"Now, see here!" Brimstead began, but I just looked at him.
"You set down, Brimstead ... or whatever your name is."
That one hit the mark. It got him in the wind, and for the first time I really believed that story I'd heard--that Brimstead wasn't his real name. He sagged back into his chair as if he'd been punched in the belly, and he sat there staring at his hands on the table before him.
"I'm in the cattle business," I said, "with one herd in the Hole-in-the-Wall country, another herd just outside town. I've got a good partner--he's been a cattle buyer for the eastern market. I'll be driving north when I've finished my business here."
Seeing Kit had made me forget where I was, and who was in town, but suddenly I remembered, and I glanced toward the door. There was no one there.
Somewhere in town I had enemies, and unless Handy Corbin was so inclined, I had not a friend to help me.
"Get your things, Kit," I said. "If you'll have me, we'll be married tomorrow."
"I'll have you, Otis Tom. Oh, I'll have you, all right, and it would be a happy day for pa if he were here to see it."
"You talk like a fool!" Priss flared. "After all I've done for you, to leave a man like Martin Brimstead and take up with a no-account."
"Martin who?" I suggested quietly. "Now, look, ma'am. He spoke of me as a horse thief's son, so it's only fair to ask whohe is. But you ask him, Priss. We don't care." I pushed back my chair and stood up. "Coming, Kit?"
She got up, standing fair and tall before me, trim as a clipper ship. Would I dare take her to the Hole-in-the-Wall? Then, looking into those proud, brave eyes, I knew she would never stay behind. Where I had the courage to go, there she would go also.
When she paused at the foot of the stairs that led to the rooms above, I warned her. "There are men out there a-looking for me, Kit. They are men I have to meet. Remember this: if anything should go wrong, Bob Tarlton, at the doctor's office now, is my partner. He knows about you, and you're to have all that's mine."
"Is it that bad, then?"
"It's that bad, Kit. They are dangerous men, killing men, but I am a fair hand with this." I touched my rifle. "And I've a lot to live for. I'll be meeting you, but I'd be a poor man to tie to if I didn't think of what might come. So stay off the street until I come for you."
"You're going to look for them?"
"For Queenie, the girl that's with them. She's a bad lot, Kit, but I'd like her to tell the marshal about that killing when I got the ivory-handled gun. She was there, and she saw it. She is the only one who can clear me ... there are some in this town right now who believe me guilty."
It was warm in the street that day, warm and sunny, with the gray, silvery boards of the walk hot under foot. Men leaned against the awning posts, smoking limp cigarettes and squinting their eyes against the Cheyenne sun--men who only the night before had been looking to hang me ... at least, some of them.
They looked at me now, and their eyes were cold. Here and there a few might reserve opinion, but they all knew I was free only on condition, and that the matter was not resolved. I also knew, too, that with the coming of night when they got together to talk, and had a few drinks under their belts, they might be out to look for me again.
Pausing briefly before a store window, I glanced at the tall young man reflected there. Yes, I had come a good distance since that day in the village when they had hung pa. My shoulders were broad, and I was strong stronger than most men. Yet the distance I had come was only a fraction of where I had to go to become the man I wished to be.
Suddenly hard boots sounded on the walk, and a loud, bullying voice said, "Hell! There's that horse thief's boy! Looks as if they're weaving a rope for you, boy, just like for your pa."
He stood there before me, and he was big, even bigger than I had expected--broad and thick and strong. There was a stubble of beard on his face, and his small, cruel eyes were sneering at me, his red lips holding the stub of a cigar. It was Stud Pelly.
There was only one language that Stud understood, but it was a language I knew how to speak. Turning my head, I saw a cowhand lazing against the rail. He had a tough, wedge-like face, and cool, measuring eyes. He looked down-at-heel and dust-covered, but I liked the look of him.
"Amigo,"I said, "I have enemies around town. Would you keep them off my back while I tidy up a bit?"
I handed him my rifle, and unfastened my gunbelt, with its empty holster. He took them from me, not smiling, but his eyes went to Stud. "You're taking in a wide belt of country, friend," he said. "Luck to you."
Pelly stood there, his cigar in his teeth, chuckling.
"You don't really mean you're goin' to try to fight me?" he said, as if he couldn't believe it. "You're not somebody to fight, you're somebody to spank!"
"Spank me, then," I said, and hit him.
I mean I tried but I missed. I'd forgotten how good he really was, for he'd served his time on the river boats, where it was knuckle-and-skull until who flung the chunk. I swung, but I was too confident, and when I missed he flattened me. I mean something exploded alongside my head--that hamlike fist of Stud's --and I hit the dust as if I'd been thrown from a sun-fishing bronc.
No sooner did my back strike the ground than panic hit me. He was coming for me, and I knew what he could do with those boots of his. I rolled over, came up with a lunge, and he kicked me in the chest. I went down again, knocked well back, and he rushed at me, his body a solid chunk of beef and bone.
Again I came up and again I went down, and then he rushed me to put his boots to my head and guts. I lunged at him and he spilled over me. He was up as fast as I was and dove at me, head down and charging, meaning to butt me over. I'd heard about that skull of his; he boasted he could break down an oak door with it, and I turned just in time, so he missed me and I tripped him up.
I stood back as he got up, not from fair play but simply to catch my wind. He came at me again, feinting a charging butt, but suddenly looping a heavy overhand right at me. That was more my style and I let it go over my shoulder and smashed a short one to the wind. It was the first time I'd hit him, and I think he was surprised, but he clinched and tried to back-heel me.
He had me off balance and I was going down, so I simply kicked up the other foot and fell, thowing up my feet as I hit the ground. He went over me, and I gave a great shove with my hands and he fell free. I came up fast and caught him on the rise with a right that pulped his lips.
He put the back of his hand to his mouth and stared at the blood, then he came at me, slowly, hands poised to grapple. I feinted, but he did not take the offer, coming right on at me. I stepped back, and back. Suddenly I realized the boardwalk was behind me and that in a moment I'd be flat on my back, so I stepped in, punched to the side of his neck; and when he tried to rush me back so I'd trip, I hooked a short one to his ear.
We stood there then, looking at each other. "How do you like it, Stud?" I said. "Don't welch on me now. I'm going to put a reef in your lip." My right hand was moving but I jabbed with my left, a solid, bone-jarring blow to the mouth, that sore mouth that was already mashed. Blood started to flow, and he dove at me, swinging his short, powerful arms in hooking blows that hurt, every one of them. I braced my legs and let him come, and moved in at the last instant and grabbed by the belt, front and side, and twisting, whirled him around, smashing him head-on into the hitch rail.
The rail broke under the impact, and he sat there stunned, while I stood back, getting my breath. There must have been a hundred people standing about by now, cheering us on. Pelly got up and staggered a little, but he wasn't hurt as much as I'd hoped, for he bulled into me suddenly, going under my punch and butting me in the belly. I felt a stabbing pain and my breath left me in a grunt. I hit the dirt, but was saved by his own weight, which carried him by me.
My breath was gone, but I struggled up, backing off to catch my wind. He came in, slower this time, planning to finish me off, and I let him come. He was bleeding now from a scalp cut too, where hi
s skull had met the rail.
I backed off, gasping, and he closed in. He hit me with a heavy left, pushed me into position with another left, and drew back his massive right fist. Then I moved. I knocked his left aside with my right forearm and chopped down with the right fist, catching him on the cheekbone. Then I threw myself into him., butting him in the face, and grabbing his belt, threw him as I had before. This time he went into the dust.
He was up with a lunge and I hit him left and right in the face, and he went down again. He was slower getting up now, and when he was up I feinted to bring his hands up, and I uppercut to his wind. He bent far over and I chopped down with a hammer blow at his kidney. He screamed, and straightened up, his mouth wide with agony, and I took a full swing at his jaw with a roundhouse left and smashed it. I could hear the bone break, and saw the lower part of his face go askew.
The blow turned him half around and I walked in, put a hand on his shoulder and uppercut to his belly. He started to fall, but I held him up and hit him again.
He went down into the dust, and I turned him over with my boot. "Stud," I said, "the next time you want to take a rope out and hang a man, you remember this little mix-up. When you're able, you leave town. You go back to Tennessee and tell them what happened, and if I ever see you again, I'll whip you again."
Then I walked back to the cowhand who held my rifle and gunbelt. He handed them to me.
"Figured he had you pullin' leather there at first," he said, "but you stayed with him."
"Thanks," I said, and then I looked at him again. "You working, or rustling work?"
"You hiring?"
"I want a man who can ride, handle cattle, and fight if need be."
"Well," he said, "I can fight and ride and handle cattle if need be. That suit you?"
"You just went to work," I said.
Chapter 14
He walked into the hotel with me, and I washed up in a room back of the bar. I had a welt on my cheekbone and my knuckles were sore from the beating I'd given Pelly. By daybreak I'd be feeling all the sore spots.
"You're Otis Tom Chancy," my new cowhand said. "I'm Jumper Cogan. They call me June for short."
He watched me pull down my sleeves, button them, and then get into my vest again. "Otis Tom Chancy, you're one hell of a fist-fighter, but when you go out on the street again you'd better be good with a gun."
"What do you know?"
"Only what the town's talking. Caxton Kelsey is in town, LaSalle Prince and Andy Miller with him. They're gunning for you."
"There were two other men and a woman. What became of them?"
"The woman's right in this hotel got a room on the street. The other two men were Phillips and Gassner, two-by-four rustlers." He rolled a smoke. "You got any other friends?"
So I told him about Tarlton, Handy Corbin, and the men riding with the cattle. "Better let me go get them," he said. "You can always round up the herd if they scatter."
"Uh-uh. We need those cattle, and we're starting north right away. You go on out and hold them. I'll come out when this is over."
He looked at me, incredulous. "You going to tackle them alone?"
"It's my fight, isn't it?"
Thoughtfully, I worked my fingers. My fists had taken quite a beating in the fight. Would my hands stiffen too much? Still, I wasn't going to rely on a six-shooter, but on the rifle.
"Look," I said, "there's one thing you can do." I dug two gold eagles from my pocket. "Take these down to the hardware store and buy me a six-gun. The best one they have."
When he had gone I went up to my room. Right now I needed rest. I propped a chair under the doorknob, pulled off my boots and gunbelt, and stretched out on the bed with my rifle near my hand. I needed to relax, but I also needed to do some contemplating.
Caxton Kelsey was no fool. He had no doubts as to his ability to take me in a gun battle, but the way I saw it he wasn't likely to take any chances at all. There were people in town who still believed I had done the Burgess murder; and I was free simply because all the evidence they had was my possession of Burgess' gun, and because folks in Cheyenne knew Bob Tarlton--some of them knew him in person, some by reputation--and with a good many western men that association cleared me of any guilt. Tarlton had a reputation as a good man and a good citizen, but just the same if Kelsey killed me a lot of people would say it was good riddance.
Kelsey would try to set this one up, I was sure. He would try to have me boxed so I'd have no chance. The thing I would have to do would be to get the jump on him. Instead of facing them all at once, on their own ground, I'd have to take them one or two at a time.
Since Queenie was in this hotel, it was likely Kelsey and the others were here too, or close by. The first thing I must do was learn where they were.
But with all this contemplating, I was tired enough that in a few moments I fell asleep.
A gentle tapping roused me. Glancing at my big silver watch, I saw I'd been asleep more than an hour. I swung my feet to the floor and stepped over beside the door, rifle in hand.
"Si?" I said, using Spanish, which an enemy would not expect.
"It's me, boss. June Cogan."
Moving the chair back with my left hand, I tipped my Winchester to cover the crack in the door and said, "All right, open it and come in slow."
It was Cogan, all right. And Handy Corbin was with him.
"Looks like you roped yourself a maverick," I said to Cogan. "Where'd you dab a loop on this one?"
"He rounded me up," Cogan said, grinning. "Seems like word gets around, and he heard you'd hired me."
"You've got your problems," Corbin said, "I've got mine. And my problem is LaSalle Prince. I've been trying for days to cut him loose from the herd so we can settle a matter."
"I heard he was kin of yours."
"Well, there's a matter of blood-line. It ends right there. The only kin he's got, run with the wolf packs who have the same kind of nature. He killed my brother ... shot him for money."
"Where are they now?" I asked.
He told me that only Queenie was in the hotel. Phillips and Gassner were down on the street. Andy Miller was at the livery stable. LaSalle Prince was in the saloon across the way.
"Where's Kelsey?"
"You've got me. I figured you might know. Looks to me as if they're waitin' for you to come out, Chancy. This time they don't figure on your gettin' out of town."
"Corbin, I'm driving my herd up to the Hole. I'm getting married tomorrow and my wife is going with me, and I don't intend for any no-account gunmen to keep me from it. Nor do I intend to sit here waitin' for them. You say Andy's at the stable? All right, I'll go down and have a talk with him."
"You're crazy! He's all set up for you."
"More than likely he's waiting for me to show up on the street so he can bottle me up, with Prince and those two out there to help, and Kelsey to come in on the kill. He won't be expecting me, but if he is I'm going to give him his chance."
"What do you want us to do?"
"Keep them off my back. That's all. This is my party."
"Not Prince. I've been hunting LaSalle Prince for two years."
"You can have him. Just don't let him get in my way."
The new six-shooter Cogan had bought for me was a beautiful piece of workmanship. After checking the gun, I loaded it from a fresh box of shells, and dropped it into my holster, which was now on my right thigh. Taking up my rifle, I went to the door. "You boys can keep an eye on Gassner and Phillips," I said. "I am going after Miller."
There was no longer any choice. To take a wife into Indian country was bad enough, but with the threat of an attack by outlaws too it was too much. I was going to give Andy Miller the chance of leaving me alone or shooting it out.
He was a fast, accurate man with a gun. Although most men would agree that he was not in Kelsey's class, he was a dangerous man. I had no desire to be known as a good man with a gun. All I wanted now was freedom to live, to raise my cattle, and to build the ki
nd of home I'd always'wanted.
Brimstead was out of the picture. He was a cruel, tyrannical man, but such men dig their own graves, and I felt no urge to be the man to top it off. I had whipped Stud Pelly, and Brimstead was no longer a danger to me.
The Kelsey outfit had tried to kill me. They had knocked me on the head and left me for dead, they had stolen our cattle, and they had come here to hunt me down.
I walked along the hall, and went down the back stairs to the area behind the buildings. There was a scattering of lean-to sheds and outhouses, a couple of corrals, and open grass country dotted with a few shacks. Holding the Winchester in my right hand, I walked along, stepping over bottles, broken shingles, piles of firewood, and the usual truck that is left behind buildings in a hastily constructed town that has not taken the time to clean up.
Inside, I was empty, still. I was walking toward a shoot-out with a very dangerous man, and I told myself I was a fool. I should avoid this, could have avoided it. But it would eventually catch up with me and I was not good at waiting for an axe to fall.
The livery stable was a huge, cavernous building, already weather-beaten. Behind it sprawled corrals and outbuildings. It fronted on the main street; inside there was an open space that separated the two lines of stalls. Above the stalls was the hayloft, now almost filled with hay.
Near the corrals in the rear were several freight wagons scattered over a vacant lot. While I was in the shadow beside one of the wagons it came over me what I was really tackling. Andy Miller was a skilled hand with a gun, who had used one many more times than I had. Not that I was any tenderfoot, for I'd grown up using shooting irons of one kind or another, but this was a mighty fast, tricky man I was going up against. And if somehow I came out of this one alive, there was still Kelsey.
Pausing beside the wagon, I took off my hat and wiped the hatband; after replacing it, I removed the thong from my six-shooter. Was I stalling? For a moment longer I hesitated. The sun was already going down, and it would soon be dusk. I could hear footsteps along the walks as people started for home, or for the restaurants for their evening meal. Farther away I heard a bugle sounding the mess call.
Chancy (1968) Page 14