by Burt Kroll
Burt Freeman appeared from the dust and grinned at Merrill.
“Come to keep an eye on us?” he demanded. “I reckon we’ll be through here around the middle of the afternoon.” He turned and looked at the dust cloud approaching from the south and nodded slowly. “We ain’t gonna be clear of town before Big J arrives. I figure you’re gonna be knee-deep in trouble by dark, mister.”
“I hope not, for the sake of your men,” Merrill replied. “If there is shooting then it’ll be hard on anyone who bucks the law.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“You know better than that. We lawmen are right in the middle. That’s how it is and how it will stand. There’s not gonna be any trouble in town, and we’ll be around to see that none of your outfit comes across the town limits tonight.”
“We’ll be moving south again in the morning,” Freeman said. “I figure the boys will wanta do some last celebrating before facing the long trail south.”
“You better tell them they’d be well advised to head south to the next town along the trail home,” Merrill said. “If you don’t want any bloodshed among your outfit then get them to pull out.”
“They won’t do a thing until Big J have put their cattle safely in these pens,” Freeman said. “We’re cattlemen first, and we may even help Big J get their herd penned up. But after that it’s anyone’s guess about what will happen. All I do know for sure is that I wouldn’t wanta be in the boots of any man who figures to get between the two outfits.”
Merrill nodded. “Then I’ll probably see you through gunsmoke later,” he said grimly. “We’re not having any trouble inside of town limits. There are women and children there and they’ve got to be protected.”
“My men are reasonable and they got nothing against the town. I figure they’ll settle for a fight out here on the flats. But you’re a county lawman and you’re committed to keeping the peace even outside of town limits.”
“That’s right, but we’re not fools, and if two bunches of grown men want to cause mayhem where they won’t harm anyone but themselves then I figure we can stand by and pick up the pieces afterwards.”
“I’ll pass that information on to my men,” Freeman promised. He glanced south again, and jerked a thumb in that direction. “Looks like Will Edsel of the Big J outfit is coming in ahead of his herd to see the buyers. I’m sure glad I got here before him. Edsel is a mean hombre.”
“I’ll have a talk with him, kind of acquaint him with the situation here, and he’ll be able to pass on word to his crew.” Merrill went to his horse and mounted, pulling his reins free of the fence.
He glanced down at Freeman, who was smiling, and lifted a hand as he moved away to meet the two riders coming in from the south, following the wide trail of flattened earth made by the arrival of Freeman’s herd earlier. He drew a sharp breath as he rode within hailing distance of the newcomers, aware that the moment of action was fast approaching. Time was passing inexorably, bringing forward the fate of every man, woman and child in town, and he knew all too keenly that the manner in which the law handled this tender situation would have some effect upon its outcome. If the law was too heavy-handed with the cow outfits then there would be trouble just for the hell of it. But if the deal was handled correctly then the outfits themselves would take account of the friendliness of the local people and stay out of the town.
“Howdy,” Merrill called, and the two approaching cowmen turned their mounts slightly to approach him as he reined up and leaned his hands upon his saddlehorn. Sunlight glinted upon the deputy star pinned to his shirt front.
“Howdy,” replied the older of the two cattlemen. He was medium-sized, muscular, and in his early forties, a grizzle-faced man who had spent most of his life in the great outdoors, with clear blue eyes and a craggy chin which jutted pugnaciously. “I see Burt Freeman is nearly through here. I heard he was ahead of us. Will those pens be clear by early evening, Deputy?”
“Yeah. Your herd can move straight on in,” Merrill said as they reined up before him. He studied the second man, who was in his twenties and looked like a gunhand. He was wearing his gun on the left, low down and tied to his thigh, and he had cold brown eyes that seemed to lack even the slightest sense of emotion.
“I hope you had a good trip along the trail,” Merrill continued.
“That ain’t what you rode out here to meet me for,” came the brusque reply from Edsel. “I’ve heard tell of the trouble Freeman’s outfit plan to spring on us. Well, after the way they acted in Abilene last year they can have all the trouble they want.”
“I’m here to talk to you,” Merrill said quietly. “But I want you to know how the law stands in this and that’s all. Freemen’s men figure to ride clear of this range tomorrow, and your outfit will be here this evening. Soon as your stock is penned the men will wanta hit the saloons. Well, there are two saloons in town and we figure your two outfits should be kept separate because of the talk of trouble that’s in the air. How we see it, and I’m talking for the law, if your two bunches wanta tangle with each other, or figure to settle any unfinished business between you, then it’s got to take place outside of town limits. There are innocent women and children in town, and we plan to protect them.”
“No one is gonna tell me what my outfit can or cannot do,” Edsel said angrily, bristling immediately.
“Better listen to him, Mr Edsel,” the younger cattleman said, his cold eyes on Merrill’s face. “I know this deputy. He’s Ward Merrill. He was in Abilene about ten years ago, and stopped Wild Bill Gotch and his boys dead in their tracks. You must remember that. I figure anything Merrill has to say has got to be listened to. If you don’t go along with him then you won’t have enough men left tomorrow to put the herd on to a train.”
Edsel tightened his lips as he stared at Merrill, and then he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Your face looks kind of familiar. I figured I knew you from some place. But you dropped out of circulation around Abilene.”
“I gave up law-dealing and settled down, but this trouble has brought me out of retirement. I want it to pass over without a lot of shooting, Edsel. You better warn your boys when you get back to your outfit that they’re welcome to come into town and use the smaller of the two saloons. But they better not start looking for Freeman’s crew inside of town limits. We’ve got a crew of some fifteen special deputies standing by and they’re all armed with twelve-gauge shotguns. I hope it doesn’t come to a stand-up fight. If your men figure they got any grievance against Freeman’s bunch then meet them out of town and let them fight it out.”
“You’re the county law,” Edsel said. “Would you stand by and let them fight out of town?”
“We’ll stand by to pick up the pieces afterwards,” Merrill said.
“All right. You’re being fair to us so we’ll give it a whirl.” Edsel gigged his mount forward. “I’ll see that my crew to get to know what the situation is here, and you can count on my help around town, Merrill, so long as you can get Burt Freeman to co-operate.”
“He already knows the score, and God help anyone who doesn’t go along with the law. Thanks for listening to me, Edsel. You and your men will be welcome in town so long as there’s no trouble.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Edsel replied, “but you know what trail drovers are like. I hope we can hold this down. I don’t wanta lose any men.”
He rode on, and the younger man with him remained for a moment, looking speculatively at Merrill.
“I remember you well,” he commented. “I hope there won’t be any trouble between the two outfits, but I reckon there will be. The boys lost some pards last year in the fight in Abilene, and they’ve been boiling over about it ever since. You better be ready for trouble.”
“We are ready,” Merrill told him grimly, and shook his head. “If there are any level-headed men among your crew then talk to them, try to get them to hold it down otherwise there will be a lot of empty saddles when you ride south again, and Boot Hill w
ill have a whole new influx of permanent residents.”
“And we’ll likely be among them,” the gunman retorted. “I’m Cole Palmer, by the way. You won’t remember me, but I saw you in action in Abilene, and it was something I never forgot. I hope I don’t have to see you in action again.”
“My sentiments entirely,” Merrill responded. “See you around, Palmer.”
“So long,” the man replied, and rode on to catch up with his boss.
Merrill sighed as he returned to the cattle-pens, and Burt Freeman was waiting for him.
“How is Edsel?” the trail boss asked. “Prickly like a hedgehog?”
“And then some, but he doesn’t want trouble any more than you do.” Merrill scratched his chin.
“That’s the whole point.” Freeman spoke through his teeth. “Me and Edsel are trail bosses. We don’t want trouble. But if you listen to the men themselves you’ll get a different picture. They’re looking forward to trouble like it was the celebrations of the Fourth of July. There’s gonna be trouble, mister, and I don’t see any way of stopping it.”
Merrill nodded soberly, and turned to look at the approaching dust cloud. It was not perceptibly nearer, but he knew it was drawing closer all the time, and he looked into the honest face of Burt Freeman and spoke through his teeth.
“Nobody likes this, but if you can get your men finished up around here and then moved out it will help. Do what you can, huh?”
“I’ll have no control over them when they’ve loaded the last steer into the cars,” Freeman retorted. “I’ll pay them off and that will be the end of it as far as Tm concerned. The men will be on their own.”
“Well, impress on them that if they stick around town tonight looking for trouble some of them may be staying on permanent. That’s the last thing we want, but we are just as determined to stop a fight as they are to force one. I figure that’s a good set-up for a battle, huh?”
“Looks that way to me,” Freeman said, and that was the last word on the matter.
Merrill stuck around the cattle-pens until noon, then rode into town to get some food. He reported to the sheriff, who informed him that he had spoken with Edsel and laid down the law, but the indications were that there was nothing anyone could do to avoid a clash between the two outfits. All they could hope was that the action would take place outside of town.
But Merrill did not forget the other problem he was facing. Grit Brannigan had been paid to kill him, and was no doubt awaiting the coming action with professional patience. It meant that a tricky situation would become even more dangerous, and Merrill realized that he could not afford to relax. Tension seemed to choke him as he went to the store for a meal, and he had to force away his cares and appear light-hearted in front of Kay and Lonnie. But the day was wearing away inexorably, and he wondered just who would still be alive come midnight and who would be dead and slated for Boot Hill.
There was only one man in town who was looking forward to the future with any eagerness and that was Pete Ogden, the undertaker. The sound of hammering coming from the rear of his parlor indicated that he was preparing for a rush of custom, and the otherwise silent town seemed to reverberate to the sound of the ceaseless hammers. Nails were being knocked into coffins, and soon those coffins would receive the occupants destined to fill them for eternity, and Merrill could not help but brood upon the fact that he had less chance than any of coming through the fighting. The dice seemed loaded against him.
Ten
By nightfall, the tension in Portville had increased to an intolerable height, and Merrill was on the street near Maitland’s big saloon as the trail-hands of Freeman’s outfit came riding along the street, whooping and yelling like Indians. They had finished loading their steers on the train, which had departed, and had been paid off and were free of the duties which bound them to Burt Freeman. Now they were looking for a good time and the opportunity to work off their excess of energy and desire for diversion, having money in their pockets and pleasure in their hearts. But they were a wild and woolly bunch, Merrill noted as he stood in the shadows by the saloon as they hauled their mounts to a halt outside and dismounted in dust. They were boisterious, relieved to be rid of the cattle they had brought up from Texas, and they would not stop celebrating until all their pay was gone.
They trooped into the saloon and Merrill eased forward to peer through a grimy window. They were lining up at the bar, urging the tender to set up their drinks and to keep the liquor and beer flowing, and Merrill wondered again about the death of Chet Wood. The gunman must have been killed by Maitland, and the bartender had unlocked the back door of the jail. The thought reminded Merrill that he would have to face Grit Brannigan, and if he managed to beat the gunman then he would confront Maitland himself with the information he had. It would give him great pleasure to throw the saloon man in a cell and lose the key.
Hooves pounded the street and Merrill stepped forward to the edge of the sidewalk as Sheriff Oakley appeared, riding in from the cattle-pens. He reined into the sidewalk when he spotted Merrill’s massive figure, and sighed heavily as he dismounted and stepped upon the sidewalk.
“Edsel’s outfit are putting the last of their herd into the pens,” he observed. “Then half the bunch at least will get cleaned up and head for the saloon. I’ve told them which one they can use, and Edsel has warned his men that he’ll take a gun to them if they step out’ve line. But I’m not happy that we can prevent trouble. You know what’s likely to happen. Someone from one camp will sneak across to the other and yell a challenge. Then all hell will break loose. But I see some of our deputies are on the street, and they’re carrying shotguns. If there is any trouble then there’ll be a lot of cowpunchers ready for burial come sun-up.”
Merrill nodded soberly, not wishing to think of that eventuality. He hoped everyone would show good sense and avoid trouble, but he also knew the caliber of these cowpokes, and he fancied there would be shooting before the sun came up. He watched Oakley go on to the law office, and then peered through the window of the saloon once again, noting that Maitland was there near the bar, engaged in conversation with the trail-hands. He fancied that it would suit Maitland if shooting erupted, for then his pet killer could go into action, and Merrill wondered how best to handle that aspect of the situation.
He did not see Grit Brannigan, and wondered what to make of the gunman’s absence. When he looked around at the shadows, he could imagine the gunman hiding in them and watching for him, and he realized just how vulnerable he was. But there were deputies on the street, watching all movement, and they had orders to prevent the two cattle factions coming together.
The noise of a tinny piano playing in the big saloon sent harsh echoes across the street, but when the piano player paused a sudden silence descended upon the street, and Merrill, his ears and eyes working overtime, caught the furtive sound of scraping somewhere over his head. He was standing under the floor of the balcony that fronted the saloon and realized that someone was up there in the darkness. He immediately thought of Grit Brannigan, and loosened his sixgun in its holster as he made for the alley at the side of the building. He reached the corner in time to catch a glimpse of a dark mass moving through the air from the saloon to the roof of the building opposite, then caught the sound of a thump as someone landed. At that moment, the piano started playing again and drowned out all further sounds.
Merrill realized that he had seen a man leaping across the alley, and wondered who would want to use the rooftops to move across town without being seen. Then he thought of all the special deputies who were around and set his teeth into his bottom lip. Someone was up to no good.
He went on past the next building, a dress shop, and reached the next alley, pausing at the corner to look and listen. A moment or so later, someone sprang across from building to building, and Merrill, now thoroughly aroused, went on along the street, tiptoeing to avoid making the sun-warped boards creak. Then a voice challenged him and he halted when a special deputy app
roached, shotgun held ready.
“It’s Merrill,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Just checking. “Carry on with your orders.”
The townsman eyed him to make certain of his identity, then went on his way, and Merrill continued along the sidewalk until he reached the alley that separated the gunshop from Maitland’s smaller saloon. When he peered cautiously around the corner, Merrill saw a man’s figure dropping into the alley from the roof of the gunshop. He patted his sixgun and was about to call a challenge when he figured it would be better to wait for developments. He remained at the corner, unmoving but ready to strike with the swiftness of a coiled snake.
Riders were coming into the town from along the street, and from his position, Merrill could see them in the light of the few strategically placed lanterns along the sidewalks which threw yellow pools of light across the rutted dust. They were the men from the Big J outfit who had been given some time off duty. Only a few unlucky men would be detailed to keep an eye on the penned stock. The rest were here to seek pleasure.
The riders pulled in to the hitchrail in front of the saloon and dismounted, laughing and joking among themselves in much the same way Burt Freeman’s bunch had done. Merrill waited until they had entered the saloon, his narrowed eyes searching the shadows of the alley for the man who had crossed the roofs. He saw a faint movement in the dense blackness, and then a man craned forward out of the night and looked through a side window into the lighted saloon. Merrill thinned his lips when he recognized the big figure of Grit Brannigan. He tightened his grip upon the butt of his gun and prepared to challenge the gunman, for it was fairly obvious that Brannigan was about to start the very trouble everyone hoped to avoid.
The gunman snaked his right-hand gun clear of its holster and thrust the muzzle through a pane of glass. Merrill made a fast draw but was too late. Brannigan’s gun blasted, throwing six slugs into the saloon, and the hammering detonations made Merrill’s ears protest. But he thumbed back his hammer as Brannigan turned to vanish into the darkness and fired three quick shots. Now he knew what the gunman was up to. He had fired into the saloon at the Big J outfit to make them believe they were being attacked by Burt Freeman’s crew. It must have been done on Maitland’s orders, and in the resulting shooting and confusion, Brannigan would make his try for Merrill himself.