by John Benteen
Boyd looked around, found his hat, knocked the dust off it. “You ought to know,” he said bitterly, as he did so. “Ain’t you one of Jordan’s trained dogs, too, now?”
“What I am is the marshal of Gunsight. I still want to know what happened.”
“Your boss, the mayor, sent these two plug-uglies to jump me and hand me a beating. It didn’t work out quite like everybody planned.” Boyd spat into the dust. Then, coolly, he turned away from Rio, walked into the Gaults’ yard, found his own Colt where they had thrown it. He picked it up, blew dust off it, spun the cylinder, while Rio watched tensely. Then, grinning sardonically, Boyd holstered it. He came back out into the street. “I’m heeled now,” he said, “if you want to finish Jordan’s little chore and get yourself in his good graces.”
“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to,” Rio whispered. “But if they jumped you, you had a right to defend yourself.”
Boyd’s eyes widened. They flickered to the badge on Rio’s shirt. “You talk like a lawman instead of a hired gunny.”
“Goddammit,” Rio snapped, “I told you I was a lawman.” Then he shook his head. “But don’t push me too far, Kilpatrick. All I need is the excuse. All I need is for you to break the law.”
“Which is what Jordan says it is.”
“Which is what the book of city ordinances I found in the marshal’s office says it is.”
“And what happens if Jordan breaks those?” Boyd was frowning, now. Something about that badge had changed Rio, subtly, indefinably, but definitely. Boyd could sense it in his bearing, his voice.
But Rio’s answer disappointed him. “You leave Jordan to me and worry about yourself.”
“For now, I will. While you think over the answer to that question.” Boyd went to the roan, groaned involuntarily as he mounted it. “Meanwhile, if Jordan wants to know what happened to his hardcases, you tell him they came down with Texas fever. And you tell him that he better look out he don’t git a dose of it himself.” Then he touched the roan with spurs. He could feel Rio’s eyes following him as the animal moved off down the street, only to be halted again before the office of Doctor Watley.
Chapter Seven
Watley’s big hands were gentle on Boyd Kilpatrick’s naked, muscular torso. “Near as I can tell, there’s nothing broken. You’ll be sore for a while. But I expect you’ve been banged up worse than this. Of course, a good, hot bath — ”
“I ain’t got time for that.” Boyd slid off the examining table, reached for his shirt. “Listen,” he said buttoning it, “I’ve talked to Stewart. That’s where I was coming from when those two baboons jumped me. The deal’s on, if you’re prepared to do your part.”
“Bring Ike Gault in here, dry him out?”
“That’s the size of it.” Boyd strapped on his gun. “You furnish the medical knowledge, I’ll furnish the protection. Stewart will help you. She don’t know it yet, but I expect to move her in here, too. I can’t leave her alone in that house. Once we put Ike Gault in here, and Tully Jordan finds he can’t get him out again, that’ll be a declaration of war. He’ll strike back at her as quick as at us.”
“I said I’d do it, and I will. If it comes to war, I’m ready for that risk. I told you Ike and I are old friends. There was a time when I was down and out myself, and he pulled me out of the mud. I owe him anything I can do for him. When will you bring him in?”
“You got an errand boy of any sort around here? One that can ride a horse and keep his mouth shut for ten dollars in gold?”
“I’ll get one.”
“All right. While you do that, I want a pencil and a piece of paper. I’m going to write a note for him to deliver to my camp cook out at my herd. When my men get in here, we’re in business.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Ike.”
“He’s out somewhere lappin’ up Jordan’s free booze. But he’s like Little Bo Peep’s sheep. Sooner or later, he’ll come home. When he does, I’ll be at the Gault house waitin’ for him. By then, my men will be here and we’ll move him down here under guard. How long will this dryin’-out process take?”
Watley shook his head. “The condition Ike’s in, at least a week. He’ll probably have the D.T.’s somewhere along the line. You’ll have to arrange for men to be on guard here around the clock. Ain’t that going to spread you thin? You know, you’re vulnerable in two places — here, with Gault, and out at your herd. You get Jordan stirred up enough, he’ll hit you both places at once. You got enough men?”
“I don’t know. How many’s he got?”
“He can raise forty, fifty gunmen easy.”
“Well, I got twenty Texans. That ought to make the odds just about even.”
Watley looked at him for a moment, then laughed shortly. “Yes, by God,” he said, “it ought to. All right, I’ll get you your pencil and paper and go look for somebody to carry your message.” He went to an instrument cabinet, opened it, and fished out a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, which he thrust into his waistband. “And when you get ready to go back to Stewart’s, I’ll amble along with you. Next time, Jordan might send four instead of two, and even a Texas trail boss ain’t immortal.”
~*~
The note was written, the boy dispatched with it. “The main thing,” Boyd said, as they walked warily down the street toward Stewart’s house, the roan being led, “is for Jordan not to get wind of what we’re up to. Otherwise, he’ll never let Gault come home. Then I’ll have to go right into his nest of snakes and fish Ike out, and that’ll mean a lot of gunplay. I’m not ready for that yet.”
“Jordan’s no fool,” said Watley. “He knows Ike’s his only possible competition. And he knows you and Stewart have got together. He may not let Ike loose anyhow.”
“We’ll see,” Boyd answered. “If Ike ain’t home by a reasonable hour, I’ll go lookin’ for him. But I can’t do it anyhow until my men come in.”
“What about your herd? Aren’t you afraid Jordan will strike at it?”
“Not except as a last resort. Don’t forget, he wants that beef himself, and he wants it in prime shape. He’ll leave it alone for a while. Until he’s tried everything else.”
“By damn,” Watley said, “I’m glad it was you hit town with the first herd, Kilpatrick. Somebody who could jerk a knot in Tully Jordan right off.”
Boyd laughed shortly. “Gunsight’s lucky it wasn’t one-legged old Shanghai Pierce. He’d have burned the goddamned town down by now.”
Then they had reached Stewart’s house. “All right,” Watley said. “I’ll leave you now. Be careful.”
“You, too,” Boyd said. “You’re a prime cog in this machine, too, Watley. Thanks for everything.”
They parted. Boyd mounted the porch after hitching the horse, rang the bell. Stewart came to the door, and her eyes widened when she saw him. “Boyd! Are you all right? I was writing letters. Then, when I got up, I saw there had been some kind of fight outside — ”
He entered, closed the door behind him.
“It was some kind of fight, all right. I was smack dab in the middle of it. You still got that bottle around here? I could use a drink.”
“Come into the kitchen.”
He followed her there; she poured two drinks, gave him one. While he sipped the whiskey, he told her what had happened.
“I was so wrapped up in the letters ... I wish I’d known. There’s a rifle here and I know how to use it.” Her eyes blazed. “I’d have killed them both!”
“Thanks for the sentiment, but it worked out okay. The letters — you got ’em written?”
“Yes, signed Dad’s name to them. One to the President of the Kansas Pacific, another to a banker in Kansas City, a third to a meat packer he’s dealt with for a long time ... I’ll write more later, but these were the most important. I’ve already mailed them.”
“Good,” Boyd said. “Then the ball’s rolling. All we’ve got to do now is wait until your dad comes home and my men come in.” He leaned back in his chair. “I
t’s been a long, rough day.”
Stewart came around the table. Her eyes were grave, her face solicitous. “Did they hurt you very badly?”
“Nothing a hot bath won’t cure, the doctor said.”
“Then I’ll start heating the water now. There’s a tub in my bedroom.”
“Stewart, I don’t have time — ”
“You’ll take time.” Her voice was stern. “You may have more fighting ahead of you. If you’re all stiff and sore ...”
“All the same ...”
“Don’t argue with me, Boyd Kilpatrick.”
He grinned. “No, ma’am,” he said.
“Remember that. Never argue with me. Now, let’s have another drink while the water heats.”
~*~
It nearly scalded the hide off him, but it took care of the soreness. He was going to have some pretty spectacular bruises, but after the bath, he’d be able to move with his usual swiftness and strength. Climbing out of the tub, drying his naked body with the clean, soft towel Stewart had given him, Boyd felt refreshed and renewed.
He looked around the bedroom, in an alcove of which the tub sat. This was a surrounding totally new to him: the frilly curtains on the window, the soft rug on the floor, the woman’s things on the dressing table ... The whole place smelled subtly, faintly, of her perfume; and that stirred him. He had never met a girl like Stewart before, one so soft and feminine, yet so tough and capable. If everything worked out, he thought, if he could pull off this trick with Ike Gault, sell the herd ... Well, when he started back to Texas, it was not his intention to travel alone.
He knotted the towel around his waist, picked up the drink he had brought in here with him, sipped from it. Of course, there was a long way to go, yet. All the same ... Then he whirled.
The knock at the door had been faint. “Boyd?” So was Stewart’s voice.
“Yes,” he said.
“Those bruises ought to be rubbed with alcohol.”
“Stewart, I’m not — ”
“Dressed? I’d look pretty silly trying to rub you down if you were.” Before he could say anything else, the door opened. She was there, with the bottle in her hand. Standing in the doorway, she let her eyes range over his nearly naked figure, and she frowned at the purplish discoloration on his flank. Then, boldly, she entered.
“Don’t look so embarrassed,” she said dryly. “After growing up in all these rail towns, do you think you’re the first man I’ve had to give first aid to? Lie down on the bed.”
Boyd grinned slightly. “Stewart.”
Her eyes met his; she smiled back, an enigmatic curve of red lips. “I told you not to argue with me.”
“That’s right.” Boyd went to the bed, lay face down on its frilly coverlet. Stewart sat beside him. A moment more and her hand was stroking his flank, kneading the tender muscles there, massaging in the alcohol.
“I still wish I’d had the chance to line down on those bastards with a rifle,” she said fiercely. “They really kicked you.”
“Don’t worry.” Boyd closed his eyes; her hand felt good. “It’ll be a long time before they kick anybody else.”
“You should have killed them. Roll over.”
“Are you sure — ”
Her voice was firm. “I said roll over.”
Boyd did so. Then he was looking into her eyes. Her gaze met his; her cheeks were flushed, pink; he saw the heaving of her breasts under the tight encasement of the dress.
For a long moment, then, they looked at one another.
Then Boyd grinned. “I think,” he whispered, “that’s enough first aid. The hell with the first aid. Come here.” And he reached up, pulled her down to him.
She came with a kind of gasp. Then her mouth was on his, her lips parted. Her breasts were flattened on his naked chest. Her nails dug into the bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders.
The kiss lasted a long time. When it ended, Stewart said the single word: his name. Then she was off the bed, face flaming. Boyd looked at her through narrowed eyes as her hand went to the buttons of her dress.
“Boyd,” she said again. “I ... can’t help it. Only ... it’s the first time, you understand? You’ll have to be ... easy with me.”
“Stewart, maybe — ”
“No.” Her voice was husky, intense. “I want to. Oh, God, yes, I want to.”
She pulled the dress over her head. “I knew I wanted to when I came in here. I was ... ready.” And he saw it was true; she had taken off everything else beneath that single garment. Now she stood there totally and gloriously naked, curiously unashamed, breasts like ripened fruit, belly gently curving, hips enticing. She poised for an instant, letting him see her. Then she came to the bed, and her hand reached out for the towel.
“Oh, Boyd,” she said, and that was the end of the talking as he pulled her to him again.
~*~
Oh, m’ sweetheart’s a mule in th’ mines . . .
I drive her without any lines —
On the bumper I sit and terbakker I spit
All over my sweetheart’s behind!
With much still left unsaid between them — and much already said — they were dressed and waiting when the drunken wreck of what had once been Isaac Gault scrabbled its way through the front door, singing.
He slammed it behind him so hard the glass rattled and stood there swaying like a tree in a high wind, blinking at his daughter and the tall, hard faced man beside her. Then, batting his eyes rapidly, he pointed a trembling finger. The slack mouth curled in a foolish grin. “Hey. Know you. Kilpatrick. You trail boss.”
“Right,” Boyd said.
Suddenly the grin vanished, the bloated face screwed itself up in a frown. “Whut you doin’ here ’lone with my daughter? Tully been tellin’ me ’bout you ... Sniffin’ after her.” There was even a trace of long-submerged authority in his voice. “You git out. Hear? Git out!”
“After a little while,” Boyd said.
“No. Right now!” Gault took an unsteady step forward, raising a clenched fist.
Stewart moved quickly between Boyd and her father. “He’s not leaving yet, Dad.” She took his arm. “Come into the kitchen. We want to talk to you.”
He started to protest, then shrugged. “Okay. Don’t matter. Maybe you gimme little drink, huh? Please, sugar baby, give your old daddy a little drink? I know there’s some ’round here somewhere.”
“Dad — ” But Boyd’s voice cut hers. “Sure, Mr. Gault. You come in the kitchen, we’ll give you a drink.”
“Hey, ’at’s better. You know what, Kil ... Kil ... whutever your name ish. You not bad feller after all. Maybe Tully all wrong ’bout you.”
Boyd helped him into the other room. “What did Tully say about me?”
“Said — ” Gault slumped into a chair. “Said you think you tough, but you not tough as him ... Said when he git through with you, you be damn glad make deal with him for your herd ... Now — ’at li’l drink? It around somewhere?”
“Sure.” Boyd went to the cabinet, found the bottle. Stewart’s eyes widened as he poured an enormous drink. “Boyd!”
“I know what I’m doing. Here you go, Mr. Gault.”
“Good.” Gault drank thirstily. “Now, daughter ... You say somethin’ ’bout want to talk — ?”
“Yes.” Stewart sat down opposite him, put her hand on his arm. “Dad, it can’t go on like this. You’re drinking yourself to death. You’ve got to go back to the hospital, let Dr. Watley do something for you.”
He jerked his arm away. “Go Watley’s? No! Been there! Turrble, awful — turture. Watley don’t gimme no booze. Like bein’ in hell, you know? If Tully hadn’t rescued me — Good ole Tully ... No! You ain’t gittin’ me in that place again. Refuse. Flat out refuse.”
“Dad, for God’s sake — ”
Boyd put his hand on her shoulder. “Never mind, Stewart,” he said quietly. “Your father’s a grown man, knows his own mind. Have another little snort, Mr. Gault.”
&nbs
p; “Sure. Don’ mind ’f I do.” Gault accepted the half-full glass. Again, he drank as if he were totally dehydrated. Draining it, he slammed down the glass and looked at Boyd. “Jiish one ...” he began. Then his face went the color of paper. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead. “Jush — ” he said thickly and suddenly he fell forward, his head thumping on the kitchen table.
“Dad — !” Stewart’s voice was full of alarm.
“He’s just passed out,” Boyd said calmly. “I knew he wouldn’t go by himself, of his own free will. When my riders get here, we’ll take him. Keep an eye on him, Stewart.” Then he went to the front door. Standing to one side, he watched the street through the glass pane. If Jordan got wind of what he was up to before the Two Rail men hit town, he and his men would come after Ike Gault, try to take him away. And, as the doctor had said, Jordan was no fool. He would, sooner or later, put two and two together . . .
Boyd stood there tensely, one hand on his Colt, the other holding the Winchester he had brought in from his saddle scabbard. Well, if that happened, it would be him alone against all Jordan’s men. He would make a fight out of it . . .
Before him, the wide, dusty street lay empty, all respectable people gone home for supper. He could see clear to the railroad tracks and beyond, where, in contrast, the activity was just picking up, the street and sidewalks thronged. There was, he guessed, an hour more of daylight. He cursed softly: Damn it, where were his men? They were overdue. What if Watley’s messenger hadn’t gotten through to them?
Then his body went rigid; he squinted through the glass. Suddenly he raised the Winchester, checked it to make sure its chamber held a round.
Because the six men who had crossed the railroad tracks far down the street, moving on foot in a compact group, headed toward the Gault house, were coming fast and purposefully and all of them were armed.
Jordan had done his addition, and the answer had come up four. Those men were coming after Ike Gault.
Boyd’s lips thinned. They would take him over Boyd Kilpatrick’s dead body. But if the Two Rail riders didn’t show soon, that was the way it was likely to be.