Blood at Sunset (A Sam Spur Western

by Matt Chisholm

  The closely-packed crowd surged into action, some making for the bar, others heading for the door to the street. The sheriff, shotgun in hands, forced a way to the rear of the saloon with his permanent and temporary deputies closely ranked about the prisoner. Pushed and pulled, Spur went with them, eyes downcast. Lydia Carson tried to reach out to touch him, but her father pulled her away. Juanita Morales followed him with stricken eyes.

  Hansard Morley was heard to say: ‘This is where I get drunk.’

  Charlie Doolittle said to him: ‘By God, they almost have me believing it.’

  By the time Carson and his daughter reached the store, the sheriff and his men had the prisoner inside the store-room. From the front of the store, they heard the clink of chains as they secured his legs. Lydia gave a low cry and rushed up the stairs to her room. Her father shook his head and prepared to open the store. With the condemned man in the back room there he anticipated a decided boom in trade.

  After a while, folks started to come in, their eyes wandering to the door at the rear of the store. The lawmen left, leaving Shad Morrow on guard with a shotgun at the door. The sheriff marched his men to the rear of the building and placed Golite on guard there. He wasn’t taking any chances. Then he and the rest of his worthies repaired to the saloon. Gaylor thought they had all earned a celebratory drink.

  As they leaned on the bar, Tabor said to his boss: ‘Wayne, you’re the luckiest sonovabitch I ever did see. Fancy that Spur comin’ along jest when we needed him.’

  Gaylor grinned. He felt on top of the world.

  ‘Some of us have kinda got a knack,’ he said.

  In the store-room, Spur climbed on to the shelf and slept. He was going to need his strength.

  Chapter Ten

  Charlie Doolittle was drinking wine in Manuel Morales patio by the light of the moon when Juanita came to them to say that the Basque Cilveti had returned and was asking for Doolittle. The lank man looked a little startled and got to his feet. Cilveti, the girl said, looked like man who had traveled far and hard. Manuel, never slow to put two and two together to make five, said: ‘My nose tells me that there is something of interest here. The Basque rode away when you had ideas about the innocence of this man Spur in your mind. What have you been up to, my friend?’

  Doolittle said: ‘Maybe I’ve been the biggest damn fool of my life.’

  As he turned away, Manuel said softly: ‘Think well before you act, Carlosito.’

  Doolittle merely nodded and followed Juanita into the house. As he entered, the girl caught him by the arm. ‘You are going to help Spur?’ she demanded.

  Doolittle looked embarrassed.

  ‘What can I do now?’ he said.

  She turned away in sudden anger and he went on. At the street door, he found Cilveti. He looked honed down to skin and bone. The girl was right – he had come far and hard.

  They shook.

  ‘What news?’ Doolittle asked.

  ‘I have the gringo’s friends here,’ the Basque replied. ‘They are at the corral.’

  He turned and led the way. Doolittle followed, tried to find some guidance in his mind. He had never felt so undecided in his life. As they turned around his house and walked across the dusty yard to the high wall of the adobe corral, he saw two shadowy figures waiting at their horses’ heads. There was a third animal beyond them which he saw to be a giant mule. Off to the right were two spare horses on lead lines.

  The freighter halted and said: ‘I’m Doolittle.’

  A Negro tone came from the nearest figure, saying: ‘My name’s Ben and this here’s the Kid.’

  Doolittle shook a work-calloused hand. Then he shook with the Kid and found the hand as smooth as a woman’s.

  The Negro said: ‘We appreciate what you did for Sam.’

  ‘I did nothing,’ Doolittle said.

  ‘You sent your hand to fetch us. That’s enough, I reckon.’

  Doolittle said: ‘They’re going to hang him.’

  ‘When?’ said Ben.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  The Negro said: ‘Tell us about it, Mr. Doolittle.’

  Doolittle talked. He told the whole of the story that he knew, from the time of the arrest to the first imprisonment, the escape, the chaining up of Spur in the store-room and the trial. Neither Cusie Ben nor the boy spoke. Doolittle realized that the Kid had not said a word so far.

  Now he spoke—

  ‘It don’t look good.’

  Ben said: ‘It’s looked this way before.’

  ‘It ain’t never looked as bad as this,’ the Kid said. ‘Christ, this sheriff has these hardcases. I know ’em. We don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. Let’s git outa here while we’re still alive.’

  Ben said coldly: ‘I was waitin’ for this. I allus said you was white trash. You sure is jest that. You fork your hoss and you git, boy. This is the kinda thing ’at cuts the boys out from the men. Me an’ Mr. Doolittle will settle this little thing.’

  Doolittle wanted to protest. He had done already everything he could do. He didn’t want any part of Gaylor and his cohorts. But he stayed silent and he was oddly pleased, though alarmed, because he did.

  The Kid’s voice rose a little, sounding the note of hysteria that came when he was enraged.

  ‘They have him in there all caught up in chains. They have him maybe stapled to the goddam wall. They’s guns all around him. How the hell do we even start to think about gettin’ him outa there?’

  ‘It don’t matter how,’ Ben said. ‘All that matters is why.’

  ‘What in hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We owe Sam.’

  ‘I don’t owe him nothin’ but a kick in the teeth.’

  The Negro swung around and caught the Kid by the front of his shirt. Doolittle, alarmed, thought that there would be a killing there and then.

  ‘You git,’ Ben said through his teeth, ‘you yaller dawg.’

  ‘I ain’t yeller an’ you know it.’

  ‘You got a yaller stripe down your back wider’n the stripe down a blue belly’s pants.’

  The Kid’s hand snapped down onto the butt of his gun. Ben hit him with the back of his hand and knocked him back against the corral wall.

  ‘Pull it,’ he said.

  The Kid got to his feet, picked up his hat and dusted himself off.

  ‘You’re kinda persuasive,’ he said, all rancor gone from his voice.

  Doolittle, who had been holding his breath, found that he could breathe once more. Ben turned and started to talk again as if nothing had happened. He questioned Doolittle closely and showed the freighter that this was indeed not the first time he had done this kind of thing. The Negro seemed astonishingly confident that he could get Spur free. His main worry was to get his hands on Jenny, Spur’s mare, for he knew that the man would not consent to go without the horse. But Doolittle, now somehow committed to helping a condemned man from the course of justice was worried. If they made an attempt to fetch the little mare from the livery where she had been housed, the sheriff would be warned of their intent. He was greatly relieved when Ben said: ‘Mr Doolittle, you best keep outa showin’ yourself connected with us’ns. You told us what’s what an’ we’ll go ahead. Sam’ll need you later. If I know him, he ain’t a-goin’ to jest ride into them hills and hide out there. He ain’t done this killin’ an’ he ain’t a-goin’ to pay for it. Pretty soon that there sheriff’s goin’ to meet his comeuppance. An’ you’re the man to help.’

  Doolittle was grateful for this concession. An idea came to him. He was nervous. He was a business man and he didn’t possess the panache of this gun-toting Negro.

  ‘Maybe you’d best hold your horses, Ben,’ he said. ‘The United States Marshal is headed this way.’

  Ben said: ‘You know for sure he’ll arrive before noon tomorrow?’

  Doolittle had to admit that he couldn’t be sure. Ben said, that did it. They’d bust Spur out tonight. Now they had to have Doolittle in the clear. He could get himse
lf in the clear and give them a hand at the same time. Let him find Gaylor and keep him occupied. Buy him drinks in the saloon if necessary. And any deputies he might have with him. The fewer guns against them, the better. Doolittle agreed to this. Just the same he couldn’t help asking himself: ‘What if Spur’s guilty?’

  However, five minutes later, after agreeing that Ben and the Kid could leave their tired animals and could help themselves to fresh mounts from his stock, he found himself walking down the street in search of the sheriff.

  He found Gaylor and three of his cronies in the saloon and straightway offered to buy them drinks. They accepted with alacrity, Doolittle ordered and said: ‘You know, Wayne, I thought at first you had the wrong man there. I admit I made a mistake. Hanging Spur’s the best day’s work you’ll ever do.’

  They drank to that. Wayne Gaylor bought. They drank to the cause of justice. Looking more closely at the sheriff and his men, Doolittle was confirmed strongly in his attitude that he despised and hated Gaylor and his kind. As he listened to their talk, his ear was cocked for the sound of gunfire.

  It was nearing midnight when Gaylor, slightly the worse for wear and boasting a little more than befitted modesty, remembered his prisoner.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, his voice thick with drink, ‘I plumb forgot about Spur.’

  Doolittle said: ‘He’ll keep, Wayne. He ain’t goin’ no place.’ He thought: I keep this drinking up and I’ll end on the floor. He had never seen men who could tuck liquor away like Gaylor and his cronies.

  ‘Time to change the guard,’ the sheriff said. ‘Jim, you take the rear. An’, by God, you’d best not go to sleep. Put your fool head in the horse-trough.’

  ‘I’m right as rain,’ Tabor declared, swaying unsteadily, his speech slurring.

  ‘Seth,’ Gaylor said to Kruger, ‘you take the inside of the store. An’ the same goes for you. Sober up.’

  ‘Aw, hell,’ Doolittle said, friend to all the world, ‘the boys did a real good job. They earned another drink. Help yourself, boys.’

  They helped themselves, they drank.

  Kruger’s eyes were starting to glass over.

  ‘Get goin’,’ Gaylor said. Then, as they turned reluctantly away, he added: ‘I’ll go along with you, just to check.’

  ‘Don’ break up the party,’ Doolittle said. ‘We only just got started.’

  Gaylor looked at him.

  ‘You tryin’ to get me drunk, Charlie?’ he said.

  Doolittle giggled.

  ‘Got you drunk, you ole sonovabitch,’ he said and slapped the sheriff on the shoulder. Gaylor laughed and said: ‘I’ll be right back. Duty’s duty.’ He swaggered after his two cohorts and dis-; appeared into the night.

  First, he replaced Golite by Tabor at the rear of the building, then he unlocked the store itself and led the way inside. Carson was behind his counter doing his books by the light of a lamp. He looked up as the two men entered. Gaylor laughed at the sight of him, but he didn’t speak. Carson looked at him with a distaste he couldn’t hide. The sheriff and his deputy tramped through the store and found Shad Morrow apparently rousing himself from a deep sleep.

  ‘You was sleepin’,’ Gaylor accused. ‘I didn’t hire you to sleep, Morrow.’ When the badge-toting outlaw protested, Gaylor added: ‘We have a little party goin’ over at the saloon. Get over there an’ catch up. You’re a bottle down.’

  The outlaw laughed and said he could sure do with a drink. Kruger picked up the shotgun and took the man’s place.

  ‘No sleepin’ now,’ Gaylor said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Kruger. His eyes were almost shut.

  Gaylor sauntered back down the store.

  ‘Time honest men was in bed,’ he told Carson. The store-keeper didn’t reply. He knew he wouldn’t sleep that night. Spur might be the killer they all said he was and Carson hated lawlessness and violence. Just the same, he couldn’t get out of his mind that at noon tomorrow the life would be snuffed out of young Spur as he strangled at the end of a rope. He heard Gaylor go out and heard the key turn in the lock.

  The clock on the wall ticked. The town was quiet. The sound of Carson’s pen scratching on the paper seemed to fill the world. Already Kruger was snoring loudly. Carson stopped writing after a while and decided that if he was to get through a day’s work tomorrow, he must try to get some sleep.

  He rose and was about to blow out the light when he heard a sound.

  His heart started to pound alarmingly.

  Somebody was tapping softly on the street door.

  His first impulse was to ignore it. It repeated itself. He walked out from behind the counter and said: ‘Mr. Kruger.’ The only reply he received was a rumble of snores. He found that he was sweating profusely.

  The tapping at the door was persisting.

  He walked to the door and bent so that his mouth was near the wood.

  ‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Juanita Morales,’ came the reply,

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see Mr. Spur.’

  ‘Well, you can’t. This is no time.’

  There was a pause, then the girl’s voice came: ‘There is no harm, Mr. Carson. He dies tomorrow. Allow me to have a last word with him.’

  ‘It’s late. Come back in daylight.’

  There came the sound of sobbing from the other side of the door. Carson started to be agitated. Women’s tears always upset him. His daughter only had to weep to have her own way with him.

  ‘Now, stop that,’ he said. The sound of weeping increased. He wrung his hands a little. ‘Stop crying,’ he said, ‘and I’ll ask the guard.’

  The weeping stopped.

  He turned and walked back along the store. Kruger was sitting on a chair in deep shadow, head back against the wall, mouth wide. His snore was like the roll of thunder in the hills.’

  ‘Mr. Kruger.’

  Carson was scared of the fellow. He was ashamed to be scared of this gun-toting scum, but he was.

  ‘Mr. Kruger.’ Hesitantly, he shook the man by the shoulder.

  Slowly, blurred, Kruger came awake. The snore was cut off short, the head came slowly up.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Mr. Kruger, there’s somebody at the street door.’

  ‘Tell ’em to git the hell outa it.’

  ‘She wants to see the prisoner.’

  Kruger fought, not too successfully, to gather together his scattered drunken wits.

  ‘This tima night. Must be outa her head. Who’s she?’

  ‘Juanita Morales.’

  When her name was mentioned, Kruger came a little more to his senses. He had tried fumbling with the beautiful Mexican girl whenever she visited the prisoner when he was on guard. Maybe there was a chance for a little fun here.

  He gripped the chair tight and heaved himself to his feet.

  ‘Let her in,’ he said thickly.

  Carson turned and went down the store, taking the key to the street door from his pocket. He heard Kruger coming along unsteadily behind him. He inserted the key in the door and turned it.

  The girl slipped inside. As the lamplight hit her, even Carson had to admit that she looked good enough to eat. He sadly regretted his age, his appearance and his moral principles.

  Kruger exclaimed at the sight of her and pushed the storekeeper aside.

  Juanita was dressed in a brightly-colored skirt and a white blouse that was cut low so that her shoulders and the tops of her breasts gleamed in the lamplight. The sight to Kruger was as heady as the drink in him.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Honey, you didn’t ought to visit ole Kruge this tima night. Folks might git to talkin’.’

  ‘I didn’t come to see you,’ she told him. ‘I came to see Mr. Spur.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Maybe we could arrange that,’ he said. ‘Come on back here now an’ we’ll dicker about it a while. If you’re nice to ole Kruge there’s no knowin’ what he’ll allow you to do.’

&nbs
p; He became aware that there was another figure behind the girl, a figure that had slipped silently into the store. For a moment, he was shaken, for it seemed that the man did not possess a face. Then it dawned on him that it was a black man with his face in the shadow.

  Kruger exclaimed and found that the shotgun which he should have in his hands was back there leaning against the wall. His right hand fumbled for the butt of his gun.

  The girl was thrust aside by a powerful black hand and Kruger found himself looking into the deadly eye of a Colt forty-four.

  Carson drew in his breath loudly.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘for the love of God, no.’

  The black man said: ‘You do jest like I tell you an’ you jest might stay alive.’

  Kruger stayed very still. Death was an old acquaintance of his and he knew its appearance well.

  The girl must have received instructions about what she had to do. She circled the men, being careful not to come between the gun and the man it was held on and lifted Kruger’s gun from leather. She backed up then, held it in both hands and pointed it at the outlaw. Kruger didn’t doubt that she would fire if she had to. Suddenly, he felt very sober and very sick to his stomach.

  The Negro said; ‘Turn around.’ Kruger obeyed. He felt a hand draw his knife from its sheath and heard the weapon clatter into a far corner of the big room. ‘Lie down on the floor on your face.’

  Kruger obeyed. His hopes rose slightly. Possibly this man wouldn’t kill him.

  Carson said: ‘You can’t get away with this.’

  The Negro said to the girl: ‘Lock the door, miss, an’ leave the key in the lock.’

  The girl obeyed and then came back and pointed her gun at Kruger again. The Negro put away his gun, drew a hogging-string from his pocket, knelt down by Kruger, pulled his hands behind his back and tied the wrists tightly together. Then he lashed the feet together and gagged the man with his own bandanna. After that he dragged the fellow by the scruff of his neck and dumped him behind Carson’s counter. Carson stood sweating, patting his face and wringing his hands. The sheriff would think that he was concerned in this. He could be finished in Sunset. He felt like weeping or fainting or both.