Chancy
Page 13
Somehow, some way, I had to get out of this place.
The marshal left me, and I was alone. The sun was warm outside ... I worried about my horse, left standing at the hitching rail. I got up and tried the door. It was securely locked. The window bars were set solidly. From up the street I could occasionally hear laughter, the clink of glass, the rattle of a pump at a well, or the slam of a door.
After a while I stretched out on my bunk to consider the situation. There had to be a way out, and I'm a man who has always believed that a man can think his way out of most things if he'll only try hard enough. But no ideas came to me, and presently I fell asleep. When I awoke it was cooler, the sun was far down the sky ... night was coming.
And nighttime meant trouble. Men would be free from their work, they would gather in the saloons to discuss my case, and they would start drinking. I knew very well what a drunken mob could be like. From the barred door I could look across the office and out through a front window. All I could see was dust, brown grass, and the edge of a building.
Gripping the bars of the door, I stared out through the window. I was scared. Was I going to be strung up for something I had not done? Ending on a rope, as pa had done?
My gunbelt and rifle were yonder in the corner of the office, the ivory-handled pistol still in its holster. They might have been ten miles away, for all the good they could do me.
Up the street the tinpanny music box started once more. Two men rode along, and dust drifted from their passing. I paced the narrow cell.
Suppose I did break out? They'd think me guilty for certain then. But if I stayed they might string me up, and they would never even know they'd done a wrong thing. I hadn't any idea what I should do ... or could do.
I tried lying down on my bunk again, but I couldn't sleep. Sitting up once more, I studied the matter. I had to get out and away—I couldn't just sit here until they came after me.
But what about the marshal? Would he stand by and let it happen? He did not seem the type. I had him figured for a good man, a solid man, who would stand four-square for what he believed but he was only one man.
Slowly my eyes ran around the room. The place was solidly built. There wasn't so much as a crack I could get a finger into. I was locked in, tight as a sardine in a can.
Out on the street, somebody whooped drunkenly. It was beginning now … how long before they came for me?
Chapter 12
SUDDENLY I HEARD the sound of horses' hoofs, and looking out through the office window, I could see several riders coming into town. As they passed by, I saw that they were Caxton Kelsey, LaSalle Prince, Andy Miller, Queenie, and at least two others.
They rode on by, into the town's street. Now what was that about? Why would they risk coming here now? Or had they heard of my arrest? I asked that question of myself, then decided against it as too unlikely. They must have another reason, probably nothing more than a chance for a few drinks, a chance to buck a faro game.
I paced the floor of my cell. If only I was free now, with a gun in my hand! But even if I was free, what could I do that would clear me of the charge against me? Queenie hated me, and she would cheerfully see me hang; and undoubtedly the others felt the same. Anyway, I didn't want to be free if I had to leave this charge behind.
So what to do? It always came back to that. I was here, a mob was undoubtedly forming up the street, and I had no idea whether the marshal would make an effort to stop them or not. There was no chance of getting a message out. No one even came close to the jail—the area around it was empty.
Lights were coming on in the town. A long, low wind stirred the sage, bringing the wild, free smell of it to my nostrils.
Was this the way it was going to end after all my dreams? After all my hopes of returning to face those who had killed my father? Was I to end as he had?
Feverishly, I searched my cell again. There had to be a way out! I shook the bars of the door, but they were solid. I tried the bars of the window again, as I had before, and they, too, were firm.
Somewhere along the line I must have dozed. I recall sitting down on the bunk and stretching out. The next thing I knew I was awake. It was still dark; outside I could hear a murmur, as of somebody talking.
I got up quickly. Lights still showed bright in the town, and somewhere I heard a wild yell, then a smashing of glass, and coarse laughter. A rider went by, riding fast.
Then I heard footsteps—somebody was coming toward the jail at a fast walk. The door opened, and I saw a body bulk briefly against the lights of the town, then the door closed.
"Chancy?" It was the marshal. "You awake?"
"You think I could sleep with that crowd liquoring up over there?"
But I had been asleep, and I wondered for a moment how I could have relaxed that much. "Are they coming?" I asked.
"They're talking," he said. "Maybe it's all talk."
"Are you going to let me have a gun?"
He considered that, while I could have counted a slow ten. "Maybe," he said, "if it comes to that. Nobody's ever taken a prisoner from me, and nobody is going to."
"I never killed Alec Burgess," I told him again, "or even saw him. I'll state that for a fact, and I'm not a lying man."
"Who are you, Chancy?" I couldn't even see him clearly there in the dark, but I could see he held a rifle and was watching out the window.
"Who?" Well, who was I, after all? "I'm nobody," I said. "I'm a mountain boy who never had much but his health, some ugly memories, and a hope for the future. Back yonder," I said, "they hung my pa for a horse thief, and a better man never lived. He wasn't tough or mean; he was a mighty good man."
Sitting there in the darkness of the jail, I told the marshal about pa, and the horse business and the hanging.
"I've always wanted to go back there," I said. "I've wanted to go back there and show 'em."
"They tell me you can use a gun."
"I don't want to use one in Tennessee. There isn't anybody, anywhere, I'd want to kill. I just want to go back there and show them I've made good and here I am about to get my neck stretched."
Just then we heard footsteps. They were slow, halting steps. A hand touched the latch, but the door was locked.
"Marshal? Are you in there? Open up ... this is Bob Tarlton."
The marshal opened the door, and Bob got himself through the door. He was walking with a cane, and carrying a rifle in his free hand. "Chancy? Are you there?" he said.
"I'm here—and you ought to be back there in bed." He dropped into the marshal's chair, and I could hear his ragged breathing. "Let him out, Marshal." He spoke with an effort. "I'll stand good for him."
After a moment's hesitation, the marshal unlocked the cell door. Crossing to the corner, I picked up my gun belt and slung it about my hips, then I took up the rifle. It was dark in the room, our eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and we could dimly make out one another.
"One thing," I said, "that girl Queenie is in town. She could tell the truth about this if she would. She's got no use for me, but she was there when I killed that man who was packing this gun. She saw it happen."
Nobody said anything. We could hear the shouts from the town, and then the sound of a door slamming. We could hear them coming, stumbling and swearing. These were the riffraff—drifters, no-accounts. I knew the type, for I had seen them before, many of them good enough men when sober, but now as a mob they were beyond reasoning, thinking only of a good man gone, and a prisoner who might get away with it.
"Why don't you two leave?" I suggested. "It's me they want."
"We're partners," Tarlton said. "Remember?" The marshal made no reply; he merely opened the window and closed the heavy shutters, and then opened a loophole in the shutter.
"All right, out there!" he shouted. "Turn right around and go back! There'll be no lynching tonight!"
They kept coming, and he fired into the ground, well ahead of them. "Back up, now!" he said loudly. "I'm not alone, and if you want a fight you can have it."
"Turn him out, Marshal!" one man called. "Turn him out and we'll give him what he's got coming!"
"Not tonight you won't!" It was another voice, speaking from the roof top. "I'm up here with a Colt repeatin' shotgun, an' I can cut your front rank down with my first two shots!"
It was Handy Corbin—I would have known his voice anywhere. He must have brought my shotgun from camp. And he was right: at that range that shotgun would kill or maim half a dozen at each firing. It didn't carry bird shot, but buckshot of .38 caliber.
Bob Tarlton stood up- and opened the door. "Forget it, boys. We don't want to hurt anybody, but we've got an open field of fire and you wouldn't have a chance."
Drunk as they were, they knew they were up against at least three men, maybe more. Muttering, they backed off. Some of those in the front rank began to ease off, trying to put other men in front of them. Those in the rear began drifting back toward the saloon. In a few minutes the space in front of the jail was empty.
The marshal lighted a lamp. Reluctantly, I laid my rifle on the table, then started to unbelt my pistol.
"Hold that," the marshal said. "You keep your rifle. I'll need that pistol for evidence."
"Thanks. There's a herd of cattle out yonder, and a long trail ahead of us. If you want me, I'll be at the Hole-in-the-Wall. You just come up there or send a messenger and I'll come down. I'm not guilty of anything except defending a herd from bunch-cutters."
"You go ahead," the marshal said. "I believe you, but there'll have to be a hearing."
"The crime wasn't committed in your jurisdiction, Marshal," Tarlton said quietly, "and the story of that shooting was well known in Kansas. I'd heard it before I ever met Otis Tom Chancy."
We walked back toward the doctor's office together, and we had gone fifty yards before I remembered Handy Corbin. Letting go of Tarlton, I turned to go back, but there Corbin was, only a few yards behind us.
"You huntin' me?" he said. "I figured to trail along an' make sure you got home safe. You got enemies, boy."
"I know—I saw Kelsey and his crowd ride in."
We had reached the door of the doctor's office by then. Corbin grinned at me, but his eyes were serious. "I wasn't talking about them," he said; "I was referring to some other folks."
I couldn't figure out who he meant. He walked along a few steps and then said, "You know the railroad has men back east recruitin' settlers—dirt farmers, most of them. They've promised 'em big farms, rich soil ... land that's almost for the taking. Well, they've convinced a lot of folks, and some of the crooked land speculators have been back there, too.
"Why, they tell that whole villages have picked up an' come west, just achin' to get rich. You ain't been around Cheyenne much, but you can see trains come in with fifty, sixty families getting off, all to once. An' it's even worse in some places back along the line."
"What's that got to do with enemies of mine?" I asked.
Corbin stopped and pushed his hat back. He started to build a cigarette.
"Seems like some crackerjack salesman went into the Tennessee country and fetched 'em such tales they all packed up, bag an' baggage, to come west. I was sort of perambulatin' around when they come in, and heard some talk. Somebody mentioned that they shouldn't be too anxious to leave town, not with a hangin' to watch.
"Well, when they heard who was being hung, they all swore they'd not want to miss seeing the boy hung, when they'd helped hang his pa."
"Was one of them a big, burly man with a reddish face?" I asked.
"A loud-mouth but big and mean," Corbin said.
"Stud Pelly. Well, what about that? And I figured I'd have to traipse all the way back to Tennessee to see him."
We went into the doctor's office and helped Bob Tarlton back into bed. By now he was in bad shape, for exposure and loss of blood had robbed him of his strength. It would take a while to build it back.
"We'll get a wagon, Bob," I told him, "maybe one of those army ambulances. We can carry our grub in it, and you too. This Wyoming air and a lot of buffalo steaks will put you back in shape in no time."
Handy Corbin walked with me to the hotel and we got us a room. Come daybreak, we'd be going back to the herd, and would be driving north to the Hole-in-the-Wall country. If we took short drives the first few days, Tarlton might be able to drive the wagon, leaving the four of us to handle the herd. It was not enough, but so far we hadn't found another hand. We could have used two or three more.
Folks in the hotel looked sharp at me when I came in, and more than one of them glanced at my empty holster, but nobody said anything. The crowd who'd been around the saloons had mostly gone home or to wherever they slept, and the folks I now saw were a different sort—men who'd been working, and up late ... good people, for the most part.
The hotelkeeper, too, gave me a sharp look. "I'll deny no man a place to sleep, but I want no trouble, do you understand?"
"Mister," I said, "you're looking at a man who's had more than trouble enough. All I want is a few hours' sleep."
Then I went to the register and started to sign my name. The name in the space right above it was Martin Brimstead.
I did not even look at the other names. All I could see was that name, which seemed as if it was burned into the page.
Stud Pelly was a brute; but whatever Stud had done, he would not have done if Brimstead had lifted a hand to stop him. Stud might have held the rope, but it was Martin Brimstead who had hanged my pa.
And Martin Brimstead was here ... in this hotel! Carefully, I replaced the pen.
Martin Brimstead had come west to speculate in Wyoming land and now I was going to see that he got a piece of it. I was going to take particular care to see that he got the right piece, and of the right size.
It had to be about six feet long, and about three feet wide.
Chapter 13
WHEN I ROLLED out of bed the sun was already high in the sky. It was a bright, sunny morning. I pulled on my jeans and stomped my feet into my boots, and then headed for the washbasin. I could see that the first thing I needed was a razor and a shave.
When I went to the window I pulled back the curtain and looked up and down the street. Everything looked about as it should in a western town on a nice morning.
There were a dozen horses tied at the hitching rails, a buckboard stood in front of the bank, the team dozing in the warm sun. Farther down a wagon was being loaded. A few idlers loafed along the boardwalk, enjoying a morning smoke. Nothing seemed out of kilter.
Putting on my gunbelt with its empty holster, I checked my rifle and then put it carefully to one side. Only then did I realize that Corbin was gone.
The blankets and heavy comforter had been heaped in such a way that I'd paid his bed no mind, but now it bothered me that he had managed to get out of the room without me knowing. It showed how tired I'd been.
I lathered my face and shaved, and put everything carefully away. In the cold light of day I was having second thoughts about Martin Brimstead. A man like him would find trouble a-plenty in these western lands. If there was to be trouble with me, he must bring it on himself. Pa, I thought to myself, would not kill him.
Stud Pelly was a horse of another color. Stud was big and he was rough, but the years had done a few things for me. Besides giving me confidence, they had put some height on me, and some weight. I knew how to treat Stud Pelly, with the only medicine he'd understand.
This morning I slung my rifle from my left shoulder. I'd been experimenting and found I could get it into action a split second faster that way. The left hand would already be well up on the barrel when I swung the rifle forward, and the right hand would come naturally to the trigger.
When I walked into the restaurant, I stopped dead still. For right in front of me was Martin Brimstead, and seated at the table with him was Kitty Dunvegan. Kitty and Priss, her sister.
Brimstead looked up,
and it took him a minute to recognize me. "Well," he said loudly, "the horse thief's boy!"
"No." I walked right up to his table. "The son of the man you helped to murder." I leaned on the table. "Let me tell you something, Brimstead. In this country what you just said to me is an invitation to a shooting. The next time you open your mouth about me, or about my pa, you better be wearing a gun."
He reddened with anger, and then as he realized what I'd said, rather than who was saying it, his face paled a little.
Glancing at Kit, I said, "Hello, Kit. Where's your pa?"
She was not the long-legged, freckled girl I had known—she was beautiful.
"Pa's dead, Otis Tom," she said. "He died last year."
"I was figuring on coming back yonder, come spring. I was hoping to see you."
Priss spoke suddenly. "Kit wouldn't want to see you, or anyone like you. I'll have you know she's going to marry Mr. Brimstead." I had never liked Priss, and liked her less now.
Kit's face was white, and she looked stiff and scared. I stared at her. "You don't mean that," I said. "Not him."
"Yes, she is going to marry me," Brimstead said. "And I'll thank you to leave my table. At once!"
I looked at him. "Brimstead, when I heard last night that you were in town, I went to bed with one idea. To get up this morning, hunt you down, and kill you. When I woke up this morning I told myself you were carrion. You weren't worth the trouble. I'd be wasting lead I might use to kill a coyote or a skunk. So don't you make me change my mind. You just set there quiet, and you can stay. Open your fat mouth again, and you'll get the back of my hand."
Coolly, I pulled back a chair and sat down. There were a dozen people in the restaurant, all seeming to ignore us, but I knew they'd heard every word.
"I was coming back for you, Kit. You knew I was coming back, didn't you?"
"I hoped you were."
Then, coolly and with sudden defiant glances at her sister, she explained. "Pa owed Mr. Brimstead money quite a lot. At least, Mr. Brimstead had papers that said pa owed him, although I never saw any of the money and I don't believe that pa did.