Lawless Town

by Lewis B. Patten

  The driver, standing beside the coach, was eyeing him oddly. “Took you fer a townsman,” he said. “Though you drink like you’ve drunk that way before.”

  Street grinned. “Getting down, you mean? Best way, ain’t it?”

  The driver shrugged, and climbed aboard. Street followed and the coach rolled on.

  The horses were tired, having traveled steadily since the last change at midnight, but they knew this run as well as the driver. Knowing it was near its end, they quickened pace. The cañon gradually narrowed and the walls of the plateau grew steeper. Then, as they rounded a bend, Street saw the scattering of buildings that was Escalante ahead. And like the blow of a fist in his belly the fear hit him. It was not fear of anything physical, nor even fear of the repercussions that might arise from the killing last night. It was fear of meeting Verona. It was fear that she would not believe he had changed.

  He caught the driver watching him. The man said sympathetically, “Feeling peaked, son? Wouldn’t blame you if you was. Something to ride into a strange town like this, a dead man behind. Something to step down offen a coach and say ‘Walt Street in back there. Dead. I killed him.’”

  “I didn’t kill him. It was an accident.” Street’s voice was strange.

  “Accident, hell! Suppose you wasn’t so quick on your feet. Suppose you wasn’t now? Would it be him laying back there? No, sir. It’d be you. You killed him all right.”

  Street’s hands clenched. His face was twisted, white. His eyes were wild and he yelled savagely, “Shut up, damn you! Shut up!”

  The stage driver started violently. He shrank away from Street as far as the narrow seat would allow. He opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. He swallowed as though his throat were dry. Finally he got out a shaky, “Hell, no need to take on so. What’d I say wrong?”

  Street fought himself for control. He made his voice calm. “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s me. I’m sorry. Guess I’m more upset than I realized over last night. I guess I don’t like to talk about it.”

  The driver relaxed. He shifted back to where he had sat before. He said, “Know how you feel. Sure I do. Ain’t every day a man does what you had to do. Reckon I’d feel the same way.”

  But Street did not really hear him. They were rolling through the outskirts of Escalante now, through a scattering of squalid shacks. A child yelled and a pack of them came running to line the road and wave. The driver waved back, grinning perhaps a little proudly. He was an idol to these children, and he played the part. But Street’s eyes were on the main part of the town ahead. Which house did Verona occupy? Would he see her on the street as they rolled in? Or would he have to wait until later?

  Escalante was not a large town. Its business section contained but two streets, Main and Cougar, running parallel and a block apart. Along Main were the hotels, the better saloons, and the retail stores. Along Cougar were the livery stables, a lumberyard, a feed store, and two of the more disreputable saloons. Also on Cougar was the stage depot and freight yards.

  By the wide veranda of the Escalante Hotel the driver turned, swinging wide amid a cloud of dust. A handful of townspeople stared without much interest, but Street saw no women among them. Down the block they went, swinging wide again into Cougar. A horseman spurred to avoid them, grinning and raising a hand to the driver. They came into the yard of the stage depot, stopping before a side door.

  Hostlers came to unhitch the teams. The driver called down to a man who came out the depot door, “Get Ralph Coe! Got a dead man in the coach.”

  That widened the other’s eyes, removed from him his air of agreeable boredom. He yelled out into the slab-fenced yard, “Alf! Come ’ere!”

  Street climbed down, his body stiff and aching now. Where Rawlins’ bullet had burned his shoulder, it was beginning to feel sore and stiff. Apparently the slight wound had bled a little for Street could feel his shirt sticking to it.

  A boy of perhaps eleven came running from the back of the yard. He was towheaded, tousled as though he had not bothered to comb his hair yet this morning. But he had a cheerful, freckled face. The man who had called him said, “Fetch the sheriff, Alf. Tell him we got a dead man in the coach.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. He hesitated, looked at Street. Street grinned at him and the boy grinned back. Then he was off like a streak.

  The horses were led away and a couple of men began to unpack the baggage and freight from the boot. And Street was forced to another decision. Should he claim his own luggage, or that of Rawlins? Mentally he inventoried the possessions in his own luggage, cataloging their value and replaceability. There was a picture of Verona, which he would hate to lose. There was his gun, holster, and cartridge belt, which, he decided, he would be better off without. Aside from those two things, he carried only clothes, razor, and the odds and ends a man finds essential when traveling. Already he had given up what money he had managed to put aside, trading that for whatever identification might be in Rawlins’ wallet. His expression turned rueful as he stepped forward. Rawlins had probably been stony broke or he wouldn’t have tried so desperately for that thousand-dollar bounty last night. Ignoring his own luggage, Street picked up the battered suitcase that had belonged to Rawlins.

  The boy, Alf, came trotting back, followed by a tall, gaunt man in his late sixties. The man opened the coach door and peered inside. Closing it, he turned. His face was deeply seamed, his eyes neutral to friendly. He wore a long, drooping mustache, the ends of which were stained with tobacco. He tipped back his disreputable broad-brimmed hat, revealing hair that was thinning and snow white. He was as dark as an Indian, his dark skin and white hair creating a rather striking contrast. His shoulders were rounded with age, but his step was firm enough, as was his voice. He looked at the driver, then at Street beside him. He said, “Seen you somewheres, ain’t I?”

  Street said, “I doubt it. I’m Ben Rawlins.”

  The sheriff nodded. “That’s it, then. You look like Will some.”

  This was puzzling to Street, but he held his silence. The sheriff, Ralph Coe, asked, “What’s this now? Who killed that one and who is he?”

  The driver got out a breathless, excited, “He’s Walt Street, that’s who he is, Sheriff. This here fella had a scuffle with him. Gun went off.”

  If the sheriff was surprised, it didn’t show. He stared with dry amusement at the excited driver. He said, “All right Perry. Send the body to the feed store. I’ll have Doc look at it soon as he gets back to town.” He looked at Street. “You’ll be around a while. I expect you’ve come to take over Will’s place. Want to talk to you, though, ’fore you go out there.”

  Puzzled, Street nodded. He picked up the suitcase and headed for the hotel, a tall, dusty man with a shadow of weariness lying over his features, a tear in the shoulder of his gray broadcloth coat. As he came into Main, his eyes roved up and down the street, lingering with restrained excitement for an instant on each female figure they touched. His face settled a little and he turned to climb the steps. Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps it was better to let Verona get the news and see her after the first shock had passed. Give her a chance to decide what she would do. But he was hungry for the sight of her, hungry to feel her warmth in his arms.

  He signed the hotel register and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He found his room, went in, and closed the door behind him. Then he fished out Rawlins’ wallet, emptied it on the bed, and stared down at its contents. Twenty-three dollars—Street had been carrying nearly six hundred dollars—a bad trade. There were a few business cards, all bearing Rawlins’ name. It appeared he had been a watch salesman. There was a folded and crumpled letter that Street unfolded and read. Headed “Escalante, Colorado” almost a month ago, it advised that Will Rawlins was now deceased and that so far as could be determined Ben Rawlins was his only kin and as such entitled to inherit his worldly goods. It did not list the worldly good
s, but hoped that Ben Rawlins would be able to come at once.

  Street muttered, “The blamed place had better be worth six hundred.” He put the suitcase up on the bed, untied the strap that was knotted around it, and let fall open. Dirty shirts and underwear, an extra suit, fortunately clean, a single clean shirt. Street thought bleakly, What can you offer Verona now? Something better than you did before? No job. No money. No name. Just a lousy shack out in the hills somewhere. He slammed the suitcase shut with a sour residue of anger, crammed the contents of the wallet back into it, then stuffed the wallet into his pocket.

  His shoulder was hurting so he shucked out of his coat, vest, and shirt. Peeled to the skin, he backed against the cracked mirror and peered at the bullet welt, angry red against the white, smooth muscles of his shoulder. Lucky. It had barely broken the skin. He poured water into the wash pan, and then began to wash. He remembered the shaving things in the suitcase, got them, and began to shave.

  Before he was finished, he heard steps in the hall, and an assertive knocking on his door. Without turning, he called, “Come in!” but he kept his eyes on the mirror in which he could see the door.

  The door opened and a man came in, a man Street had not seen before. He closed the door behind him, put his shoulder against it, and insolently surveyed Street’s back. He was a short man, stocky and swarthy of skin. His hair was black and crisp, curly and uncut for a long time. His chin and hollow cheeks were covered with a two days’ stubble of black beard. A man of monstrous self-assurance, this, a man who mocked the world and all who were in it. He smiled, showing teeth that were white and firm. “You’re Ben Rawlins, I take it.” His voice repeated the casual insolence of his eyes.

  Street nodded without turning. He had missed no small detail about this man that could tell him more of the man’s character. Nor had he missed the peculiarly efficient-looking gun at the man’s thigh, butt forward on the left side. Cross-draw man. Probably damned fast. A bully, too, from the look in his eyes. One who insisted on respect tinged with servility. Street’s failure to turn had been deliberate and it kindled a spark of anger in the ebony eyes of the stranger.

  Street said, irritated immeasurably by the man’s manner, “What do you want?” He ran the razor down his long jaw.

  “Hang it, turn around when you talk to me.”

  Street’s eyebrows lifted. Anger that had smoldered in him all night now bubbled to the surface. He started to whirl but caught himself in time. His mind cautioned, Don’t take his bait. You’re Ben Rawlins not Walt Street.

  He turned slowly, concealing a part of his anger but letting just enough show. He said, “Just who the hell are you and what do you want?”

  “Bauer. Max Bauer. Ramrod for Gunhammer.”

  Bauer was dressed in an untidy black suit. A carelessly knotted black string tie held the collar of his shirt together but the second button was gone and the gap in his shirt exposed a thick mat of black hair on his chest. Lower, there were stains on the shirt, probably from food or a spilled drink.

  Street experienced that odd, instant dislike that occasionally comes to a man on his first meeting with another. It almost amounted to hatred, so strong was its impact. Street said, “So you’re Max Bauer, ramrod of Gunhammer. That still doesn’t tell me what you want.”

  “Why, we’re neighbors. I called to pay my respects.”

  A spare grin split Street’s face. He said, “All right. Pay ’em and then let me finish shaving.”

  He was rewarded by a violent, unstable flash of anger in Bauer’s eyes. But he had to admire the man’s iron control of himself. Bauer’s hands clenched with effort. His smile was a mere split of his narrow lips, a showing of his flawlessly white teeth. He murmured, “I came to say something and I’ll say it. Gunhammer is offering you five hundred for Will’s outfit. Twenty a head for the cattle, cows, calves, horses. Think it over.” With a final, baleful glare at Street, he turned, yanked open the door, and went out, slamming it viciously behind him.

  Street heard his clipped steps retreating along the corridor. Thoughtfully he returned to his shaving. He’d made an enemy of that one without half trying. Bauer must have lots of enemies in this country or else it was populated with gutless men. Five hundred dollars. And twenty dollars a head for his stock. Not bad, but a deal he could never take, because a sale of land required a signature, and because if Street ever signed a deed he would be a forger, a criminal. Well, what the devil, he didn’t want to sell anyway. He finished shaving and dried his face, wondering at the odd uneasiness that possessed him. Rationalizing, he discovered it was caused by a belief that this Bauer would not give up easily. Gunhammer wanted the Rawlins spread, and Bauer had the look of a man who got what he wanted. Hang it, couldn’t a man ever live in peace? Must trouble forever dog his unwilling heels?

  III

  There was a heavy, oppressive weariness in Street now that the week-long stage journey was over. His body ached from the ceaseless pounding of the coach’s thinly upholstered seats. His eyes fought to close and a leadenness was in his mind. Yet there could be no sleep for him, and this he knew well. He wanted no rest until he had seen Verona. He shrugged into the clean shirt, then slipped on the dead man’s clean trousers and coat, absently transferring the copy of Leslie’s Weekly from his own coat to this one. He pulled on his boots and ran his discarded and soiled shirt over them to remove their dust.

  The lobby was cool, tile-floored, and lined with black leather-covered sofas and chairs. The veranda held the usual sprinkling of loafers, smoking, talking, eying each woman who walked the dusty street. Street fished for a cigar and recalled at once that he had left his vest in the room. He walked back into the lobby and stepped to the counter. He started to order cigars, remembered the twenty-three dollars in his pocket, and bought a sack of tobacco and papers instead. He paused again on the veranda and shaped a cigarette. With it lit and dangling from his lips, he stepped down to the walk and rounded the corner, heading for Cougar Street.

  Ahead of him walked a woman, altogether unmistakable. Oh, good Lord! Verona! Involuntarily Street broke into a run. He stopped abruptly. After two years, let their meeting at least have dignity. Let him meet her as a man who has fought himself and won, not as a disheveled, breathless one who has pursued her nearly a block. His eyes devoured her. Verona still had that straight, proud walk, her head high, blazing copper in the sun. Her figure was perhaps a little fuller, he thought, but he liked that. She had been too thin those last days of their life together.

  She walked between two men, one of them clearly identifiable as Sheriff Ralph Coe. The other, shorter than Coe but half a head taller than Verona, Street had never seen before, but the man was young, that was obvious. He appeared to be, at this distance of nearly a block, quite handsome. Street felt a stir of jealous fear. Suppose Verona had not waited? Suppose she had divorced him already, and married someone else? The thought was intolerable, so Street suppressed it. But he found that in spite of himself he was hurrying.

  Ahead, the trio rounded the corner and disappeared. Street strode along at a pace just short of a run. He came around the corner just in time to see the three enter a tall, weather-beaten building on whose side was painted in black, block letters: Overmeyer Feed Company. Below that, in smaller letters, was the word undertaker. It was quite common in towns too small to support a full-time undertaker for someone in another business to combine undertaking with it. Apparently such was the case here.

  There was a wagon dock at the side of the building, covered by a board awning. A few bales of hay sat on the dock, along with several burlap sacks of grain. Street climbed the two steps from street to walk and paused before the door. Unconsciously he wiped the palms of his hands on his trouser legs. Then his lips firmed out and he stepped inside.

  The front office smelled of hay and grain, a thoroughly familiar smell, and was empty. From the open door of an adjoining room, Street could hear voices, could h
ear the full, mature cadences of Verona’s voice. His boots seemed to make a thunder on the bare board floor of the room as he crossed. He paused in the doorway of the adjoining room and stared inside.

  Verona stood with her back to him, dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of handkerchief. On a long, oak table laid the corpse, a sheet over him. Coe stood at the corpse’s head, his hand holding the sheet away from the face so that Verona could see. This became suddenly clear to Street, and he knew a trapped feeling. Coe had rummaged through his luggage and had found Verona’s picture. He had brought her here for the purpose of identifying the body. But Street seemed unable to concentrate on this new complication. His eyes drank in the beauty of the woman. How old was she now? Twenty-three or -four, he guessed. He remembered her twenty-first birthday. They had spent that one together. In Abilene. He’d bought her a brooch, a cameo brooch from a saloonkeeper who had made a loan on it. And he’d managed to get her a bunch of violets, begged from a kindly gray-haired woman out at the edge of town. Coming up the street to the hotel, he’d been jumped by a scout for a trail herd who had stubbornly forced a fight. Street had run from that one, ducking into a building entrance, and running out the back door. It had been one of the few fights he’d run from, and he’d only done it for Verona. But he’d lost both brooch and violets and had come to her empty-handed. Perhaps she had made up her mind to leave him that day. Thinking of it now, he guessed she had.

  Coe turned and saw Street in the doorway. His eyes held Street’s and his head made an almost imperceptible negative shake. He said, “There’s no doubt, then, Verona? It’s him?”

  “Yes. That’s my husband, Mister Coe.” Her face twisted. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief and turned. Her eyes touched Street’s. A shock that was almost physical ran through him. This shock held him utterly motionless for the barest instant. He saw Verona’s eyes widen, saw her face go quickly pale. Her full, red lips parted, and her breathing hastened.