E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “What was the nightmare about, Indians or renegades?”

  Laura shivered. “Just afraid, afraid of something. Dark, dangerous, all bad, but you don’t know what it is.”

  A coyote howled. “That’s maybe what gave you the creeps?”

  She drew some of the blanket over her shoulders and snuggled up cozily. Until that moment, Barlow had been wondering how soon he could get rid of her; but the first light touch made him fear that she would leave way too soon. Knees drawn up, she hugged them with her arms. Her legs gleamed in the moonlight; and then, after unclasping her hands and stretching her feet out before her, she hitched about to get the bunched up skirt back to her ankles. In this, she succeeded: but the shift of weight threw her closer to Barlow.

  Before he could even think of what he wanted to do, he had done it; he had the armful he had craved. After a moment of feeling her yield to his arms, the two were mouth to mouth, and he could not have let go. She would not have let him, even if he had had the will.

  “Oh… I shouldn’t stay here,” she murmured, finally. “There’ll be someone coming to take your place on watch.”

  He drew her closer. “Won’t be for awhile yet. I’ll hear him.”

  “Pete—you’re driving me crazy—you’re killing me—”

  But she pressed nearer, to hasten the fatality. And then, startled, she tried to get away, and might have, except that he could not so suddenly release her.

  “Pete—oh—let go! Someone—”

  The smell of fresh coffee shocked him. The chill that gripped Barlow cracked his embrace. A stick, a bit of brush snapped, and then Sally was so near them that Laura, scrambling to her feet, barely missed lurching against the newcomer.

  “I thought you’d like some coffee,” Sally said, with only a little tremor in her voice. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know you had company already.”

  Barlow’s horse snorted, whinnied. Barlow turned to face the dark shape looming up not far from Sally. It was Kirby Swift. He said, “What’s all this lollygagging? You girls better go back to bed, this fellow’s here to keep watch!”

  Barlow took a step toward the segundo. “You sneaking son!”

  Sally interposed. “Don’t blame Kirby. It’s his job to keep an eye on things.” She set the coffee down. “Don’t forget to bring the pot back, Pete,” she said, and took the segundo’s arm. “I think I should get back to my wagon.”

  Confusion made Barlow stand fast as Sally and the segundo blended into shadow, and he heard him say to her, “With you stirring around, I got to wondering. Half aroused me, you know how it is when you hear something and you’re not quite awake, I wasn’t snooping.”

  “Oh, I know you weren’t, Kirby.”

  Being at once fighting mad, embarrassed, and wholly in the wrong, as far as appearances were concerned, kept Barlow from any action at all. After a long moment, he again became aware of Laura. Timidly, she laid a hand on his arm. “Pete, I’m sorry! Don’t hold this against me. He didn’t hear me stirring around.”

  Unreasoning hatred of this shapely redheaded girl who penitently awaited his outburst grappled with helplessness, and the certainty that he could never explain how impulse and attraction had pulled him off balance against his will. He felt desolate and abandoned as ever he had during those hours of wandering in the delirium of wounds and exhaustion. He remembered that dreadful futile groping, and turned to Laura now as something real and solid.

  “Sit down for a spell,” he said. “We’re both in the wrong.”

  He reached for the coffee pot and emptied it to the ground.

  For some minutes, Laura sat in silence. “I ought to be leaving.” She twisted her hand free. “Don’t keep me here, not after the trouble I’ve made you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “When you are sure you mean that, you’ll come looking for me.”

  She kissed him lightly, and got up to make for camp. After a single step, Barlow stopped short, instead of detaining her.

  While he could have, he did not wish to, and this puzzled him. Laura came close to being the prize package of the entire party. Her parents were solid folks. Barlow liked them both, they had not followed the common reasoning that only the shiftless and the worthless ever enlisted in peace times in the army. And when, after the relief man came to take his place, Barlow headed for his blankets, he still could not figure out why Laura’s promise had been poor consolation.

  Early in the morning, Barlow found time for a word with Epstein, who had just finished lashing the tarpaulin over his pushcart.

  “Morning, Saul! Aim to swallow dust another day?”

  “The more I see this outfit, the more I know it gives yet some more to be fixed. And for business, a man can eat dust.”

  “You’re expecting something to go wrong.”

  “You don’t see buzzards making circles, do you?”

  “Look-ee here, Saul! Did you ever answer a question in your life, even once, instead of asking another question?”

  Epstein grinned. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but that’s a habit you’ve got, and just now, you did it.”

  Barlow cursed in good humored exasperation. “Well, it’s nice having you tag along, whatever your notion is.”

  “Now let me tell you something. That redhead is going to make trouble for you.”

  * * * *

  All day, Sally avoided Barlow without being conspicuous about it; and in a similar easy way, she and Swift exchanged words during halts, or as he rode alongside her wagon when she took a spell from walking.

  People were eyeing Barlow. He could feel their glances. He knew that the story of the previous night’s encounter had spread. Horace Parker, riding up for a few words, stuck strictly to business, yet acted as though he had come to offer advice and had thought better of it.

  Toward mid-afternoon, Swift returned from his usual scouting trip, and said that the next watering place was little more than a puddle. That evening, the rush for advantage was all the worse because of the warning. Barlow, doing his best to control his animals, got his thanks by having Laura’s father, Walt Frazer, cut slantwise across his way. Old man Ainsley, for whom Barlow was driving, let out an indignant screech and snatched the bull whip.

  Ainsley cracked the whip. The thirsty leaders responded. Where the most skillful whacking would not move them from their slow pace during the day’s march, the sodbuster’s lash now got them running. Barlow tore the whip from the owner’s hands. He easily outran the peevish oldster. But he did not, and could hardly have made the leaders swerve in time to avoid the Frazer team.

  There was a tangle of harness, a clash of horns, a grinding and smashing as wagon hubs locked and the vehicles came to a halt.

  Frazer loomed up in the dust. “You young whelp! First my daughter and now my team!” He slashed at Barlow, giving him a whip cut which for all its clumsiness bit and tore, “You’ve had this coming, you no-account son! You—”

  But now Barlow was inside the reach of the whip. He dropped his own. The blow and the reviling were the final touch to set him off. He danced in and knocked the farmer staggering backward. He gave him no chance for defense or recovery. He shook off the awkward blows and bored home with smashing jabs that shocked and cut. In a flash, he had Frazer out on his feet, bleeding, stumbling drunkenly, hands drooping.

  Barlow hewed him again. He went with him, keeping him upright with blows until the man crumpled and lay a sodden bloody heap in the dust; and then Barlow stood over him, gasping, “Get up and fight, you dirty mouthed skunk! I’ve had enough of you!”

  Parker and Swift came up with a dozen other scowling emigrants; sweaty, tired, angry at the whole world, and muttering about Laura. Parker said, “You’ve half killed him! Loomis—Christy—get those bulls untangled. Barlow, get away, we’ll tend to this.”

  And, then Laura came up, wide eyed, to
Barlow. “Don’t worry, Pete,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Dad’s awfully hot tempered, though you’d never suspect it.”

  CHAPTER V

  Kangaroo Court

  They held a trial that night according to the by-laws of the Red Fork Company: and when Barlow saw the faces of those whose vote would convict and sentence him, he knew that a plea of self defense would do no good at all. Too many young men hated him because of Laura; and every family man, particularly if he had an unattached daughter, was against him. There was not a word said about the meeting of Laura and Barlow, the previous night, but the very way in which the men assembled about the fire avoided all reference to Laura or any other woman made it clear that the story of kisses stolen by moonlight had spread to every family.

  Sally had confided in someone…

  Laura had talked…

  Swift had made the most of it…

  And as Barlow heard Parker, who presided as a matter of course, read the paragraph on “brawlings and affrays,” he was betting that Kirby Swift had got things going; just as Swift, coming up from behind, had covered him with a gun and had disarmed him.

  Laura’s father was, after all, a decent and right minded man; and when Barlow saw the terribly battered face, he was ashamed, and so much so that he could not resent his having appeared without a bandage. The light made his closed eyes and slashed features look far worse than they actually were. Parker was grave and troubled. Swift did his best to look that way, but could not make a go of it. This was his meat.

  “I was trying to keep my team from fouling up with his,” Barlow said, when they gave him his chance. “Trying to obey orders, not rushing for the water.”

  “That’s right,” affirmed the owner of the team.

  “And he cut me with his bull whip,” Barlow concluded.

  “And you damn near beat him to death, a man old enough to be your father,” several summed up at once. “What’re the laws?”

  Parker read, hastily skimming until he came to, “…shall be flogged; or expelled from the party, with or without refund of what monies he has paid in, according to the merits of the case, which will be decided by vote… Gentlemen, understand that that is what may be done. It does not have to be done. There is provision for a fine assessed by the group.”

  “Fines, my eye!” one shouted. And another, “Whale him within an inch of his life!”

  Parker rapped on the barrel head for order. Order was restored long enough for there to be a sentence, by acclaim and not by vote, of one hundred lashes. The hostile faces made it plain that the penalty would be as final as hanging, except not as quick. Parker got up to protest. He was shouted down, until Swift restored order. In another moment, Barlow would be tied up to a wagon wheel.

  When a soldier was flogged, the post surgeon stood by to supervise the punishment, and there was also an officer;—remote, aloof, neither for nor against the culprit. Here there was a mob.

  Barlow demanded, “Give me a word while I can talk,” and when this was granted, he went on, “Let Mr. Frazer do the flogging. He has the grievance. None of you have.”

  A mutter of approval greeted this logical quirk of justice. Swift, however, could endure nothing which impaired his vengeance. He loomed up more as the man actually in command, and before Parker had a chance for a word, Swift took charge.

  “This is not a matter of revenge at all. It is a matter of law and order. Is that not right, Mr. Parker?”

  Calling deferentially on the captain established more than ever that Swift, the polite man, was also the important man. But the moment Parker agreed with words which in form could not be disputed, Barlow snatched at his next risky chance.

  “Swift, you’re not captain, but you are the law around here. So you take the whip. Then it won’t be personal at all. It won’t be a man getting even because he likes Mr. Frazer.”

  “Lay it on good!” Swift’s admirers chorused. “You got the heft, Kirby, you can peel him!”

  Barlow, unrestrained, held his hands out before him, and took a step toward Swift, and a second. Looking the man full in the eye, he said, “The harder you hit, the bigger name you’ll make. Your bunkies expect a lot of you.”

  Barlow’s voice was soft. He cocked his head a little, and his eyes became pointed; a small, twisted smile, almost as of triumph, prodded the segundo with its mockery. It was almost as if Barlow had actually said “The harder you hit, the more surely you are through with Sally. You’ll be showing yourself up for a skunk!”

  And Swift’s face changed. Those watching him shifted and choked back exclamations. They had understood, as clearly as if Sally’s name had actually been spoken.

  Parker took heart. He cleared his throat. “This has gone too far. This—”

  “Let him be,” Barlow broke in quietly. “He has to finish me this chance. He is afraid to meet me man to man, at Red Fork. He knows he’s going to meet me. On horse or on foot. With guns or knives. Here’s his chance of being sure to win.”

  “Fight him now, Kirby!” someone shouted.

  “Silence! Quit this!” Parker protested.

  “Oh, shut up! Shut up, Cap’n!”

  And then a stranger intervened, Epstein, parking his cart at the fringe of the crowd, spoke up. “Vait, this ain’t constitutional. It ain’t right, making a man defend himself. He didn’t have counsel to advise him. You didn’t do it American style.”

  “It’s all in the bag!” Swift retorted, eager for a change of subject. “Plain as the nose on your face, and he didn’t need a lawyer, we heard him out.”

  The quip about noses got a splendid guffaw, and restored Swift’s power. Epstein rubbed his nose, and grinned quizzically, playing up to the laugh. Then he declared, “The sentence is wrong.” He faced them for a moment, standing as though about to review a regiment; he stood so that the width of his shoulders could counter-balance his paunch. The firelight exaggerated the deep lines of his face, the sag of his jowls. He was no longer funny; he was no longer a man offering bargains; and the nose, broad and lordly, had ceased to be amusing.

  Epstein took off his hat. For a moment, he held them with pose and gesture. Then he grinned, inviting them all into his confidence and his generosity.

  “You wait, I show you something!” He got a solid, black covered book, well worn and well thumbed, from his push cart. He opened it and read a few lines which not a man of them could understand. “That means in English,” he interpreted, “that the Good Lord don’t allow more than forty stripes on a man at one whipping.”

  Swift flared up, “Oh, to hell with that! What’s a Yiddish bible count around here—we’re Christians!”

  Epstein smiled benevolently. During a scene stealing pause, his deep set eyes twinkled, catching and holding the eye of this one and that. “What I read is written in your Bible, my friend. In your own. In the fifth book, chapter twenty-five, second and third line. Mine is just like yours. What I got is the first edition, that’s all.”

  Several chuckled appreciatively. Parker said, “Epstein’s right. And there’s hardly a man of you here who isn’t familiar with the Scriptures. Forty lashes—”

  And then Swift saw his chance to regain the lost hold. The darkness of his wrath faded, and he shouted triumphantly, “This Daniel coming to judgment is exactly what we need! I am not doing the flogging, and I am not meeting this loud mouth for a knife or gun fight. It’d look like spite-work, account he and I had words, back in Kearneyville. Get a whip, and let Epstein do the job!”

  “Let Epstein fix it!” several cried, thoroughly enjoying the big fellow’s neat twist. “Do it good, Saul, or we get our money back. We’ll take it out of your hide if you don’t do it good!”

  “Hey, vait a minute!” Epstein protested. “You ain’t heard everything—”

  “Go shove your book, we’ve heard enough!”

  Half a dozen sodbusters swooped
in on Barlow, to hustle him to a wagon wheel. Others crowded forward with cords and bull whips. They swept Epstein from his cart and took him with them in their rush. By the time Barlow was jammed up against the wheel and secured, his shirt had been torn from him.

  “Eye, wye, wye!” Epstein muttered, and mopped his forehead, when the pressure eased off. “This ain’t right, I tell you.”

  The butt of a bull whip was thrust into his hand. He shoved it aside. “That ain’t for whipping a min, it iss for an ox. I won’t do it. A cat with nine tails, yes, but not this here.”

  Swift pulled the Peacemaker he had taken from Barlow at the time of arrest. “Listen, pushcart man! You’re getting to work and doing as you’re told, understand? You talked him out of sixty lashes, so you are damn well going to give him the forty he still has coming.”

  Epstein’s eyes bulged perceptibly. He shrank from the pistol as though it had been a rattlesnake ready to strike; and he cringed as he took the whip and edged away, and toward Barlow.

  “Pete, I can’t help it. I won’t make it too easy, I won’t make it too hard. It is better I do it instead of somebody else. Anyway, I got to. He pulled a gun. He’s still pointing it at me, he won’t put it in his pocket.”

  “Go ahead, Saul!” Barlow said. “Get it over!” He added, in a whisper, which none but the executioner could hear, “I can take forty good ones, and the harder you hit now, the better I’ll do when I cut his guts out and wrap ’em around his neck!”

  Epstein backed away. He gestured for space, and he got it. He flexed the long whip, fingered the lash, hefted the grip. He seemed less apprehensive about Swift’s revolver. After all, it was no longer dead center on him.

  “Someone count, so I don’t give him too many.”

  He unleashed the whip. The bitter cold hiss and explosive smack of the lash made Barlow wonder why he had been able to flinch, when he should have been slashed to the verge of paralysis. Hot iron seemed to have been streaked across his back; he could feel that, but no weight or shock at all. He heard the involuntary gasp of the spectators.