And then at last a great cry of triumph and hatred burst from the throat of the leader of the killers. He was a man of perhaps sixty, tall and rangy, hair iron-grey beneath the flat-crowned Stetson, burning eyes shaded by great patches of eyebrows, and in those eyes the light of pure madness. The cry which leaped from his throat was a word and the word was a name: ‘Hyde!’
As it pierced the day, two of the men in the group grabbed the young Marshal as he reeled out of his office, pawing the smoke from his streaming eyes. They stood one before him and one behind and with brutal blows they felled him, and then their heavy boots and the wicked roweled Mexican spurs were moving up and down, raking the screaming body of the half-blinded lawman, smashing the breath from him, ripping welts of flesh from his groveling body. When they had done, they dragged him to his feet and hustled Hyde across the street to where the tall man sat in his saddle like the very messenger of Satan. Hyde slumped against his tormentors, trying to see them through the blood which poured down his face and into his eyes, and he groaned ‘What, in the name of God ...?’
A terrible blow across the face felled him once more to the dust. He rolled on his back and for the first time he saw the face of the tall man towering above him.
‘Yu know me?’ grated his captor.
Hyde shook his head. ‘No ... I never seen yu afore.’
‘An’ yu never will again,’ thundered the tall man. ‘Look on my face an’ die, yu scum. I am the father of the boy yu murdered!’
‘Cullane?’ Hyde’s voice was strained. He knew, and yet he could not believe. Cullane nodded.
‘Yu killed my boy.’ It was not a question.
‘He gave me no choice —I swear it — he—’
A gasp of agony ended his protest as Cullane’s heavy boot smashed into his body.
‘Lies! Lies! All lies!’ screamed the old man. ‘Yu killed him. This dirty stinkin’ town killed my boy! All o’ them!’ He turned to his killers, his sons, his murderers. ‘Finish the job!’ he screamed. ‘Burn this pesthole to the ground! An’ when yu’ve finished, bring me a rope to hang this — this dirt! I’ll put a mark on this land they’ll never forget!’
His sons and his hirelings nodded grimly and went to do his bidding. As the flames burst upwards in ever-increasing fury, the killers stalked every man in Fronteras and put him to the gun and then, when they were done, they watched while Old Man Cullane hung the young Marshal.
Chapter Two
‘By God! I’ve never heard the like of it in my life!’ Those who knew him well had cause to remember the speaker as a man who had rarely, in the course of a long career, found it necessary to raise his voice. Those penetrating grey eyes and the normally level tone had an effect upon the law-abiding and the lawless alike which no amount of shouting could ever achieve. Short, stockily built, looking more like a prosperous cattleman than a politician, Governor Bleke of Arizona was the kind of man who would remain inconspicuous in a crowd until one noted the uncommon something in the way the man held himself, the invisible mantle of command which he wore. Bleke was a quiet man but now he was angry, and his anger placed Big Eddie Coffey in a practically unique category: one of the small number of men who had actually seen the Governor of the Territory of Arizona lose his temper. What was perhaps even more remarkable was the fact that this was the second time that Big Eddie had been invited to the Governor’s mansion in Tucson to go over the details of how the Cullanes had wiped out Fronteras. Most remarkable of all, Bleke had asked him to re-tell the story not to a United States Marshal, not to a posse of avenging lawmen, but to a quietly spoken cowpuncher whom the Governor had introduced simply as ‘an old friend, Don Severn.’
And so again, Big Eddie told his story. It was a cold and brutal tale, and he did not embellish it. He told the Governor’s friend about the gunfight in which Marshal Hyde had killed the man they had later discovered was James Cullane; he described the fateful morning in Fronteras when the town was fired, the butchery in the street, the things that had been done to the young lawman, without any inflexion in his voice. He told how, with three bullets in his body, nearer dead than alive, he had crawled down to the arroyos along the river bank and huddled behind the rocks, shaking with fever, while Cullane’s desperadoes looted and smashed the town, and burned what was left standing - every shack, every dugout, every building of the little border town. Then, when the Cullanes had gone, how he had struggled for three days and nights across the desert to Yuma and safety. That he was lucky to be alive, Big Eddie knew; quite how it had come about he had no idea. Only his huge frame and his determination to avenge himself upon the murderers had sustained him in his terrible ordeal. There was a silence as he finished speaking, and Bleke released his emotions in that one explosive sentence. The unassuming Severn sat frowning on a chair on the far side of Bleke’s huge desk, and Big Eddie covertly surveyed the man from beneath lowered eyelids.
Severn was young - not much more than thirty, Coffey figured — and dressed in neat, ordinary range garb which was serviceable, neither new or showy. A dark blue work shirt covered wide shoulders which tapered to a slim waist and narrow hips. Faded Levi’s, good leather boots still holding the dull rich gleam that comes from many polishings. The lean, clean-shaven face was as bronzed as that of an Indian, and for a second, the words ‘half breed’ formed in Big Eddie’s mind, only to be dismissed when he saw that the high cheekbones of the race were absent. Severn’s hair was black, but flecks of grey touched the temples. His eyes were grey-blue and unfalteringly level, and Big Eddie thought he detected a deep sadness behind them. Severn felt, or suspected, Big Eddie’s survey, and a slow smile touched the corners of his eyes and mouth.
‘Yu placed me yet?’ he asked.
Big Eddie’s smile was open and frank. ‘Wasn’t tryin’ to,’ he replied honestly. ‘I was doin’ a mite more why-figgerin’ than who-figgerin’.’
Bleke raised a hand. ‘We’ll come to the why of it later,’ he proposed. ‘First off, Don — have you got any questions?’
‘Coupla thousand,’ was the laconic reply. ‘But two or three’ll do. First off, how many o’ these jaspers was there?’
‘Between a dozen an’ fifteen, I’d say,’ Coffey told him. ‘I shore as Hell wasn’t countin’ none too keerful.’
Severn smiled grimly. ‘I reckon,’ he said. ‘Yu say they jest rode in, no warnin’ to nobody — nothin’?’
‘Yu better believe it,’ Coffey growled. ‘We’d mebbe’ve had some kind o’ rat’s chance if we’d knowed they was comin’. As it was, they shot down ever’ man as showed his face, an’ hunted down them as hadn’t.’
‘How many were killed, would you say?’ rasped Bleke.
‘Thirty, forty mebbe,’ Big Eddie said. ‘I cain’t be shore.’
Bleke shook his head. ‘Didn’t any of them try to fight back?’
‘Governor,’ Big Eddie said patiently, ‘put yoreself in their place. Yu wake up with yore roof burnin’, an’ yu don’t sit around wonderin’ why. Yu jest git. An’ anyways,’ he added, ‘them was top guns ridin’ with the Cullanes.’
‘Yo’re shore it was the Cullanes,’ interposed Severn.
‘Damn his eyes, shore I’m shore.’
‘Who else could yu put a name to that yu seen?’
‘There was ol’ Billy,’ Coffey said, counting on his fingers. ‘I seen him clear as I see yu, Governor. Then there was Marco, big as a grizzly, an’ Yancey; Allen — he’s the middle son, not so tough as Marco or Yancey, but pizen clear through. I seen Billy there, too: that hydrophoby little killer with his daddy’s name, the one they call the Kid.’
‘Billy the Kid?’ mused Severn; ‘That’s a big name to live up to.’
‘Don’t yu fret none, he can do it,’ ground out Big Eddie. ‘He’d make Billy Bonney look like a choirboy, that one. An’ so would the rest o’ them: Chapman, Nixon, Chuck Allen, Billy Morrison — killers, every man jack o’ them.’
‘That’s nine men,’ said Severn quietly.
‘Ni
ne renegades,’ snapped Bleke. ‘They’ve been a thorn in the side of this Territory a damned sight too long.’
Coffey brightened. ‘Yu goin’ to send out the so’jer boys after ‘em, Governor?’
‘I can’t do that,’ Bleke told him, shortly, ‘I have no control over the military.’
‘Hell, yu could telegraph to Washin’ton,’ remonstrated Coffey.
‘Yes, I could,’ Bleke replied. ‘And they would tell me what I am telling you right now, Mr. Coffey: the United States has no jurisdiction in Mexico.’
‘An’ Mexico is where they got their hideout,’ Severn finished.
‘But does that mean they’re goin’ to get off scot-free?’ burst out Coffey. ‘They just — Bleke, yu can’t let that happen!’ He came to a strangled stop.
‘Mr. Coffey,’ Bleke said. ‘I’m powerless to send a large armed party into Mexico on a manhunt. To begin with I have no legal right to do so. In the second place, diplomatic relations between the United States and Mexico are — shall we say — rather strained at this moment. One overt move of the kind you are suggesting might be construed as an act of war. I could not be a party to such a thing.’
‘Yu mean, yo’re goin’ to do nothin’?’ Coffey’s voice was incredulous. ‘Yo’re goin’ to let them get away with wipin’ out Fronteras?’
‘Not quite,’ Bleke told him drily. ‘That’s why I asked Don to come here.’
Coffey looked up in surprise at the Governor’s words. Bleke of Arizona sending for this commonplace-looking cowboy? His surprise must have shown in his face, because Bleke nodded as if in reply to a question.
‘It’s got to be someone like you, Don,’ he said, speaking now directly to Severn. ‘You can go down there where another man would be spotted in ten seconds. Lord knows I hate to ask it of you — especially after ...’
‘I’d as soon not talk about that, seh,’ Severn interrupted. ‘Let’s say I’m interested in meetin’ up with the kind of scum that massacres unarmed men. It don’t need spellin’ out. An’ I got nothin’ else to do.’
Coffey frowned. There was something about the conversation which eluded him. Something Bleke and Severn knew that he did not. About Severn. Damnation, why did the man’s appearance strike that faint chord in the corridors of his memory? Severn, Severn? He shook his head: the recollection would not come, and Coffey was old enough to refrain from trying to make it.
Severn rose abruptly, and thrust out his hand. ‘I got some things to attend to,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect we’ll be meetin’ again, Mr. Coffey. I’ll be headin’ out at first light.’
Coffey shook his hand and watched in silence as the Governor gravely shook hands with his visitor and the tall cowpuncher, with a final nod to Coffey, turned towards the door. Coffey’s croaking voice, full of incredulity, stopped him as he put his hand on the doorknob.
‘Yo’re — yo’re goin’ after the Cullanes? Alone?’
Severn nodded. ‘Shore looks that way,’ he said. ‘Less’n yo’re figgerin’ on comin’ along.’
‘Damned if I can,’ Coffey admitted. ‘My leg is still busted up. Cain’t ride no how. But even if I could, I wouldn’t be such a damfool.’ He turned to Bleke. ‘Yu - he ain’t serious about this?’
‘He’s serious. We both are,’ was Bleke’s reply.
‘Then yo’re both loco!’ Coffey told them flatly. ‘Ain’t I made it clear what kind o’ jaspers the Cullanes are? They’re coldblooded, backshootin’ killers, Severn. Yu’ll get less of a shake than a rattler would from a roadrunner: they’ll blow out yore light faster’n’ yu can say “shoot”.’
Severn’s smile was wintry. ‘Thanks for the warnin’,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to avoid sayin’ it.’ The door closed behind him,
Coffey whirled to face the Governor.
‘Yu got to stop him!’ he said, bewildered. ‘One man alone cain’t—’ His voice trailed off, Bleke had moved across to a tall window which overlooked the busy street and was watching Severn mount his horse, a mighty stallion whose muscles rippled like wind moved water beneath its glossy pelt. Coffey came to the window and watched as Severn moved down the street. The puncher was wearing his guns. Must have left them in the outer office, Coffey mused, noting that the twin six-guns sat low on Severn’s thighs, the holsters tied down, the black butts shining dully with the smoothness of much use. A name hovered on the edge of Coffey’s memory. A name. A Texas drawl, two guns tied low, a horse as black as desert night … but who?
‘Governor,’ he said at last, as Severn disappeared from sight, ‘yu seem to have a Hell of a lot of faith in that hombre. Who is he, anyhow?’
‘His name is Severn, Don Severn. He used to ranch, up near Hatchett’s Folly.’ Coffey thought he detected the hint of an impish smile in Bleke’s eyes, but it disappeared as he pressed his point.
‘Hell, I know his name, Bleke. But who is he? What makes yu think one man can do anythin’ again’ the Cullanes?’
‘It would tend to depend on the man, Mr. Coffey,’ was Bleke’s urbane reply. ‘I know something of the Cullanes: I once sent Billy Cullane’s son to the hangman. And I tell you this now. If any man can bring the retribution they so richly merit to the Cullanes, then you have just met that man: Don Severn.’
Coffey shook his head, unmoved by the ringing conviction in the Governor’s tone.
‘Hell, I don’t mean to sound like a Jonah, Governor, but the Cullanes are too big, too powerful. They got all that country down there under their heel. I say yo’re wrong.’
‘I hope to God that I’m not,’ Bleke said, almost as if to himself. Then, brusquely, he rose from his chair as if to rid himself of his thoughts. ‘And now if you will forgive me, Mr. Coffey?’
‘Shore, shore, yo’re busy, I know that. I jest wish there was more yu could do to back that feller up.’
‘Let us see what happens,’ Bleke said. He acted as if the problem was taken care of, and Coffey made the mistake of reading indifference into Bleke’s controlled calm.
‘Don’t yu care that yu may be sendin’ a man to his death?’ Coffey rasped. He took a step back as anger flared in Bleke’s eyes for a moment; but it was only a moment, and then the iron control was restored.
‘I care, Mr. Coffey. When Severn gets back, when his job is done, I’ll explain why.’
Coffey shook his head. ‘When he gets back!’ He gave a short, rueful laugh. ‘Hell, Bleke, even yu cain’t be that much of an optimist!’
With those words, Big Eddie Coffey stamped out of the Governor’s office, damning all uncaring politicians, apple-polishers, and servants of the public, while Governor Bleke leaned back in the big leather chair, his eyes empty and his mind far away. Presently he rang the bell upon his desk, and his secretary came into the room. She was a tall, willowy blonde girl with the firm conviction that she managed Bleke very well, all things considered. Bleke looked at the young woman for a moment, then said, ‘Miss Gowring, would you say I was an optimist?’
Miss Gowring tugged at her shirtwaist; had her employer gone completely mad? First, that dreadful saloonkeeper; then the drawling cowpuncher with the two guns he had dropped unceremoniously on the chair in the anteroom. Now, this astonishing question.
‘Ah — I — um -I wouldn’t say so, sir?’
Bleke smiled, as if the answer satisfied him, and settled back in his chair.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. Thank you, Lavinia.’
His secretary raised her eyebrows slightly and left the room, as Bleke turned to the map on the wall behind him, and with his finger traced the trail that Severn would have to take to reach the treacherous territory wherein lay the stronghold of the Cullanes.
Chapter Three
Severn pulled his horse to a halt on a bluff overlooking a long, sloping declivity which rolled down ahead of him to a ragged valley, in which lay the first town he had seen since leaving Tucson. It looked like any other Mexican placita, a huddle of adobe houses spread-eagled along the general line of the trail which passed through i
t. On both sides of the shallow valley, bare hills spotted with sage and greasewood rose, their sides scarred like the faces of old men with the lines of the years. Down below, faint wisps of smoke rose from chimneys where evening meals were being prepared; a few lights sparkled in windows. Faintly on the evening air, Severn discerned the strumming of a guitar, and the lovely melody of La Paloma drifted up towards him from a cantina. There was no great activity on the winding street: it was too early for the evening paseo, that great after-dinner occupation of the Spanish-speaking peoples. Some horses stood hipshot at hitching racks. Nothing more. A sleepy Mexican town.
‘Welcome to Mexico,’ Severn told his horse. Midnight flicked his ears forward at the sound of the familiar voice, and moved forward eagerly as the heels touched his side. ‘Yu ol’ pirut,’ Severn said, affectionately. ‘Yo’re the same as me: some older, none wiser.’ He eased the black stallion down the slope towards the town. A drink, a bed to sleep in, a shave, a good meal: these had a powerful attraction for a man who had spent six days in the saddle. He had avoided the easy trails, and instead used the little known routes of the long riders, the ‘owlhoot’ breed who got their name from the signal they gave as passport in a land where all were on the dodge, no man was your friend, and the safest places were the loneliest.
The few people in the street, or lounging against the ramadas of the long, low adobe buildings, paid no particular attention to Severn as he swung into the center of town. Newcomers from the American side of the Rio Bravo were no novelty in San Jose. On their way south to safety, or north to plunder, the owlhoots paid the exorbitant prices for the food and the drink and the beds and the women, and moved on. Nobody in San Jose wanted trouble; so nobody asked any questions. Their visitors were mostly of that well-armed, sharp-eyed breed who were touchy about questions and it was better all around if nobody asked any. Feed them, bed them, give them a drink and wish them buena suerte. Then forget their faces, their names if they had ever given one, the horses they rode and the direction they took. A man cannot be killed for what he truly does not know, verdad!
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