Behind Merline, Sid chuckled, and Sloan scowled briefly at him. He let his glance rest closely on Merline’s face and knew she had overheard. She was, he knew suddenly, the reason he had stayed here, the chief reason he had taken on this job. She was the one he wanted most in all the world, but every time he thought he was making progress with her something like this came up, or something like his past relationship with Sylvia Flint. He looked at Merline with a bit of defiance in his eyes and said, “She helped me when I needed help. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No. There’s nothing wrong with that. Get the chip off your shoulder.”
“Then, damn it, don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re doing.”
Doc said, “Quit bickering, you two. Merline, be a good girl and go get him some breakfast.”
“Shouldn’t he stay … ?”
“In bed? Hell yes, he should. But I won’t waste my breath asking him to. He wouldn’t do it anyhow.”
She let her eyes rest briefly on Sloan’s face. They softened, and clung, and then brightened. She turned and hurried almost angrily from the door. Sloan said, “Now what the hell was that all about?”
“If you don’t know, you’re a sight stupider than you look.” Doc glowered at him, then followed Merline out, untidy, whiskered, looking as though he had slept in his clothes. He probably had. Sloan stood up and followed, trying furiously not to limp but failing miserably. Sid brought the cot. He put it down, and Sloan sat on the side of it gratefully, stretching his hurt leg out before him.
He saw Doc standing across the street talking to a man, then saw the two hurry away and turn the corner on Fourth. One doctor wasn’t enough for a town this size, he thought. And then he forgot both the doctor and the town, for he saw Merline crossing the street carrying a covered tray.
Sid put a box in front of him, and Merline came in and put the tray on it. Sloan was ravenous, yet the smell of food emanating from the tray made his stomach knot with nausea.
Merline’s expression was one of mixed pity and anger. She stared down at him, hands on hips, and said truculently, “You can’t do it. No one man can.”
He grinned weakly. “Why don’t you make up your mind? I thought you said the right man could.”
“Maybe you’re not the right man.” She hesitated. “Oh hell, I don’t mean that at all.”
Sloan’s grin mocked her. “Mind if I eat before all this gets cold?”
“I don’t care if you never eat. You smell … you smell more like a carousing cowboy than a marshal!” She sniffed. “Lilac.”
Sid said solemnly, “You know, I thought it was lilac, too. But Sloan says it’s rose.”
Sloan grunted sourly, shifted his leg, and bent forward to eat. His face twisted involuntarily. Watching him, concern touched Merline’s face. Sloan glanced up and saw an expression in her eyes that made him want to get up and seize her in his arms. But he didn’t move. He drank half a cup of scalding coffee, then determinedly forced down the food. His nausea mounted, but he didn’t stop until the plate was empty. He finished the coffee and leaned back.
There were two cigars beside the plate. He lit one and put the other in his pocket. He sat there broodingly, puffing on the cigar, while the others watched him furtively. He was thinking that a lame marshal wasn’t much better than no marshal at all. He was thinking if in the next few days his life depended on moving fast, he’d be dead. Then he thought of Sylvia Flint’s small girl, limp in the doctor’s arms. His chances of survival were less today than they had been yesterday, but he wasn’t going to quit.
He saw Doc round the corner of Fourth and cross the street diagonally toward the jail. He knew from the set of Doc’s face that something had made him furious.
Doc stamped in and slammed the door. He glowered at Sloan. Sloan said, “What’s the matter with you?”
“Rose. She’s dead!”
Sloan didn’t speak. He got painfully to his feet.
Doc said irritably, “Sit down. Sit down, damn it! She’s dead, I said, and there’s not one damned thing you can do about it now.”
“What killed her?”
Doc’s voice was savage. “Fists. A lot of fists. She was beaten.” He shuddered, almost as though he were cold.
Sloan asked evenly, “Who were the dead ones you told Burle about?”
“Hughie Revel and Dan Purdue.”
“You treat any wounds this morning? Gunshot wounds?”
Doc shook his head no.
“Who are Revel’s and Purdue’s friends?”
Doc shrugged. “Burle. The rest of the bums that work for him. But you’ll never prove a thing. There’ll be a dozen men to swear that bunch was in the saloon all night.”
Sloan said grimly, “I don’t have to prove. All I’ve got to do is know.”
He limped to the door, gritted his teeth, and stepped outside. His face turned pale with the effort, but he walked without a limp.
Merline watched him helplessly, her expression plainly saying she knew she couldn’t stop him now. Sid hurried out and crossed the street at Sloan’s side. Together they marched down Texas Street toward the Cowman’s Pride.
X
There were, perhaps, half a dozen men in the Cowman’s Pride besides the bartender and Jeff Burle, still rumpled and untidy from his night in jail. Sloan pushed open the door, and Sid followed him closely, stepping immediately to his left as they cleared the door.
Burle, at the end of the bar, was just leaving to go upstairs. He swung angrily as they entered. “What do you want?”
“The men that were with Purdue and Revel last night.”
He thought he saw a glint of triumph in Burle’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly that he could not be sure. Burle said sarcastically, “Want to get rid of the witnesses against you? That it?”
“That’ll have to be a sight plainer than it is.”
Burle walked behind the bar. He knelt before the safe, and when he straightened, he held some papers in his hand. “Know what these are?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
The glint of triumph was back now, and plain. “They’re affidavits.”
“By the men who ambushed me? Let me see those.”
“Oh no!” Burle hastily stuffed them back in the safe and slammed the door. “I’m not going to give you their names. Not until the trial comes up.”
Sloan felt a rising, impatient anger. He said, “What do these so-called affidavits have to say?”
“That Rose Lauck was dead when they arrived. Beaten to death with your fists. All of ’em say the same damn thing.”
“Get those men down here.”
Burle smiled. “Uhn-uh, Marshal. They’re out of your reach. They left for Maverick Towner’s cow camp fifteen minutes ago. They’re halfway out there by now. ’Course, if you want to ride out to Towner’s camp and take ’em …” He let the sentence dangle suggestively.
Sloan felt balked. He wanted the men who had killed Rose, and he wanted them badly. When he thought of her paying with her life for a simple act of decency and mercy … but it would have to wait. Burle was right when he said the men were out of Sloan’s reach. Sloan doubted if he could ride to Towner’s camp, let alone take on the three, and Towner’s men to boot, when he arrived.
Burle said, “Now the people of this town are going to find out what kind of a bastard they hired. I’m going to see to it that they read these affidavits.”
Sloan said, “Do that,” and strode from the saloon. He forgot his wounded leg as he went out the door and put his weight on it as he stepped down the single step. It gave way, and he fell heavily.
Sid helped him up. Sid’s face was white with anger, and the expression in his eyes matched that in Sloan’s. He grunted under his breath, “The son-of-a-bitch.”
; Sloan didn’t reply. He was bathed with sweat from the pain, and, try as he would, he could no longer walk without a pronounced limp. He felt as though the blood had all flowed out of his head, and the street swam dizzily before his eyes. Wait. It was something he had never really learned to do. He’d had to wait often during the war, and he’d had to wait out there on the plains when he and Sid were hunting buffalo. Yet then there had not been this merciless urgency to prod him. He remembered the way Rose had looked at him last night. He remembered the gentleness of her hands. She had been a prostitute, one on the long, downhill grade. But last night she had been a compassionate woman, too. She had saved Sloan’s life when no one else would even try. She would be avenged. He promised himself that she would. But it would simply have to wait—until he was stronger—until he was ready for a showdown with the cowmen’s group. By going out there now he would only get himself killed, and that would help no one. Rest. Sleep. How in the hell was he going to sleep while the men who had beaten Rose to death with their fists laughed at him from Towner’s camp on the plain?
He gritted his teeth. As they entered the office, Sid said, “Dryden and a bunch of the others are going into the Cowman’s Pride.”
Sloan turned his head. He recognized several of the men who were with Dryden. They were the same ones who had pleaded with him to take on the marshal’s job. Now they would listen to Burle’s trumped-up evidence against him and would probably ask him to resign. And maybe, by God, he would resign. If they were so ready to believe the worst about him, they didn’t deserve a lawful town. He’d quit, and he’d go out to Towner’s camp and, if it was the last thing he ever did, he’d kill those three. He realized that his thoughts were getting wild. He felt hot, and knew he was feverish from the wound.
Doc was gone, but Merline Morris was still in the office. She asked no questions. She just took a look at his face and said, “You come here and lie down. You’re going to get some rest, and I’m going to stay here and see that you do.”
He collapsed to the cot, lay back, and closed his eyes. He felt as though he were floating, whirling through thin air. His body was weightless, and his head didn’t even seem to be a part of it. But he felt her hand on his forehead, cool and soft and fragrant, and after a few moments felt his consciousness begin to fade. He would be stronger when he awoke, he thought dreamily. He would be stronger—perhaps strong enough to finish this dirty job he had agreed to do. After that he would sleep a week.
* * * * *
Sloan Hewitt had slept, but it was not an easy sleep. The things his mind knew as he slept seemed to be parts of disjointed dreams, and yet were not. Dryden and the others had come marching across to the marshal’s office shortly after he fell asleep. Sid had met them just outside, but their voices carried in the door.
Dryden had said, “We want to see Mister Hewitt.”
“He’s asleep. He was up all night.”
“He was limping.”
“A little old bullet wound is all. What do you want to see him about?”
“Some affidavits that Burle has got.”
Sid had said softly, contemptuously, “Get out of here. I said he was asleep.”
“You can’t talk to us that way. You’re only …”
“Can’t I? I both can and will. You hired Sloan to clean up your town. You gave him a free hand.” His voice had held a note of unbelief. “You know good and well what those three tried to do last night. They tried to kill Sloan, and they almost did. If it hadn’t been for Rose, they’d have made the grade. Now you want to believe the word of three murdering pigs instead of his. You’re actually going to ask him to explain.”
“We’re responsible …”
Sid had uttered a single, contemptuous, obscene word. Then he had said viciously, “You’re responsible, all right. For the mess the town is in. For every man, woman, or kid that gets killed in the streets.”
“But …”
“You stupid fool, why would Sloan kill Rose? She helped him. She saved his neck. She doused his wound with whiskey and tied it up and then let him out the back door.”
There had been some unsatisfied grumbling, but the group had broken up and gone away. And there was a time of deep, uninterrupted sleep for Sloan.
In midmorning, Burle had marched across the street and demanded to see Sloan. Sid had met him outside the door, as he had met the group of townsmen. He had refused to let Burle in, so Burle had stood and talked to him for almost ten minutes—about nothing—about the weather and the herds waiting their turn on the plain outside the town. Then he had gone away, leaving Sid with a puzzled expression on his homely face.
Sloan awoke shortly before noon to find Merline still sitting at his side. It was hot and sticky, and Sloan was damp with sweat. But the fever he’d had earlier was gone.
For a time he lay still, staring at the ceiling above his head. Then he turned his head and looked at Merline. It was good to see her here, good to know she’d stayed. He said, “I dreamed Dryden and some others were here.”
“It was no dream.” Her voice was angry.
“What did they want?”
“They wanted you to explain the affidavits Burle has in his safe. They wanted you to say you didn’t beat Rose to death with your fists.”
He looked at her closely. “Do you want me to say it?”
Her eyes snapped at him. “Of course I don’t. That’s an awful thing to accuse me of.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, I should think you would be.”
He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. Pain shot from his thigh all the way up his back, and his face broke out in fresh beads of sweat.
Merline said firmly, “You can’t do it. You’re hurt and sick, and you’ve got to give it up.”
He didn’t look at her. He had been thinking the same thing himself, but hearing it put into words made him see how impossible it was. Quitting now would be like deserting under fire. He saw a young man, hatless, come from the direction of the bank next door. The man, who Sloan vaguely remembered as being an employee of the bank, entered and looked at him doubtfully. “Mister Hewitt?”
“Uhn-huh. What is it now?”
“Mister Dryden sent me. Someone’s in the bank trying to make a large deposit to your account.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there.”
The young man went out. Sloan got up, his teeth tightly clenched against the pain. He grinned ruefully at Merline.
She asked, “They’re trying to smear you now, aren’t they? They’re trying to make Dryden think you’ve accepted a bribe.
He nodded, still grinning. “It’s a good sign. First the affidavits, now this. It means they’re backing up. They’re scared.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. “Don’t you count on that.” She looked straight into his eyes for the briefest instant. “And next time you smell of whiskey and perfume, see to it that it’s mine. The perfume, I mean. Now I’ll get you some dinner.”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had today.”
“Which one?” Her glance dropped, but not before he had seen the expression her eyes held.
“The first.”
Her voice was a mere whisper. “Don’t wait too long to accept.” Then she turned and ran out the door. A buggy, careening along, narrowly missed her as she crossed the street, and Sloan briefly held his breath. He could quit now, he thought. He could quit and Merline would go away some place with him. She’d never blame him for quitting. But he’d blame himself. He’d think about that little girl, Debbie, who might have been his own. He’d wonder how many other innocent ones had died before someone with more guts than he came along and tamed the town. He wondered, suddenly, how Sylvia was bearing up under her loss, and remembered her as she had been before the war, remembered how he himself had been. A long time ago, that, he mused. A long time. He had changed,
and Sylvia had changed as well. What pressures had made her take up with a man like Burle, a cold animal who could give her nothing but a roof over her head? Pity for her touched him, and he began to understand her with speculation remarkably accurate for one who has been deeply in love and who has been hurt. The child had not been his. Affectionate, vulnerable with others as she had been with him, Sylvia had become pregnant by someone else while he was gone. But there had been too much honor in her to let Sloan think the child was his. And so she’d gone away. Burle had offered security, a roof over her and Debbie’s heads. Safety and the necessities. Nothing more. Angrily he hobbled out the door, nodded briefly at Sid, then went to the bank next door.
The young man was behind the barred teller’s window, but the depositor was gone. Dryden came immediately from the rear of the bank.
“He’s gone, Mister Hewitt. We refused the deposit, and he left.”
“Who was he?”
Dryden looked at him strangely.
Sloan said evenly, “Damn you, you’re going to have to get off the fence. Two days ago, you were begging me to take this job. Now you’re sorry, and you’re trying to put the blame on me.”
“But the killing, Mister Hewitt. There’s been more …”
“I said there would be.”
“And those affidavits. And this.”
Sloan put his hand on the marshal’s badge. “You want this?”
“Now wait, Mister Hewitt. All we want is …”
“Do you want this now? It’s the last damned chance you’re going to get. You know those affidavits are phony. Those three and the two dead ones ambushed me. How much do you think those affidavits are worth? And this. If I wanted to take a bribe, do you think I’d let them deposit it in my account? What kind of fool do you think I am?”
“We don’t think you’re a fool, Mister Hewitt. It’s just that … well … it’s the other people in the town. We pretty much acted on our own when we hired you, and now we find that we haven’t got much support from the others in town. There have been more bullets flying around and more men killed since you took over than there ever were before. People are beginning to think that when you’ve got the opposition licked, you’ll be worse than they were. They’re afraid of you.”
Lawless Town Page 14