‘Spur don’t mean nothin’ to you,’ the Kid snarled.
‘Hit don’t seem,’ Ben said loftily, ‘he mean anythin’ to you either. But he should ought. He save your life, man. There ain’t nothin’ you got you don’t owe him. I ain’t surprised you takin’ this here attitude, mind you. The kind of thing I expect from white trash like you.’
The Kid’s twenty-year-old pride puffed up his rage at these words and in the rage was some of his fear for Cusie Ben.
‘I shot men to death for less than that,’ he said through his teeth in the traditional manner.
The Negro looked at him. In spite of the heat of the stove, he looked as cool as all get out. The sight enraged the Kid further.
‘When their backs was turned or when they was lyin’ he’pless in their beds,’ he said.
‘One day,’ the Kid screamed, ‘you’re goin’ to drive me too far.’
‘I sho do hope I drives you outa sight,’ Ben said. ‘You look real comic standin’ there like a badman. You doin’ hit for yo’self? You sho ain’t makin’ no impression on me, son.’
The Kid turned and stormed out of the cabin. One day, he promised himself, he’d catch Ben without his gun on. But when could you catch the old sonovabitch without his gun being within an inch of his hand?
He sulked, sitting on the corral, staring at the broncs he and Ben were working on. They’d caught them in the hills the week before and were now topping them off for sale. There was a ready market around these parts for saddle stock and the two of them were doing a fair business. He sulked there, fuming and promising himself all sorts of wonderfully dire things he would do to the Negro when he had a good chance. He stayed there on the corral fence while delightful smells were wafted to him on the soft breeze from the cabin. He pictured Cusie Ben sitting at the table enjoying the stew. He knew Ben’s stews. Men dropped in from miles around to eat them. If they had seen what Ben put in them, they wouldn’t have been so enthusiastic.
Finally, the Kid could stand it no longer. He swallowed his pride, climbed down from the fence, said: ‘What the hell,’ and tramped into the cabin.
‘You left any of that stew,’ he demanded in a surly voice, ‘or did you hog it all?’
The Negro, cleaning his plate with a piece of bread, looked up in amazement.
‘You mean you wanted some?’ he said. ‘Now, I thought anythin’ I cook’d choke you clean to death. There was some left, but I throwed it out.’
The Kid choked again.
‘You what?’ he shouted.
‘I throwed it out.’
The Kid went to the stove and lifted the lid of the pot. The aromatic steam hit him. He sighed with relief. He ladled a goodly portion into a plate and sat at the table. When he had wolfed down several mouthfuls, he said: ‘Spur didn’t say he wanted you,’ he said. ‘He wants a real good man he can rely on.’
‘That leaves you way out,’ Ben said calmly.
‘Now don’t you try an’ rile me again,’ the Kid said. The stew was getting to him. It had a soothing effect.
Ben said: ‘Sam don’t send for nobody unless he in real trouble. No harm in us both goin’. I gettin’ real stale catchin’ up the wild ones and sittin’ on my butt. Time I got me some travel. Maybe I’ll get me a little fun down in Crewsville.’
The Kid argued, but he knew that he might as well have butted his head up against a stone wall arguing with Ben. It didn’t get him anywhere except mad. And so it happened that a couple of hours later, they shut the cabin door, caught themselves a couple of good horses, turned the rest out to grass and loaded a big and particularly ugly mule with their gear. Albert was Sam Spur’s and he had kicked and bitten men from the Missouri to the far west. His heart and soul was all mule and he could run from breakfast to supper without rest. They handled him with the respect due to him. When they were ready, they mounted and rode south.
Chapter Five
Sam Spur had never seen Crewsville before, though he had heard of it. This was the town that had been tamed by Remington McAllister. All the details of the struggle McAllister had waged here had been recounted to him many times. Spur felt as he entered from the east and rode through the dust of the streets that he felt the presence of the great gunfighter. There yonder was the balcony from which he had shot down a man who had helped to catch him in a crossfire. There was the alleyway from which he had fought.
Times had changed now, or so men said.
Spur didn’t believe that much. Killing was still taking place. The only difference was that men had died in those days face to face. Now they blew out a man’s brains from behind, they used a knife on a defenseless woman.
Harmsworth led the way to the livery where a monosyllabic old man greeted them and took their horses. They walked back along the street to the sheriff’s office and found there the deputy, Mike Student. He and Spur already knew each other. They shook and Student offered drinks. Spur declined.
He looked Student over, reminding himself of what he had heard about the man. A cow-country deputy, willing, not overly bright, average. He’d never heard that he wasn’t honest. He asked himself the usual question—Why’d he take the job?—And he didn’t know the answer so he let it ride.
Student was about thirty years of age, hair receding from his forehead. A not very smiling man. He took himself pretty seriously. Not much imagination there.
‘What do you know about it all, Mike?’ Spur asked. ‘I heard the story up to when Dick here rode to fetch me. You learned anything more?’
‘Not much.’ Student seemed a little ashamed of not knowing more. ‘Before he died, Furbee got off a couple of shots. There were two empties in his gun and I didn’t find the lead any place. And there was blood over yonder by the door.’ Spur walked to the door and looked at the plank floor. ‘We scrubbed it, but you can still see where the blood was.’
Spur could. It was a large stain. The gunman who had murdered the sheriff must have been badly hit.
‘He couldn’t of gotten far,’ the deputy said.
‘Anybody sight him getting away?’
‘Mort Gaines from the Lucky Strike reckoned he saw a man ride off east all crouched up in the saddle.’
‘Anythin’ more?’
‘Yeah, this.’ Student went to the desk, opened a drawer and tossed something onto the desk-top. It was a woman’s silk garter decorated by a rose.
Spur stared at it.
‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘Did Furbee have a woman?’
‘He had a woman like every other red-blooded man. Nobody special that I know of.’
‘Could be a clue.’
‘Could be. Furbee wasn’t the kind to collect women’s garters.’ Spur remembered Dick Harmsworth.
‘You sure earned your rest, Dick,’ he said. ‘My thanks to you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Dick said.
He walked out of the office.
Spur said to Student: ‘Furbee leave any notes, anythin’ of that kind?’
‘He wasn’t much of a writin’ man. Had a good memory.’
Spur heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. He walked to the window overlooking the street and looked out.
‘You reckon you have a good memory, Mike?’ he asked.
‘I reckon,’ the man said.
‘Come over here an’ look at this boy.’
Student joined Spur at the window and looked at the rider coming down the street. He knew the rider had just entered town and he had come a long way. The horse was bushed. The rider stopped outside the Lucky Strike, dismounted and tied his horse. He paused by the animal for several minutes and the deputy had the time to take a good look at him.
‘You recognize him?’ Spur asked.
‘Never saw him before in all my life.’
‘Good. In the next twenty-four hours I want him inside your calaboose. Hear?’
‘He did somethin’?’
‘He will.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I told h
im to.’
The deputy looked at the boy again. He looked no older than nineteen or twenty. He was slender and dark, almost dark enough to pass for a Mexican. He wore black dust-covered clothes, fine boots and a black Mexican sombrero. His fine cloth vest was adorned with silver conchos as was the gear on his horse. He wore his gun so low that he didn’t have to raise his right hand to touch the butt.
‘Who is he?’ Student asked.
‘It don’t matter,’ Spur told him. ‘All that matters is you arrest him. But don’t provoke him to draw that gun or you might be dead. We don’t want that, do we?’
‘No, sir,’ said Student and he meant it sincerely. He stood worrying, wondering how he could arrest a young gunny like that without provoking him into drawing his gun.
‘I’m goin’ to check in at the hotel,’ Spur said. ‘Then I’m goin’ to have a hot bath an’ a shave. See you later.’
He walked out of the sheriff’s office and angled across the street to a hotel that called itself the Anderson House. It looked like a nice place. There was carpet in the lobby and there wasn’t too much dust about. He rang the bell on the desk and somebody came from the rear of the building. It was a girl aged about twenty-two. She had dark hair and blue eyes. Her figure was enough to make any man who called himself a man weak at the knees. Spur did his best not to appear too impressed. This was like meeting a rose in the desert.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the young lady.
‘Afternoon,’ said Spur. ‘I’d like a room.’
He reminded himself that he had a girl back on the Cimarron Strip, but it didn’t do much good.
‘Second floor front,’ the girl said efficiently and reached down a key behind the desk. ‘Will you be staying long?’ She smiled when she said this.
Spur reckoned he’d never seen such a smile in his life. He reckoned a man would walk through Hell naked without his boots on for a girl like this.
‘Not long.’ he said.
She reversed the book and said: ‘Would you sign your name?’ He signed his name. She read it upside down: ‘Samuel Spur.’ She raised her eyes and looked at him closely. She’d heard the name. Inside an hour it would be all around town. So much the better. He hoped somebody would start worrying. Worried men made mistakes.
‘You’re the marshal,’ she said. It was almost an accusation.
He shook his head.
‘Deputy,’ he said.
‘You’re here about the murders?’ She spoke almost in a whisper.
‘Yes.’
‘Everybody is very scared, Marshal,’ she told him.
The beautiful breasts heaved a little. He was fascinated. He put his saddlebags on the desk and said: ‘I’m headed for the barber’s. I’ll pick these up on the way back.’
He walked to the door and she watched him until he was out of sight. As he went along the street to the barber’s he had noticed when he rode in, he thought: ‘I hope the Kid doesn’t get a sight of her. I won’t get any work out of him.’
He soaked for an hour in a hot tub in the barber’s. The barber was an Italian named Guiseppe Falcone. He was uneducated but he was intelligent enough. He liked to talk. Men liked to talk to him. He sat and smoked a cigar while Spur soaked and he talked. By the time he stepped out of the tub and toweled himself, Spur knew as much as Guiseppe knew about the two dead men and the dead girl. When Spur had put on a clean shirt and pulled on his pants, and boots, he lay back in the chair and was shaved. This was something he always enjoyed. The Italian did his job with skill. When the operation was finished, Spur rose, put on his hat, thanked the barber, tipped him liberally and walked down the street. He turned left, walked a block and found himself on the edge of the Mexican part of town. There was a different smell here. He liked it.
A man walked past him and stared.
Spur walked on. He kept going till the houses ended and he reached an open yard in front of which there stood a large notice—Damyon’s Freight. There was a corral with a few horses and mules in it; another further on with some oxen. This side of the corral was an open yard with a heavy freight wagon to one side of it and beyond that what looked like a house with an office attached. There wasn’t anything to show that this was a thriving business.
Spur crossed the yard to the door of the office and knocked on it. It was open and beyond he could see a man sitting behind a desk.
The man said: ‘Come.’
He stepped inside.
It didn’t look any more affluent inside here than it did outside. There was dust everywhere and a good many flies too. The battered old desk was covered with papers and there was an open bottle of whiskey at the man’s elbow. The man at the desk was around forty and he didn’t look affluent either.
The man’s face was pleasantly featured. It was that of a man who had lived many years in the wind and the sun. He sported a clipped black mustache. His left eye was missing and so was his left arm. Just the same he looked fit and healthy. Even before he opened his mouth, Spur liked the look of him. Funny how your imagination played you false. After all the stories he’d heard, he had imagined Damyon as a wispy, whining failure of a man. Nobody had mentioned he was the kind of man Spur was looking at now.
This man Damyon fixed Spur with a wide brown eye and smiled. It was a pleasant smile, frank.
‘Howdy,’ he said.
‘Howdy,’ Spur returned. ‘Name’s Spur. I’m a United States Deputy Marshal.’
The freight man rose to his feet and offered his hand.
‘Heard of you,’ he said. His voice was deep and rich. ‘I suppose you’ve come to look into the killings.’
‘That’s right,’ said Spur. The man’s single hand was strong and dry.
‘Sit down. Offer you a drink?’
‘No, thanks all the same.’ Spur lifted a Texas rig saddle off a chair and sat.
The man poured himself a drink and said with a laugh: ‘It doesn’t make you forget a damned thing, but it sure helps.’
Spur smiled with him.
‘I heard a deal about Mart Walker,’ he said. ‘But nobody seems to know him too well. Did you?’
Damyon tossed a drink off.
‘No, I didn’t. Didn’t see much of him. He was either freighting or at home. There wasn’t much chance.’
‘What was your opinion of him?’
‘Folks found him unfriendly. It seemed to trouble them, it didn’t trouble me worth a damn. A man has a right to be like he wants to be. I paid him wages and he earned ’em. I’d trusted Mart with anything. All I had. He was that kind of a man. Simple, but no fool. You paid him wages and you bought his loyalty.’
This interested Spur.
‘You ever have any trouble, Mr. Damyon?’
‘Personal or business?’
‘Any kind of trouble.’
‘I’ve always had trouble, Mr. Spur. You name it, I’ve had it. Bad luck. Bad medicine. Call it what you like. I’m a Jonah to myself. I’m not complaining. A man has to beat these things. I’m an optimist. Tomorrow, next year, the year after—it’ll be different. Everything’ll come right.’
‘You have any special personal trouble right now?’ Spur saw the flush come into the man’s cheeks and added: ‘If you think I don’t have the right to ask a question like that, just remember three people have been killed.’
Damyon frowned and looked benignly fierce with his one eye. ‘I’m remembering,’ he said. ‘I reckon you have good reason to ask anything you want. I’m remembering one of the dead men is Mart Walker and I owe him anything I can give him.’ Somewhere, faintly, Spur smelled a lead.
‘Why do you owe him so much, Mr. Damyon?’
‘I don’t have much of a business,’ Damyon said, ‘but all I have I owe to Mart. He risked his life to save this.’
‘How?’
‘I said I had bad luck.’ The one-eyed, one-armed man poured himself another drink. He didn’t swallow it, but stared pensively into the amber liquid. ‘The worse luck I ever had was when my freight-train was
jumped by renegade Apaches thirty miles this side of Tucson.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No. Mart was in charge that trip. There were three wagons. Bullock teams. Damned slow. The Indians killed one driver and the other run off. Haven’t seen hair or hide of him since. If Mart’d had any sense, he’d of broken down timber too. But he didn’t. He fought ’em off. He hitched up a team and took the wagon carrying the most valuable freight into Tucson.’
‘Did he see these Indians?’
Damyon stared at him unblinkingly for a moment.
‘Funny you should say that,’ he said. ‘That was something he never mentioned.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Mart loaded up in Tucson and drove back here. Came through all right that time. Either the Indians had cleared off the trail or they were scared of Mart’s rifle.’
‘You’re sure Mart was tellin’ the truth?’
‘You can’t be sure any man’s telling the truth. But I reckon I believed Mart.’
‘You have another good reason for sayin’ that?’
The freighter looked surprised.
‘Do you have second sight or something?’ he said. ‘Sure, I had good reason for believing him. I know he was loyal to me because I saw him demonstrate it before my eyes.’
‘How?’
‘Somebody tried to kill me.’
‘When?’
‘Month back. Right here in this office. I was here late one night getting through some paper work. Alan came and fired at me point-blank from the door. I ducked behind the desk. The first shot damned near creased me. If it hadn’t been Mart was taking one of his late night walks, I’d be a goner. Mart didn’t have a gun, but he charged across that yard out there like a crazy longhorn. I heard him yelling fifty yards off. The gunman turned on him. I got my gun out of the drawer here and started blazing away. The man ran off. It was only when Mart came into the office and we had a drink together that I learned he didn’t even have a gun on him. Now do you see why I trusted him?’
‘Yes,’ Spur said. ‘Now I see.’
He thought a while and then he said: ‘You lost two teams of bullocks to the Indians, I reckon.’
The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Page 3