The Lawmen

by Broomall, Robert

  Wes feigned innocence. “I said I want a demonstration of friendship. I’ve helped you out before—all of you. Now it’s your turn to help me. I’ll do anything to save my brother— anything. When this is over, I’ll remember those that helped me. I’ll also remember those that didn’t. Do I make myself clear?”

  The three men nodded.

  “Good. I’m going back to the hotel then, and get a bite to eat.” He paused. “Think about what I said.”

  As Wes opened the outside door, Price said, “You know that Scarface Julie has been seen with Chandler?”

  Wes smiled. “Turning on an old lover, are we, Mayor?”

  Price squirmed. He had frequently enjoyed Julie’s favors in the days before her fall from grace. “I just thought you should know,” he said, “as your friend.”

  Wes’s smile widened. “I already know.”

  “You’re not bothered?”

  “No. I think Scarface Julie has learned her lesson. Besides, how much help can a whore be to Chandler? Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Wes left. The three men heard his expensive boots receding on the wooden stairs. They looked at each other. Judge Saxon poured himself more whiskey. “Are we going to help him?”

  “What choice do we have?” Price asked. “You heard him. He’ll destroy us if we don’t.”

  Cruickshank agreed. “When you deal with the Devil, you have to keep up your end.”

  “What will we do?” Saxon asked.

  Price thought. “Let’s send for Sam Grady.”

  “Sam Grady? He’s a mean one,” said Saxon, who’d had Grady in his court before.

  “All the more reason to send for him,” Price said.

  * * *

  Not far away, in the Topaz Trophy office, one-armed Pete McCarty was cleaning up the mess left by Lee Hopkins and his men. With difficulty, Pete had righted his tipped-over press, and now he was picking up the type scattered across the floor, sorting it out, and putting it back in the case. The clacking of metal sounded louder than usual due to the almost total absence of noise from the street.

  Pete glanced at his watch: four-ten. How many hours left? A bit more than seventeen. Pete’s heart was heavy. He felt like . . . like he didn’t know what—a coward, a traitor. He stared at the watch for a long moment, then went back to work.

  * * *

  In the marshal’s office, Clay had pocketed his money. He checked the loads in the sawed-off shotgun, then got his hat. “Where you going?” Essex asked.

  “To make my rounds.”

  “Ain’t that dangerous?”

  Clay shrugged. “I need to show the flag, so to speak. Let them know I ain’t scared.”

  “You mean ‘we’ ain’t scared, don’t you?”

  “If you insist. I’ll buy us some ammunition while I’m gone. When this is over, I’m going to bill the city for—”

  There was a crash as the front window was broken and something hit the floor.

  Instinctively both men dove for cover. Clay grabbed the shotgun; Essex levered a shell into the chamber of the Henry repeater.

  Nothing more happened. Everything was quiet. The two lawmen moved crablike toward the window and peeked out. There was no one there—only Hopkins’s men across the street, watching and grinning.

  Clay looked behind him. The object that had broken the window was a rock; a piece of paper was wrapped around it and tied with string. Clay picked up the rock, took off the string, and unwrapped the paper.

  His heart sank as he recognized his own handwriting. It was the note he had written to the U.S. Marshal in Tucson. Hopkins’s men must have stopped the coach outside town, looking for just such a call for help from Clay. The stage driver, presumably a man who wanted to keep living, would have been quick to surrender it.

  Essex peered over Clay’s shoulder. “What’s it say?”

  Clay realized that the black man couldn’t read. “It says there isn’t going to be any help from Tucson. It says we’re on our own.”

  There was no expression on Essex’s bearded face. Maybe he’d never believed help was coming, anyway.

  Clay wiped his sweaty brow on his sleeve and looked out the window once more. To the west the towering thunder- heads were growing darker. The once-bright sunlight had grown hazy, unsettled. Clay stared at the clouds, and suddenly he had an idea.

  15

  There were about two hours of daylight remaining as Clay made the rounds of Topaz. In the west the sky was a swollen, purplish-black. The rumble of thunder sounded like distant artillery. Clay could have been back at Chancellorsville, or the Wilderness, or any of a dozen other killing grounds. He half expected to look around and see his old company lined up behind him. Here and there the sun broke through the clouds, its slanting rays turning the town’s whitewashed adobe buildings gold.

  The dusty streets were quiet. People avoided Clay, as they had all day. Sweat ran down his neck and back in the now muggy heat, turning his shirt into a wet rag. His eyes were moving, watching, afraid.

  He stopped at stores and saloons, trying to look routine, so that it would not be obvious when he went to the Ocean View—he didn’t want to get Julie in any more trouble with the Hopkins gang. At Goldman’s Hardware he purchased ammunition for his and Essex’s weapons. The store’s frightened owner put the assorted shells and boxes of paper cartridges into a bag for him.

  The Ocean View Saloon was off by itself at the end of Apache Street, in the Triangle, not far from where Essex lived. The sign over the entrance sported a crude painting of a beach at sunrise. Inside, the saloon was dark and shabby, a miners’ hangout by its clientele and the artifacts on the walls. This wasn’t a prime place for a working girl like Julie. Soldiers’ bars were the worst, but this was just a step up. A whore working here might get fifteen dollars a throw, if she was lucky—and after making all her payoffs, she might keep seven. Clay felt sorry for Julie, and he felt anger at the Hopkins brothers for what they had done to her, and that anger made him all the more determined to defy them.

  The bartender was a big fellow with tobacco stains in his beard and down the front of his red flannel shirt. “What can I do for you, Marshal?” he asked Clay in a none-too-friendly tone.

  “Just checking,” Clay told him. “Everything all right in here?”

  The barkeep looked up and down the bar. “’Pears all right to me.”

  “Good,” Clay said. “Let me have a bottle of rye—to take with me.”

  The barkeep produced the bottle. Clay paid for it, then wandered into the back room, hoping that he was not too obvious about what he was doing, hoping that Julie would be there.

  The small back room contained card tables and a pool table. It was darker and smokier here than out front, and at first Clay’s heart sank because he didn’t see Julie in the crowd of noisy miners and the whores who circulated among them. Then he made her out, in the blue dress and the hat with the forlorn feather. She noticed him at the same moment, and he saw her start.

  Clay gave the room the once-over. As his gaze swept from left to right, he caught Julie’s eyes and motioned her to meet him outside. She blinked slowly. Clay nodded, as if satisfied by what he’d seen, then went back out through the front door.

  He waited for her behind an abandoned shed, out of sight of the customers using the saloon’s privy. The air reeked with the stench of urine and rotting garbage. The ground was littered with tin cans and bottles.

  There were footsteps and Julie appeared, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. She saw the whiskey in his hand. “That bottle for us?”

  “No,” Clay said, “it’s for Vance Hopkins.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You two made up?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So what do you want me to do this time—shoot Wes in the back for you?”

  “No, I want you to rent three horses—good ones, with a lot of bottom. Have them saddled and ready, with two days’ grain, in the alley behind the A-l restaurant this evenin
g, just before this storm hits. Can you do that?”

  “What are you up to?”

  “It’s best you don’t know. Will you do it?”

  She sounded resigned. “Do I have a choice?”

  Clay reached in his pocket and handed her twenty-seven dollars. “This is all the money I have left. The bill will probably be more.” He cleared his throat. “Is there any chance I could maybe. . .”

  “Borrow the rest from me?” she asked. He nodded, and she rolled her eyes. “On top of everything else, I have to finance you? I don’t see why they just didn’t make me the marshal. I’m doing all the work.”

  “Will you lend me the money or not?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll lend it to you. Not that I’ll ever get it back.”

  Clay looked embarrassed, knowing that what she said was true. “I don’t mean to throw so much of this on you. It’s just that I. . . I . . .”

  Suddenly she stood on tiptoe and kissed him, shutting her eyes and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her lips were soft and sweet; her tongue probed his mouth. Then she stepped back. “I don’t mind.”

  Clay didn’t know how to react. “Don’t forget the horses,” he stammered after a second.

  “They’ll be there,” she told him, grinning.

  She waved and started back to the saloon. Clay continued on his rounds. It was hard to keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing. He couldn’t stop thinking about Julie, remembering the taste of her kiss. This part of the town had fallen eerily silent, but he paid the silence little attention; he supposed it was due to the approaching storm.

  He reached the end of a block of adobe houses and stepped into the street. Suddenly some sixth sense—the same sense that had saved him so many times during the war—made him pull back. As he did, the air was torn by a shotgun blast from alongside the adobe wall. Moving backward, Clay felt the blast’s heat; he heard the deadly pellets spray past the spot where his head had been a heartbeat before.

  Shaken, he dropped his bag of shells and the bottle and prepared to face his unknown assailant. As he did, he heard movement behind him. He turned to see a man appear at the end of the block with a rifle. The man fired. Clay fired his own shotgun at the same time, then sprinted across the narrow street toward a cluster of Mexican jacales. Rifle bullets followed him; there must have been a half-dozen men shooting at him.

  He went to the ground between two of the ramshackle jacales. More shots sounded; bullets splintered wood. Clay drew his pistol and fired, as much to give himself time as anything else. He got up again and ran down the narrow passageway between the jacales. An old, solid-wheeled carreta blocked his way. He scrambled over its tongue and took cover behind it, firing at the first man who appeared at the head of the alley. The man dodged backward.

  Footsteps to his rear told him he was surrounded, trapped. He was going to die in a stinking alley full of dog shit. He was going to die alone, too—not a single person in town was going to help him. A bullet from behind him thunked into the carreta, just missing his head. He snapped off another pistol shot in that direction. He got up again and, with the strength of desperation, pulled down some of the mesquite logs forming the wall of a jacal, ripping them free of their hemp bindings while bullets spattered around him, and threw himself inside the building. He knew he’d bought himself only a minute’s respite.

  The jacal was empty. A shadow appeared at the open doorway. Clay whirled, firing the remaining barrel of his shotgun. The figure vanished in powder smoke, seemingly snatched away. All around the ill-fitting walls of the jacal he saw movement. Shots were fired through the cracks between the logs; another shotgun blasted. Clay jerked his head away as splinters exploded past his eyes.

  Then somebody cried, “Let’s go,” and the shadowy figures began running away. Clay heard rifle shots from nearby.

  Clay scrambled out of the jacal to find Essex standing in the narrow alley, firing the Henry repeater at the retreating assassins. The men were too far away for Clay’s pistol, but they made a perfect target for the rifle.

  Essex fired and missed. He fired again and missed again. Then the repeater jammed, and Essex fiddled uncertainly with the lever. Clay grabbed the rifle from his hands, but by then the gunmen were gone, lost in the warren of buildings that made up the Triangle.

  Clay swore. “No sense going after them. They’d just ambush us.” He rounded on Essex. “How the hell did you miss a shot like that? You told me you knew how to shoot.”

  “And you was stupid enough to believe it,” Essex retorted. “What do you think—ol’ Massa lined us niggers up and taught us how to use his rifles, case we ever wanted to revolt?”

  “Then why’d you say it?”

  “If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have given me the job.”

  “Well, you ain’t got the job anymore. You’re fired.”

  “You can’t fire me,” Essex said.

  “I just did.”

  “I won’t leave.”

  “What good are you going to be if you can’t shoot?”

  “I just saved your dumb ass, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” Clay admitted, “I guess you did. How’d you get here so quick, anyway?”

  “I expected something like this to happen. I didn’t trust no promises Wes Hopkins made.”

  A small crowd had gathered. Clay saw Julie among them. She was coming forward, worried. He frowned and shook his head slightly as a sign that she should stop. He didn’t want people making the connection between her and him any more than necessary. She watched another second, then withdrew.

  Clay cursed himself for being stupid. That was why this part of town had been so quiet. It was why the jacal had been empty. The people here had known—or sensed—that the ambush was coming. He glared at the crowd, and it began to breakup.

  Clay and Essex walked around to the front of the jacal. The man that Clay had hit with the shotgun lay on his back, his chest a welter of blood and bone and torn clothing. Clay tried not to look at the gaping wound, concentrating instead on the blood-splattered face.

  “Know him?” he asked Essex.

  Essex nodded. “Name’s Sam Grady. He’s a shoulder hitter.”

  “One of Hopkins’s men?”

  “Runs with them sometimes. Mostly he’s an independent operator.”

  “Pretty smart of Wes. He hires this fellow to kill us, then figures he can deny any involvement.”

  With his knife, Clay cleared the jam in the Henry repeater and tossed the weapon back to Essex, then he retrieved his scattered ammunition purchases. Miraculously, the bottle of rye had not broken when it fell.

  “You taken up drinking as a hobby?” Essex asked as Clay picked it up.

  “No,” Clay said, “it’s a present for someone.” Then he added, “We better get back. The jail’s wide open with both of us gone.”

  Clay and Essex left the Triangle and walked down Tucson Street. It was cloudy now, with gusts of wind. The temperature was falling. They passed the hotel where Hopkins’s men were congregated, watching the approaching storm. Wes and Lee were with them. Wes was smoking a cheroot; he smiled as Clay and Essex came up. Lee just stared.

  Wes said, “Heard shooting at the end of the Triangle, Marshal. You have some trouble?”

  “You know damn well I did,” Clay replied. “You broke your word to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play stupid, Wes, it doesn’t become you. Don’t deny that you know Sam Grady. Don’t deny you hired him to kill me. It was only a miracle he didn’t succeed.”

  Wes gestured with the cheroot. “Sure, I know Grady, but I swear to you, I didn’t hire him to kill you. Nor did anyone who works for me.”

  He seemed to be telling the truth. Clay said, “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  Wes was all innocence. “It must have been a group of concerned citizens.”

  Lee Hopkins and some of Wes’s men laughed. Wes went on, “Face it, Chandler—you’re licked. Quit being stubborn and le
t Vance go.”

  “Not a chance, Wes.”

  Wes shrugged. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, at nine twenty-seven.”

  Clay and Essex kept walking. Essex said, “Looks like we got the whole town against us now.”

  “You’re welcome to back out, if you want,” Clay told him.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Essex said.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Well, it ain’t gonna happen. We’re in this together— partner.”

  16

  It was dusk when Clay and Essex returned to the marshal’s office. The wind had picked up, blowing paper and empty cans along the street. To the west, the storm clouds towered high above the town, like some malevolent, amorphous beast.

  Inside, Clay laid the freshly purchased ammunition on his desk. Then he went to the cells, where he handed the bottle of rye to Vance. “What’s this?” the young outlaw asked.

  “A present,” Clay told him. Essex looked on, puzzled.

  Vance was suspicious. “It ain’t poisoned or nothin’, is it?”

  “It better not be. It cost me two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

  Vance uncorked the bottle and drank—first a sip, then a long pull. “Ah, that’s good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He drank again and sighed with relief, like a terminally ill man who at the last moment receives life-saving medicine. He held the bottle toward Clay. “Care for a snort, Marshal?”

  “No, thanks,” Clay replied. “I ain’t much of a drinker.”

  Vance didn’t offer the bottle to Essex.

  Clay moved to the broken front window to view the approaching storm. Sheet lightning flickered across the turbid black sky. Thunder rumbled more loudly. People were taking cover, but Wes Hopkins’s men held their ground, watching the jail.

  In his cell Vance was happily slugging down the rye. “How ’bout a game of cards?” he called to Clay.

  “Sorry. I don’t gamble much, either.”

  “Damn,” said Vance. “Regular bluenose, ain’t you?” He took another drink and began singing to himself. “Father, dear Father, come home with me now . . .” He laughed and tilted the bottle again.