by Chuck Tyrell
Wynn sneered. “You waving that scattergun around just to scare us Cahills?”
“Just playing things safe,” Webber said. “Cahill, you mind my taking a look in that safe you got on the second floor?”
“Can’t do that, Webber. You got no right.”
Webber took a deep breath. “I’m the one with the badge, Cahill. This may be Bogtown, but it’s still part of Ponderosa, and I’m the law.”
Cahill smirked. “That so? You figure there’s some way to make me open that safe for you?”
“There is.” Webber eared back the hammers of the sawed-off shotgun, but the moment the marshal’s hand moved to the hammers, Wynn Cahill palmed his Colt and shot Webber just below the breastbone. Webber stumbled backwards. His dying fingers triggered the shotgun into the ceiling. He fell on his back, his head crashing on the hardwood floor.
The Cahills watched as the marshal tried to suck air into his punctured lungs while his dying heart pumped blood out his ruptured pulmonary artery into his chest cavity. His heels beat a weak tattoo on the floor; then he went limp.
“Damn,” Wynn said. “Why’d he have to die so quick?”
Chapter Two
Matt Stryker reined his Arabian stallion to a stop in front of the county courthouse in Yuma. He sat in the saddle a moment and scrutinized the adobe building. Sheriff Andy Tyner had an office in there and Stryker was bound to deliver the body of Crazy Bill Dent, shrouded in a ground cloth and draped over the saddle of a shaggy brown horse, to Tyner. Cold and stiff as it was, the corpse was still worth a thousand dollars. Stryker wanted nothing more than to be rid of the gruesome load so he could get a shave and a bath and a new suit of clothes.
“Boy,” he called to a youngster rolling a hoop down the street.
The boy caught the hoop with his stick. “Whacha got on that other horse?” he asked.
“Dead man,” Stryker said.
“No guff?”
“Deader than an ear-shot hog.”
The boy took a step back and watched the corpse from the corner of his eye.
“Do you want to earn a dime?”
“A whole dime? What do I gotta do?”
“Run into the sheriff’s office and tell him Matt Stryker’s here with Crazy Bill, okay?”
The boy dashed into the building before Stryker could change his mind. Stryker fished a bag of Bull Durham from his shirt pocket, found a paper, and rolled a smoke. He lit it with a Lucifer and looked up in time to see the sheriff come out the courthouse door, squinting against the brilliant Arizona sunlight. The boy tagged in Tyner’s footsteps. Stryker dragged on the cigarette and savored the biting, acrid smoke.
Tyner lifted the canvas that covered Crazy Bill’s face. “That’s him, all right.”
“Can you take the corpse off my hands, sheriff? I’m tired of hauling it around” Stryker held out the reins of the dead man’s horse.
“Just take Crazy over to Jim Beckworth’s, would you? I’ll have your voucher ready when you get back.” Without waiting for Stryker’s answer, the sheriff turned on his heel and left him with an odoriferous dead body to deliver to the undertaker. The boy stood still, his eyes on Stryker’s face. Stryker fingered a coin from his vest pocket. “Much obliged, kid,” he said, and flipped the dime to the boy.
“Thanks, mister,” the boy shouted at Stryker’s receding back, but the man in black didn’t answer.
“Man! I get two hundred for going all the way to Tucson to pick up a jail breaker and you clear a thousand. Somehow it don’t seem fair.” Andy Tyner handed the bank draft to Stryker with a big smile on his face.
Stryker folded the draft and put it away. “Thanks, Sheriff. If Crazy Bill hadn’t got on the wrong side of all those ranchers in Cheyenne, he’d not have been worth a hundred.”
Tyner mopped his perspiring face with a blue bandana. “Hot enough to fry horny toads,” he said.
Stryker offered a slim smile. Though he wore black over white and gray, he rarely broke a sweat. He reckoned it might have something to do with his plantation upbringing. “Yes, quite warm,” he said. “What lucrative dodgers might you have today, Sheriff?”
Tyner reached into a bottom drawer and brought out a double handful of wanted sheets. “Here. Help yourself. Only a couple new and they ain’t worth much.”
The boy with the barrel hoop stuck his head in the door. He took a swallow to help him catch his breath. He looked at Stryker from the corners of his eyes as if he were afraid of the big man.
“What’s up, Robby?” the sheriff said.
“Well . . . I mean . . . I was over to the station talking to Jenks and I told him about that dead man, that Crazy Bill, and he wanted to know who cotch him and I told him it were Matt Stryker and he sat up in his chair all straight and surprised and he said, ‘why I’ve been holding a telegram for Mr. Stryker,’ and I volunteered to deliver the telegram because I knowed Mr. Stryker personal and . . . well . . . here it is.” He held out the yellow Western Union form toward Stryker.
“Who would be wiring me?” Stryker mused.
“Fletcher Comstock, Mr. Stryker,” the boy said.
Stryker gave the boy a sharp look and a faint smile. “Fletcher Comstock, eh? What would he want with me, I wonder?”
“Wants you to be marshal up to Ponderosa,” the boy said.
Stryker’s brows shot up and he barked a laugh. “Do you always read messages addressed to others?”
“Oh no, sir, well, not usually, er, um, yes, sir, mostly I do.” The boy scrubbed the oiled wood floor with a bare toe.
Stryker unfolded the yellow telegram. URGENT U CUM PNDRSA BE MRSHL 100 A MO N FINES STOP F COMSTOCK
A faraway look came to Stryker’s eyes as he stared out the window across the Colorado River toward California. He owed Comstock for Virginia City. “Reckon I’ll ride for Ponderosa,” he said. “Best turn a man down in person.”
“Stryker’s coming.” Word spread through Ponderosa like lightning fire through dry jack pines.
“That’s Stryker,” women whispered on the boardwalk in front of the general store as the tall man rode past. They noticed his black frock coat was hitched back to uncover the ivory stocks of an Army Colt. They saw the straight-brimmed Stetson pulled low over slits of eyes in which cold blue ice glittered. They eyed the brocaded vest, the striped California britches, the golden yellow cravat, and the polished Wellington boots mounted with spurs that had no rowels, just small golden knobs.
Matt Stryker ignored the gathering crowd. He’d come to decline Fletcher Comstock’s job offer. That’s all.
The stallion pranced as a wagon passed. His headstall and saddle gleamed like Stryker’s boots. The horse seemed proud to bear his rider. “Stop, Saif,” Stryker said, and the Arabian halted at a hitching rail. The sign said Comstock Hotel. It seemed a likely place to look for Fletcher Comstock. Stryker dismounted, leaving the reins looped over the small saddle horn, and climbed the steps to the hotel’s front door. People parted at his approach.
“Don’t you dare touch me!”
Stryker turned at the strident tone. Three men had a young woman cornered on the boardwalk.
“Boss wants to talk to you,” said one of the men.
“I have no intention of talking to Nate Cahill, and you can relay that message, Tag Riddle.”
The big man called Tag Riddle took the woman by the forearm. “Boss says you’re to come.”
“Let go of me!”
A Mexican-looking man reached for her other arm. “Pardón, miss. El patrón. He insists.”
The third man stood against the wall, arms folded, stoic.
The woman screeched.
Stryker moved swiftly, drawing his Colt as he strode toward the men. Tag Riddle turned at the approach of Stryker’s footsteps just in time to take the barrel of Stryker’s pistol across the side of his head. He dropped in a heap. On the back swing, Stryker’s gun came down on the crown of the Mexican’s hat. He dropped to his haunches, holding his head in his hands.
&nbs
p; The pound of running feet came from up the boardwalk, as a man with a star on his vest came rushing toward the group.
“Are you all right, miss?” Stryker took the woman’s elbow.
She jerked away. “Don’t you touch me either, or I’ll have the law on you.”
Stryker showed his half smile. “Heard there was no law in Ponderosa,” he said.
“He’s the law,” she said, pointing at the approaching man with a star. “That’s Deputy Marshal Dan Brady.”
Brady skidded to a halt, nearly out of breath. “What’s the ruckus?”
“The young lady is all right. Does that star on your pocket mean anything?”
Hardly more than a boy, the man with the star couldn’t meet Stryker’s hard eyes. Blond hair leaked from under his sweat-stained hat. His blue work shirt and well-worn Levi’s topped a pair of mule-ear boots run over at the heels. The man gulped, but the girl spoke. “I said he was Dan Brady, our deputy marshal, mister.”
“And who might the marshal be?”
The young deputy finally recovered his power of speech. “Brax Webber got killed in Bogtown ten days ago,” he said.
“Hmm, well, these men were trying to do this woman harm. Throw them in jail.”
Brady pulled an enormous converted Dragoon Colt. “Yes, sir,” he said. He prodded the big man with a toe. “Get up, Riddle. You, too, Morales.” The ruffians struggled to their feet. “Let’s go. You all got a nice comfortable cell waiting. Begging your pardon, Miss Prudence.”
Stryker still held the Colt in his right hand. He nailed the man against the wall with his cold blue stare. “Are you with them?” Stryker nodded toward the ruffians.
“We ride together sometimes.”
“Name?”
“They call me Breed.”
“You didn’t help.”
“Don’t cotton much to bothering women.”
Stryker nodded. “Go tell your boss what happened.”
“He’ll already know.”
“You ride with that kind, you ride into trouble. Mind yourself, Breed.”
The dark man nodded, then stepped away.
“May I escort your somewhere, miss?” Stryker asked the woman.
“I’m perfectly able to fend for myself,” she said, tossing her head.
Stryker gave her a thin smile. “Yes, I saw how well you did that a moment ago.”
“Matt!”
Stryker turned toward the hotel doorway. He smiled. “I came here just to talk with you, Fletcher,” he said.
“Glad you’re here, by God. We need you!” Fletcher Comstock looked like a lumberjack fresh from the woods. Stryker couldn’t help wondering if there were sawdust in the lumber magnate’s hair. Lumber magnate. Back in Virginia City, Stryker had been a green lawman and Comstock a lean prospector with big dreams. The two were the only ones left of a ten-man posse that chased a bunch of Paiutes. But between them, they survived.
“Where should we talk?” Stryker asked.
“My office?”
“Any coffee?”
Comstock grinned. “We’ll get some,” he said. “Come on.”
“Stay, Saif,” Stryker said to his stallion, and left the horse standing in front of the Comstock Hotel. Stryker went into Clark’s Kitchen next to the hotel to wait while Comstock drummed up a pot of coffee and two earthenware mugs.
In Fletcher Comstock’s office, the two men sipped Arbuckles’ finest for a while without speaking.
“Got your wire in Yuma, Stryker said at last.
Comstock searched Stryker’s eyes. “I sent telegrams all over the by-God country,” he said. “Figured you’d run into one somewhere.”
“Can’t do it, Fletcher.”
“What?”
“Marshal your town.”
“You saw what it’s like around here. Dan Brady just ain’t got the right stuff. What I mean is, he’s all right as a deputy, but he can’t make rannies into law-abiding folks all by himself.”
“I’m not your man, Fletcher. There’s a bunch of lawmen who could do better. Bill Breckenridge would be good. I hear Johnny Behan’s out of a job right now. Or one of the Earp brothers. Tombstone doesn’t need all three of them. With your lumber and the rail spur up here like this, you got a good town going, Fletcher. Get yourself a good lawman, not a bounty hunter.”
Comstock stared at the table, took a sip of coffee, heaved a long sigh, and lifted his eyes to Stryker’s. “Matt,” he said, “you’re the hardest man I know. Honest to a fault. No give. No back down. And you’ve worn a star before. You’re what Ponderosa needs if we’re going to grow up.”
Stryker slowly shook his head. “No, I’m not, Fletcher. You need a man who cares. I just don’t give a damn. I do my part by tracking down those with prices on their heads and putting them out of circulation.”
“Mighty risky business.”
“Like I said. I just don’t give a damn. Those carpetbaggers killed my Martha and burned me out. Nothing left for me to give a damn about. Never again. No, Fletcher. I can’t accept your offer.”
“Damn. Double damn.” Comstock sighed again, then lifted the coffee pot. “We might as well finish off the coffee before you go.
Stryker smiled his thin smile. “Glad you understand, Fletcher,” he said, holding out his cup. “Excellent coffee, that.”
Comstock pled no more. And Stryker, stubborn in his own right, was happy the lumberman didn’t keep jabbing.
“You go ahead, Matt,” Comstock said when the coffee was gone. “I’ve got paperwork to do, by God. Seems I never get finished.”
Stryker stood and carefully placed his Stetson on his head. “Thanks, Fletcher,” he said. “I’d like to help, but I’m not the right man. I reckon you know that.”
Comstock waved his hand. “Can’t force you to do something you don’t feel right about,” he said.
As Stryker left the Comstock Log and Lumber Company, he heard Saif scream in hurt and anger. Stryker broke into a run. The stallion screamed again, and the sound of breaking wood and shouting cowboys came as Stryker pounded down the graveled street. The cowboys were waiting for Stryker. As he rounded the corner, a loop dropped over his head and pinned his arms to his sides. Saif was down and kicking, but a cowboy with a bloody knife shouted, “Got the damned thing,” and waved a bloody testicle above his head. The cowboy with the rope jerked Stryker off his feet and loped his pony down the hillside toward Bogtown, dragging Stryker behind.
The cavalcade of cowboys grouped in front of Old Glory. Stryker struggled to his feet in time for two more loops to drop over his head and pin him in a three-way bind. Nate Cahill stepped through the batwing doors of Old Glory, drawing on a pair of doeskin gloves. “Heard you buffaloed two of my men, Stryker,” he said. “Can’t have you doing that in my town.”
Stryker stopped struggling to pin Cahill with his ice-blue stare.
Cahill grinned. “Don’t give me the evil eye, Stryker. Time I finish, you’re gonna wish you never even heard of Ponderosa.” Cahill wrapped his hand around a bar of lead specially fitted to the inside of his fist. He lifted Stryker’s chin with the fingers of his left hand and smashed his right into Stryker’s face, crushing the cheekbone.
Stryker grunted. “Do your damndest, Cahill. But you’d better kill me. If you don’t, you won’t be able to sleep nights. You’ll never know when I’ll be there.”
“The hell you say. You. Stay. Out. Of. My. Town.” With each word, Cahill smashed a lead-filled fist into Stryker’s face, pulverizing bone and tearing flesh.
The cowboys had to hold Stryker up as Cahill beat him a final dozen blows. The bounty hunter’s face was bruised, battered, and broken beyond recognition.
“Bring his horse,” Cahill rasped, his breath coming in gasps.
The cowboys towed the half-castrated Arabian at the end of half a dozen lariats. The big horse fought and screamed until a broncbuster eared him down. They tied Stryker into the saddle, facing backwards. Somehow he was able to sit up, though his eyes were swol
len shut and his jaw was at an angle.
“This is my town, Stryker. You remember that, or next time the penalty will be more severe,” Cahill said. “This is my town!”
Cahill pulled off his white planter’s hat. “Turn the horse loose.” The broncbuster let the stallion up and Cahill slapped him across the rump with the big hat. The Arabian lit out on a dead run with Matt Stryker clinging to the saddle, backwards. Cowboy laughter followed him as Saif ran down Corduroy Road toward Camp Kinishba.
Chapter Three
Stryker met Tom Hall at Cory Cooley’s White House. The gunman stepped lightly through the door and moved left along the wall. Stryker gave him time to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior, then waved Hall over.
“Sit and have some coffee, Tom.” Stryker’s voice rasped; low and husky, almost a whisper.
“My God, what happened to your face?”
“That’s part of it,” Stryker said, fingering the lumps of scar tissue on his right cheek.
“Okay, what’s going down?”
Stryker told him what happened in Ponderosa. “Right now, Nate Cahill thinks he’s King of the Mountain in that town. I turned Fletcher Comstock down when he asked me to tame the town, then those rowdies roped and beat me, and half-gelded Saif. The time has come to make Ponderosa a respectable place, and I need you to watch my back.”
Tom Hall leaned back in his chair. “Pay?”
“Five hundred out front and half any fines we levy.”
Hall whistled. “I ain’t worth that kind of money.”
“Tom, Cahill’s got a nasty bunch in Ponderosa. I want one man I can trust to do the right thing when the cards are all on the table. I don’t spend much money drinking and such, and I’ve got a bit socked away. It’ll be worth the money to me to have you back me up.”
“Tell you what. I’ll take two hundred now and we’ll see when the job’s finished if you owe me anything.”
Stryker thrust out a hand and Tom Hall shook it.
Fletcher Comstock pored over ledgers in the yellow light of a coal-oil lamp. Three more shipments of ponderosa pine lumber would give him the money for another steam saw and a planer mill.