat, he went on: “I’m fed up with bein’ pushed around by Chain. I’m fed up with the way you’ve run your campaign.”

  “The way I’ve—”

  “Chain’s hired gunmen breakin’ up Wallace’s meetin’s, that kind of thing.”

  “Listen, Jud, have you seen what Wallace’s people have done to mine?”

  “That was women. They didn’t move in with guns, lookin’ like they was gonna use ’em at any minute. And—”

  “And another thing,” Mrs. Tripp cut in. “They didn’t spread the kind of dirty talk about you and Carla Doane—though, God knows, they could’ve—like you and your folks have done about poor Joey Wallace.” She came toward them, drying hands on her apron, and Gaylord faced her.

  “I’ve spread no talk about Mrs. Wallace,” he said thinly. “Who has?”

  “I dunno who’s behind it, but if it ain’t you, who is it?” She looked at him with disgust. “We all know what she used to be. And me, I admire her for gittin’ out of it, tryin’ to lead a decent life. But the ugly talk that’s goin’ ’round is enough to turn a pig’s stummick … ”

  Gaylord said quietly, “It’s none of my doin’, Mrs. Tripp.”

  “Well, it’s your people’s doin’!” she flared. “And I’ll tell you this, Sheriff—Wyomin’s the only place in the whole United States of America where a woman can cast a vote. And me, I aim to cast mine for Clint Wallace. And my man, here, he better do the same, or he’ll be hard put to find somebody to warm his feet at night!”

  Tripp’s mouth quirked. “You see the fix I’m in, Frank.”

  “I see,” Gaylord said grimly. “Thanks for the explanation. Well, cast your vote to suit your conscience. It’s a free country.” He stalked away and swung up onto the sorrel.

  There was no use, he thought, in bracing Gruber anymore. The major would only deny the whole thing. But the Tripp family’s reaction was the last piece in a puzzle that until now had baffled Gaylord. And as he pounded back to Warshield he was struck with a sudden certainty.

  He was going to lose.

  Let Gruber buy his votes, let him spread his scandal, let him use his bully-boys. Frank Gaylord would not be reelected. A tide of revulsion—against Gruber, against Chain, against the association—was sweeping through the county, and it would wash him out with it. Maybe it would be close, but no matter what he did, no matter how many votes Gruber bought, Frank Gaylord was finished as sheriff of Colter County.

  That he could accept. He could maybe find another job, elsewhere. But ... Florence? Would it cost him Florence?

  Only last night he’d held her in his arms and kissed her furiously, and she had returned his kisses with equal passion. She had said it last night: Oh, Frank, I love you so much …

  No, it would not cost him Florence. The hell with Gruber! They would marry and she would follow wherever he went, and somehow he would see to her and fulfill her desires and give her the life to which she was accustomed and make her happy. Anyhow, he knew how big-time politics worked now, and maybe in another state or territory …

  He felt better. He could survive anything as long as he had Florence, and he was sure of her. But meanwhile ... well, he could not just roll over and play dead. He’d still give Clint a run for his money. And he’d make Gruber see how his tactics backfired.

  Nevertheless, that certainty of defeat was still riding him when he reached Warshield. After stabling his horse he went to his office, where Callaway met him. “Everything’s quiet, boss, but you got a mess of telegrams came in today.”

  Morrell. Gaylord went quickly to his desk and thumbed through them. Ranger headquarters at Austin; marshals and sheriffs at San Antonio, El Paso, and Dodge: all negative, no record on Lew Morrell ... He shoved them aside, his puzzlement adding to his sense of impending disaster. Damn it, he knew a hired gun when he saw one, and that was what Morrell was, and Clint was betting the wrong horse, and ... He began to write out a more detailed description of the man. He owed Clint that much, at least. There was something phony about Morrell, something as wrong as a nine-dollar bill. The man had wormed his way into the confidence of Clint and the little ranchers apparently for no profit. And that stank. Nobody did anything in this world anymore out of selflessness, idealism. Everybody was out for what he could get. Morrell wanted something, and whatever it was, it might cost Clint more than he could afford to pay.

  Either way, Gaylord thought, rising to pour himself a cup of coffee, maybe the time had come for a showdown with Morrell. Clint would holler, but Gaylord wore the badge here, and that was that. Yeah, the time had come to roust him. And in the long run it would be for Clint’s own good, his and Joey’s safety.

  He raised the cup of coffee to his lips. Then the door loudly slammed open and Gaylord whirled, pouring hot liquid down his sleeve.

  Terry Fielding stood there, powdered with dust, as if he’d ridden hard. The lawyer’s lean young face was pale, his eyes great flares, and what seemed like tears had cut channels in the dust on his cheeks. “Gaylord,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Oh, godamnit, you were right and we were wrong. You warned us, you warned us about Lew Morrell … ”

 
“What?” Gaylord strode toward him.

  Fielding leaned against the doorjamb as if exhausted. “Clint’s dead,” he said. “And Joey. And Billy Dann.” His indrawn breath was a painful sob. “Lew Morrell has killed them all.”

  Chapter Ten

  With the help of Morrell and Dann, the soddy had been completed. The interior of the little hut, hardly twelve by twelve, seemed too small for the three corpses sprawled grotesquely in its confines.

  The body of Joey Wallace sat on the bed, slumped back against the earthen wall, wide-open eyes staring in shock and horror at the door across the room. She had been shot twice in the chest.

  Billy Dann’s corpse lay just inside the door, face down. Clint Wallace’s lay just outside, staring at the sky. His right hand held a gun from which two rounds had been fired. The soddy reeked of blood and the other unsavory smells of death, which Gaylord knew all too well.

  Looking down at Clint’s lean face, smeared with scarlet that had poured from mouth and nostrils, he tried to remain impassive, but he had to swallow hot, stinging bile. “Christ,” he said, and he pulled the blanket back over Clint and turned away. The wind was refreshing and cold; it helped; after a moment he was in possession of himself again. “All right,” he said, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. “Let’s have it again.”

  Fielding had been sick beside the soddy. Now he wiped his mouth and managed words. “They were worn out from campaigning, especially Joey. Clint sent her home from the north end of the county to get some rest, sent Morrell with her to look after her.”

  Gaylord’s eyes shuttled to the woman’s body on the bed and he made a sound in his throat.

  “Clint and Billy put in a full day of it and followed on. I hated to bother ’em, knowin’ they needed a day of rest, but we’d picked up another bloc of votes and I thought they ought to know, so I rode out early this morning, and—they were like that when I found ’em. Only ... Clint was still alive.”

  Fielding swallowed. “He died while I tried to help him. But he managed to say something. There was a lot of blood; mostly it was ... a kind of gargle. But I caught two words. Morrell. And Ten Sleep,” He paused. “Then he was finished. And I—I took a look around, but I didn’t touch anything; it’s all just like it was. Except that Morrell isn’t here and he isn’t at Billy Dann’s and— You can see what happened.”

  “Yeah,” Gaylord said. “I reckon.”

  “He ... must have gone after Joey. And Clint and Billy walked in on him. And Morrell ... I’ve seen him practice. He’s hell with a gun. They were tired and surprised and— He could have taken ’em both.”

  “And those holes in Joey … ?”

  “Morrell, to shut her up. Or—” Fielding broke off.

  Gaylord looked at him steadily. “Or maybe it wasn’t all Morrell,” he said. “Maybe it was Joey, too. And Clint found ’em together and—”

  “He wouldn’t have,” Fielding whispered. “To begin with, Joey wasn’t like that. I know what she used to be. But she would have died before she hurt Clint—and he would have before he hurt her.”

  His voice steadied. “Anyhow, it was Morrell. However it happened. Clint left no doubt of that. I would have known it anyhow. You have got to go after him, Sheriff. You have got to take the bastard and hang him.”

  “I figure on it,” Gaylord said. He turned away, stared out across the bleak, rolling country of the basin at the distant smudge that was the Big Horns. The wind was turning colder, scraping at his face like a steel blade. The sky was lead-colored; pregnant with winter. Gaylord felt colder than the wind. Because now he knew, saw what he should have seen all along. He fought back the sick rage flaring in him. Surprised by how steady his own voice was, he said: “Ten Sleep, huh? At the foot of Powder River Pass, over the Big Horns. He’s headin’ for Johnson County, likely. When you get back to Warshield, tell Callaway to wire the sheriff in Buffalo to look out for him, hold him if he shows.”

  “Yes. Where are you going?”

  Gaylord turned up the collar of his sheepskin coat. “To Ten Sleep, where else? But first I got to talk to Gruber.” He stepped up into the saddle, and, looking down at Fielding, said: “Whoever it was, I’ll see him hang. Bring in the bodies, please. See they get a decent burial. I’ll stand good for all expenses.” Then, touching the sorrel with his spurs, he sent it into a run.

  Gaylord dismounted, hitched the horse, went up the steps, and twisted the doorbell of the Chain Ranch house. Standing there, waiting, he felt as if all emotion save rage and grief were burnt out of him.

  Florence Gruber swung the door wide, her beauty accentuated by a white dress foaming with lace. Her face lit. “Frank! How nice! I didn’t—”

  “No. Where’s Ross?”

  “In his office. But— Frank, is something wrong?”

  “A lot,” he grated. “Clint and Joey Wallace and Billy Dann have all been murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Her eyes widened. “How ghastly.” Then, as surprise ebbed, she said, “But that means there’s nobody to run against you … ”

  Something in her voice rasped Gaylord’s nerves. “It means exactly that.” He shoved past her, went to Gruber’s door, knocked, and entered.

  Gruber, startled, looked up from his desk. “Well … ” He smiled. “An unexpected pleasure. Sit down, Frank, have a drink.”

  “No,” said Gaylord. He looked at that square, powerful face with its broken nose, the heavy brows drawn together in a frown. The sight of Gruber sickened him. How could he ever have admired the man?

  He watched Gruber’s eyes carefully as he spoke. “Clint and Joey Wallace and Billy Dann are dead. It looks like Lew Morrell tried to rape Joey and Clint caught him, and he shot ’em all.”

  “My God … ” Gruber rose. “This is awful.” But Gaylord did not miss the tinny ring in his voice, the way his eyes clouded to veil their true emotions; and Gaylord knew. He had, he thought sickly, been right, dreadfully right. “What happened?”

  Carefully, Gaylord told him what he and Fielding had found, and while Gruber was a good actor, smooth, he was not good enough. It was there, behind the act. “Well,” Gruber said at last. “It’s a sordid thing, but to be expected with such people. After all, she was a slut. I suppose she led him on—”

  “Ross,” said Gaylord in a tone that quenched Gruber’s speech.

  The Chain manager stared at him.

  “You had it done,” Gaylord said.

  Gruber’s face, beneath its bluish cast of beard, paled. “Wait a minute, Frank … ”

  “You saw it, didn’t you? Just like I did. You’ve gone too far, turned everybody against Chain Ranch—and against me. You saw that Clint was bound to win. So you had him rubbed out.” Gaylord drew in a breath. “Morrell was your man all along, wasn’t he? A spy in the enemy camp. The whole thing was phony, the way he braced me in the saloon, badmouthed Florence in front of the town, forced me to fight him. ... All that was your idea, eh? Put him on the inside, where, if it came to that, you could use him.”

  Now Gruber’s face was even paler; his shock seemed genuine. “I think ... you believe … ”

  “I believe you hired Morrell to spy on the little ranchers and told him to kill the Wallaces,” Gaylord said thinly. “And I was a fool for not realizin’ that sooner.”

  Gruber swallowed hard. “I told you to roust him, insisted, and you didn’t … ”

  “Part of the cover, too. But it doesn’t matter. I’m going after Morrell. I know which way he headed—to Ten Sleep and over Powder River Pass. One way or the other, I will get him—and take him alive and make him talk. And if you had the Wallaces killed, Major Gruber, I will see you hang, along with the man who did the actual killing.”

  Gruber’s mouth twisted. “You’ll not talk to me like that.”

  “I’m just telling you,” said Gaylord. He backed toward the door.

  “Frank,” Gruber said. He had recovered now, was smooth, steel under velvet once more. “Frank, wait a minute.” He hesitated. “I’ll giv
e you my word Morrell is not my man. And I know how you feel; I know how close Wallace was to you. But we’ve got to be practical. The election is only five days away. You can’t leave to trail Morrell over Powder River Pass or whatever right now. True, at the moment you don’t have any opponent anymore, but Fielding’s clever, there’s no telling what he might do. And in the past few weeks he’s gotten the Democratic party here in the palm of his hand. He might put up someone else to run against you, and if you’re away on election day that could be serious.”

  He paused. “I sympathize with your grief, but we’ve got to take maximum advantage of this ... ill wind. We’ve got to have time to iron out this misunderstanding, you and I, and muster our forces and make sure nothing goes wrong. It’s a rotten thing to happen, but it’s a break for you, and you’ve got to see it that way. I don’t want you to leave Colter County before the election. I want you here campaigning every minute.”

  “No,” said Gaylord.

  “Wait. I don’t mean Morrell goes free. I’ll give you Lang and Withers. You deputize the pair of them and send them after him. Lang’s the best and Withers is almost as good. They’ll bring him in, one way or the other, justice will be satisfied, and—” He read Gaylord’s eyes. “Don’t be a hardheaded idiot, Frank. Your whole future’s at stake.”

  Gaylord said quietly, “I’m going after Morrell. Not Lang, not Withers, not any Chain man that can shut Morrell’s mouth before he lays the blame where it belongs.” He sucked in breath. “Me, myself, I’ll take him alive. And when he talks, I’ll be back to see you, Ross.”

  “Do you know what you are saying, Gaylord?” Gruber asked after a moment.

  “I’m saying that I won’t be sheriff if it means using the dead body of my friend as a stepping stone,” Gaylord said. “I’m saying that you figured me almost right, but not quite, Ross. I was a hungry man, but not all that hungry. You misjudged me, Major.” He put his hand on the doorknob.