Lawless Town

by Lewis B. Patten

  Fury soared in Sloan Hewitt’s head. Scowling, he stared at the open door. His knees were trembling, so he sat down. Damn! What did a man do now? He couldn’t go charging around town, looking for them, because Burle meant exactly what he said. He’d kill her or hurt her if Sloan got too close. Or he’d use her for a shield.

  There had to be a way. He realized that his thoughts were racing frantically from one impossible thing to another. He clenched his fists and jaws. Think! Take things logically and in order if you could. Burle wasn’t a fool. Until Sloan got too close, until he became dangerous, Burle wouldn’t do a thing. He wouldn’t hurt Merline just for the sake of hurting her. Not now at least. He wanted Sloan off his back for a little while and had taken this means of ensuring it. He knew, as well as Sloan did, that the cowmen would eventually move against the town. That had to be what he was waiting for. Why should he risk his own neck beyond this point when he only had to wait for the cowmen to get rid of Sloan for him?

  Sloan got up and nervously paced the floor, limping and favoring his wounded leg. Thinking of Merline, alone and afraid in Burle’s hands, made him furious. The possibility, however remote, that Burle might not have to pay with his life for murdering Sid further infuriated him. No longer was he a lawman in the strictest sense. Perhaps he had never been. He was involved, personally, and had been from the very start. Impartiality was impossible under the circumstances. But perhaps impartiality could come later when the town had been tamed, if it ever was.

  Quit, he told himself. Get a horse and ride out of town. Burle would know within an hour that he had gone. And he’d release Merline. Or would he? Burle was a prideful man, and Sloan had made him run publicly. He would never be sure that Merline was safe even if he rode away. And besides, there was Sid. He’d never square things for Sid if he let Burle go. There was a place for him here, anyway. Merline was his and the town would be his, only his place wasn’t going to be handed to him. He’d have to fight for it.

  He thought of Merline and looked around the room at the things that were hers. He remembered her eyes and her smile and the lithe strength of her body. Thinking of her, he knew what she would tell him if she could. Go on. You have come too far to go back now. Jeff Burle represents all the saloonkeepers in town. He controls the gamblers and prostitutes. Beat him and you’ve beat them all. Beat him now while you’ve got him on the run. From there, his thoughts flowed logically to the best way of accomplishing Burle’s defeat. Wait. Give him time, all the time he wanted, for only by so doing could Merline’s safety be assured. Plan for the onslaught of the cowmen, defeat them, and then get Burle. A simple plan that was not, however, as simple as it seemed. He blew out the lamp, went out, and closed the door behind him. He mounted the horse, rode back to the Cowman’s Pride, and tied it where he had found it at the rail. Then he walked uptown slowly, thoughtfully, favoring his wounded leg now without even thinking of it.

  He went into the office, lit the lamp, then looked at the huge gold watch he carried in his pocket. It was between 10:30 and 11:00. This would be a long night. He wondered how long the trail drivers would take to make up their minds. Burle’s three men, the ones who had ambushed Sloan, would stir them up as much as they could. Maybe enough. Maybe enough to make them send their ultimatum in tomorrow. In the meantime, all he could do was wait. And hope that nothing panicked Burle, wherever he was.

  Half an hour passed, during which Sloan walked to the door a dozen times and stared broodingly into the street. Most of the saloons had closed for lack of business. The street was quiet. A few of the saloonkeepers and their help sat on benches before their establishments, smoking, talking softly. There was a feeling in the town—of waiting. Like a charge of black powder with a long, smoldering fuse attached. Safe enough while the fuse was long …

  Sloan sat down on the bench outside. His nerves were jumping, and his mind kept reviewing his decision to wait, searching it for flaws. He found none, but he hadn’t expected to. Under the circumstances it was the only thing he could do.

  At 11:30, three riders pounded into town, headed straight for the marshal’s office, and drew their mounts to a halt. One of the mounted drovers spoke, “You the marshal?”

  Sloan rose and nodded. It was here, he knew. Even before the mounted man spoke, he knew. The ultimatum.

  The man said, “Got a message for you from Mister Towner.”

  “All right. What is it?”

  “We’re coming in tomorrow early. If you’re gone, everything will be all right. If you’re not, we’ll kill you and tear your town to hell.”

  Sloan said, “Tell him not to come. Not that way.”

  The three laughed in arrogant unison. “That all?” the spokesman said.

  Sloan replied, “That’s all. Tell him not to come or he’ll be the first to die.”

  “I’ll tell him. But don’t count on him being scared, Marshal.” All three laughed again, whirled their horses, and pounded away in the direction they had come. A plume of dust followed their passage, spread, and began to settle slowly in the airless street.

  So now the lines were drawn and by sunup tomorrow it would be over—finished. Either Sloan would be dead or Burle and Towner would. Either the town would be without law or it would be tamed. Wryly Sloan had to admit that the former was the most likely. One man couldn’t meet and turn back a hundred Texas trail hands whose pride had been affronted.

  He got up and crossed the street to the hotel, an idea stirring in his mind. He crossed the white-tiled lobby floor to the desk. “Tell me where Mister Dryden lives.”

  The sleepy clerk gave him directions. Sloan nodded his thanks and went on out. He walked the three blocks to Dryden’s house and found it dark. He went up on the porch and turned the bell briskly.

  After several moments a lamp went on upstairs. Its light flickered as someone carried it downstairs. The door, whose pane was red-stained glass, opened, and Dryden stood there in a white nightshirt, his graying hair rumpled and his eyes dazed with sudden awakening.

  “Hewitt. What the hell …?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “At this hour …? All right. Come on in.”

  Dryden stood aside, and Sloan went in. Dryden led him along a wallpapered hall and into the parlor, luxuriously furnished and containing, among other treasures, several small marble statuettes. It reminded Sloan of some of the Southern mansions he had been in during the war. He sat down on the edge of a brocaded chair and said, “Mister Dryden, you’ve got your tail in a crack.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Mister Hewitt. Just tell me what’s happened.”

  “Well, among other things, Burle has kidnapped Merline Morris. He knows I’m fond of her and threatens to kill her if I hunt for him.”

  “God Almighty! What …?”

  Sloan interrupted him. “Secondly, I have an ultimatum from the trail drivers. They’re coming to town early in the morning, and if I’m not gone, they’re going to kill me and shoot up the town.”

  Dryden sat down abruptly. For a moment his face was extremely worried. Then he laughed nervously. “No problem there, Marshal. All you’ve got to do is leave. That way nobody will get hurt.”

  Sloan studied him, trying to remember all the things Dryden had said to him while he was trying to persuade him to take on the marshal’s job. He said deliberately, “Just one thing wrong with that. I’m not going to leave.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I can and I do.” Sloan stared at him inflexibly.

  “Man, you’re crazy. Do you know what a hundred of those wild Texas trail hands can do to a town?”

  “I can imagine,” Sloan said dryly. “Only they’re not going to do it.”

  “You can’t stop them. Nobody can stop them.”

  “We’re going to try.”

  “We? Oh, no. Nothing doing.”

  Sloan played his ace. “I said you h
ad your tail in a crack, Mister Dryden, and I meant just that. I won’t leave. One man can’t stop a hundred Texas trail drivers. You don’t want your town shot up. What conclusion does that lead you to?”

  Dryden’s face lost color until it was almost gray. “No!”

  “Yes, Mister Dryden. This is your town. Some of you are going to have to help.”

  “We won’t do it! We’re not lawmen. We’re not equipped … most of us haven’t even got guns. No!”

  Sloan said, “Yes. Whether you like it or not, there comes a time when law is the business of every citizen. That time is now.”

  Dryden was completely unnerved. “They’ll cut us to ribbons.”

  “Maybe. That’s a chance you’re going to have to take.”

  Dryden stared emptily at nothing. “The others …”

  “Get dressed and we’ll go see them now.”

  Dryden stared at him. His eyes mirrored stark fear. Sloan returned his gaze coldly. He was thinking of Sid, who was dead because of simple loyalty to Sloan. Sid hadn’t cared whether this town had law or not. But he’d been a friend of Sloan’s. Now this bunch—it was their town, their vital concern whether violence ruled it or whether it did not. Their own lives and those of their families were in jeopardy every time one of them walked the streets. Sid had gone into the fight without a protest. The protestations of Dryden and the others were therefore not likely to stir much sympathy in Sloan.

  Dryden stumbled out of the room. He stopped just outside the door and looked back. Sloan’s eyes remained inflexible, so he turned and clumped heavily up the stairs.

  Sloan heard voices up there, those of Dryden and his wife, arguing. He wondered idly whether Dryden were frightened enough to run. He glanced around at the ornate, luxurious room. He thought of the bank, busy and very valuable. No. He doubted if Dryden were frightened enough to leave all that.

  Time dragged. There was not much left before the deadline at dawn. And so much had to be done. The townspeople had to be aligned with him—some of them, at least. He had to formulate a plan, for without one he and those who helped him were doomed. Those trail hands were dangerous enough any time. But when they thought they had been wronged … He fidgeted in the chair, finally got up and began to pace the floor. The droning voices continued upstairs. If every townsman they tried to recruit took as much time as Dryden was taking, the cowmen would have the town before they even got organized.

  He walked into the hall and yelled, “Come on! Come on! I haven’t got all night!”

  Dryden came clumping down the stairs, fully dressed, carrying an elaborately engraved and embossed double-barreled shotgun and a box of shells, a bird-shooting gun, probably made in Germany or Austria, probably costing a hundred dollars or more. But Sloan couldn’t think of a better weapon for what they had to do. There is something about a shotgun that puts fear into any man. A single bullet can miss and most often does. Several ounces of lead can’t miss.

  He led the way to the door, followed by a Dryden who seemed to have aged ten years.

  XVI

  Outside, Sloan stopped. He said, “Gather the ones you want to help and bring them to the marshal’s office. I’ll wait there.”

  He watched Dryden scurry away, then turned and limped painfully toward Texas Street. Going with Dryden might have helped, he realized, but he also knew he wasn’t going to do that much walking. Not with this injured leg. It would sap his strength, and come morning he was going to need all the strength he had. He wondered cynically how many Dryden would bring. He hoped for a dozen at least. Twenty would be better. But he’d probably be lucky if he got five or six.

  He walked slowly along the street, turned the corner past the bank, and entered the marshal’s office. Wearily he lit the lamp. He was hungry and tired and scared. He hurt all the way to his shoulders from the wound, and wondered if it was becoming infected. He didn’t want to go out and meet that bunch in the morning. All he wanted to do was to find Merline. What would Burle do if he was successful tomorrow? There would only be one thing he could do. Run. If he was pressed, he’d probably take Merline with him as a hostage. If he thought he had plenty of time, he’d probably turn her loose.

  Sloan sank down on the couch and closed his eyes. He thought of Burle, and hatred for the man surged through his veins like a flood. There was a Burle in every town, a power-mad, tin-god type that thrived on vice and crime and had his fingers in everything that went on. If there was law, he tried to keep it bribed so that he could operate without interference. It took the people to defeat a Burle, but they had to want to defeat him before they had a chance. As long as they were willing to pocket profits and close their eyes, the Burles would remain and grow more powerful with every passing day.

  Sloan must have dozed. He dreamed that he heard Merline screaming and woke up soaked with sweat. To hell with the town, he thought. I’ve got to find her.

  He shook his head, got up, and splashed water into his face. He was right back where he’d started—not knowing where to look, afraid to try for fear Burle would carry out his threat.

  He walked to the door and stared up and down the street. It was dark and quiet. Most of the saloons had closed. Damn! There were a couple of dozen saloons in town, two or three hundred houses, several hotels besides the one across the street. There were thirty or forty shacks on the crib street. Burle might be keeping Merline in any one of the saloons, houses, hotels, or shacks. Or he might not even be in town. He might be out on the plain. He might be anywhere.

  A group of men rounded the corner by the bank and marched along the street toward him. He stepped aside, and they marched inside. He grinned to himself at the expressions on their faces. Anger. Outrage. Whether at being wakened in the middle of the night or because they had been asked to help, he didn’t know. There were more of them than he had expected. Forty or fifty, at least. He went inside and closed the door.

  A big, hulking, red-faced man spoke, “Dryden says you’ve threatened us!”

  “Threatened you? Dryden made a small mistake. It’s the drovers that threatened you, not me.”

  “Same thing, ain’t it?”

  “Not exactly. I’m not going to tear up your town. I’m going to help you stop it.”

  “That’s easy done. All you got to do is leave. And by God we mean to see to it … that you do leave.”

  Sloan’s face hardened. “Come on then, blacksmith. You start it off.”

  Dryden interrupted. “Now wait a minute, Ledbetter. Threats and bickering will get us nowhere.”

  Sloan said adamantly, “Talk will get us nowhere, either. There’s nothing to talk about. I’m going to stay. I’m going out at dawn and stop that bunch. With help or without it. Only I’ll tell you something. If I meet those trail hands out on the road, there are going to be some dead ones before they get past me, and Maverick Towner is going to be one of them. Think now, gentlemen. Think about what they’re going to do to this town getting even for Towner. And for two or three others besides.”

  “You can’t do that! There’s women and children here!”

  “So there are. And it’s time you started thinking about them.”

  “We hired you to …”

  “To do what I’m doing. If I can’t cut it alone, then it’s up to you to help.”

  He stared harshly around from face to face. They were cowed and uncertain and afraid, but no longer were they angry or hostile. Now they needed encouragement, assurance that what Sloan wanted them to do was possible.

  He said, “With a dozen shotguns I can stop that bunch. I can straighten them out once and for all, but they’ve got to know that the town is back of me. If they don’t accept that, we’ll have this same battle to fight again and again. Until in the end we lose.”

  “There’re too many …”

  “I doubt that. If every one of you brought a shotgun and came along, we’d have it in the bag.�
��

  Back at the rear of the room a man said, “Not me. I ain’t paid three hundred a month to fight. That’s your job. I’m goin’ home an’ get some sleep.”

  He was echoed by a couple of dozen others, who immediately began to inch their way toward the door.

  Vast disgust flooded Sloan. He wouldn’t beg them for help. He was finished. He wouldn’t even plead. With a cold face and stony eyes, he watched them file from the room and into the street. Not one of those leaving would meet his eyes. They kept their heads averted and their eyes downcast.

  Sloan made one more pitch. “There won’t be much left of the business houses on Texas Street by the time the sun comes up.”

  That halted half a dozen of them. The others disappeared down the dark street, but the six remained. Sloan looked at them without approval. “You’re in, then?”

  They nodded almost sullenly. Dryden said, “Have you got any plan? Or do we just go out and stand in the road?”

  “I’ll have a plan. Go on home, but be back here by three o’clock at the very latest. If you’re tempted to change your minds or oversleep, just think what a hundred trail hands can do to a store or,” he stared at Dryden, “a bank.”

  The six edged toward the door. Dryden left his ornate shotgun leaning against the wall and put the box of shells on the floor beside it.

  Sloan looked at a man named Ericson, who owned the hardware store. “I want two kegs of black powder and a hundred feet of fuse. Get them over here before you go home and give Mister Dryden the bill.”

  “What …?”

  “Never mind. Just get it here”

  He waited until the six had gone. Then he went out and walked down an almost deserted Texas Street toward the livery barn.

  He wakened the hostler rudely by kicking on the tack room door. He said, “I want a buckboard and team.”

  “Hell of a …”

  “Shut up and get it.”

  Surly, the man shuffled back into the stable. He led horses, one by one, to a buckboard and harnessed them. He hitched them up and led them out to Sloan. Sloan got up on the seat, picked up the reins, and drove outside. He drove to the marshal’s office and stopped.