by John Glasby
Frank stepped inside the wildly flailing arms, delivering two sharp, jolting punches to the other man’s face. The blows were short but they carried authority. Macey blinked, jerked to a standstill. His lips drew back over his teeth as blood spurted from his nose. There was a savage, dangerous look on his face now, a murderous hate in the deep-sunk eyes that stared piggishly at his adversary. Realizing that he would need cunning as well as his superior weight, he came in cautiously, hands held high, hoping to catch Frank in a bear hug and force him back on to the ground where he could use every dirty trick in the book.
Another hard blow hammered Macey’s head back on his shoulders, but it did not lower his guard and before Frank could hit him again, a rock-like fist caught him on the side of the head, knocking him on one side. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, he moved back, but not quickly enough. Macey hooked a foot behind his knee, swung him savagely off balance. Frank felt himself being hurled bodily towards the rails. His collision with them sent them crashing down and he hit the edge of the boardwalk with the small of his back, all of Macey’s two hundred and fifty pounds on top of him. The impact drove all of the wind from him. Instinctively, as he fell, he twisted over on to one side, his nose squashed against one of the wooden uprights. Fear spurred the numbness out of his limbs. With a tremendous effort, he managed to suck a little air down into his aching lungs, felt a stab of pain lance through his chest as he did so, knew that the fall had either bruised or cracked one of his ribs. There was the salt taste of blood in his mouth and as he spat it out a wave of saving anger seared through him, giving him the strength to lift one knee as the other attempted to kick him in the belly.
Macey’s boot crashed on the side of his shin. Frank gasped in agony, felt his vision go dim, was only vaguely aware of the big figure standing hazily above him, preparing to kick him once more. Somehow, he succeeded in dredging up sufficient energy to roll over a couple of feet, landing hard up against the smashed rails. As his opponent thudded to the dirt with both knees bent under him, Frank grabbed at a flailing arm, hung on desperately with all of his remaining strength, sought to lever the other over his prone body. Macey howled loudly as the wrench on his arm almost pulled it from its socket. He reared up awkwardly, his face a mass of blood, giving him a ferocious appearance. Dimly, Frank was aware of Clay Macey yelling hoarsely, urging his brother on, but there was no time for him to take notice of this. Already, the killer had heaved himself up on to his knees, hauling himself up with his free hand. He tried to kick Frank in the groin; but still retaining his grip on the other’s left arm, Frank twisted himself sharply, using his legs as leverage, jerking the man’s arm tightly behind his back in a vicious hammer-lock. His vision cleared slowly as he held on grimly, knowing that once he released his hold, the advantage would rest with the other.
But even as he struggled to push himself to his feet, a boot stomped down on his outstretched hand where it rested on the boardwalk as Clay stepped in to aid his brother. Sucking in a gasp of pain, Frank was forced to let the big man go and Flint seized his chance, swung clear and stepped back, breathing heavily through his open mouth, eyes glinting. Only a few seconds elapsed before Macey renewed his attack, knowing that be still held the advantage.
Arms spread wide, he circled in, his gaze never once leaving Frank’s face. Frank waited for him to come in, knowing that the other would use any dirty trick he could think up. This man had been marked by the scars of a score of battles such as this, knew all there was to know about in-fighting. Coming in, Macey feinted with his right hand, brought the left sweeping round. Frank ducked, saw the other’s knee coming up as Macey rushed him, barely managed to twist aside as the thudding kneecap scraped along his thigh. Even as he staggered back, the other’s outstretched arms clamped around his middle and thrusting his head well down under Frank’s chin, the other began to exert pressure on his back, seeking to force him down. Frank felt his senses begin to swim, knew he would have to break that hold soon or perish. Grinning fiercely, Macey continued to squeeze, forcing Frank back towards the boardwalk.
Bracing himself, Frank got the heel of his right hand under the other’s jaw, thrust his head back with all of his remaining strength. Macey grimaced but held on, not yielding an inch. Curling his fingers, Frank gouged at the other’s eyes, felt the slackening on the other’s grasp. As the other’s pressure eased, he brought his knee up sharply into the pit of the killer’s stomach. Macey bleated, let go his hold, staggering back, his body bent forward as he strove to ease the agony in the mid-section. He was on the point of forcing himself to straighten up when Frank’s bunched fist connected solidly with his exposed jaw. For a moment, the big man remained upright, swaying on his feet, his eyes glassy, his mouth gaping as he struggled to breathe through the fresh flow of blood that ran from his split lips. Then he toppled sideways and crashed full length in the dirt. From the way he fell, Frank knew he would not be conscious for some time. He turned away, conscious of the blood that oozed from his own battered face, thinking that the fight was over, but even as he turned to make his way from the scene, there was a soft movement behind him and before he could turn his head, the butt of a gun crashed against the back of his skull, pitching him forward on to his face.
Slowly, painfully slowly, consciousness returned and, as awareness flooded into his mind, the gnawing agony came with it. He tried to move, but the pain which lanced through his skull seemed to split it apart. Gasping, he opened his eyes and peered about him. He was lying on a low bed and there was someone at the other side of the room with his back to him. As the low groan emerged from his lips, the other turned and came forward. Through his blurred vision, he recognized Doc Fortune.
‘Better lie still for a while, Frank. That was a nasty knock you took. If you hadn’t got such a damn thick skull, we’d be gettin’ you ready for Boot Hill right now.’
‘What happened?’ Gingerly, Frank put up a hand and touched the back of his head, wincing as the pain jarred again.
‘You turned your back on Clay Macey. Lucky for you he didn’t decide to put a slug in your back. He’s a really slimy character.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ muttered Frank grimly. ‘I know their kind of old.’ With an effort, blinking rapidly, he forced himself into a sitting position. Gradually, the pain subsided into a dull, diffuse ache and he was able to see clearly. ‘How long have I been out?’
‘Best part of an hour,’ declared the other. ‘We brought you here after the Maceys had cleared town. From what I heard, they’re ridin’ out to join up with Foran.’
‘You heard right. Judge Fentry was at Phil Carson’s place when I left. He’d got word to him about these two polecats. He figured there might be trouble.’
‘He figured right.’ The other poured a glass of whisky, handed it to Frank, waited while he sipped it slowly. He did not go on until Frank had emptied the glass, then he took it from him, turned back to the table. He had something to tell him, but the telling of it was not going to be easy. A moment later, he turned, his face hard. ‘There’s somethin’ you ought to know, Frank. The reason why those two killers had set about Talbot. He’d gone into the saloon to arrest ’em both for murder.’
‘That was sure a fool thing to do,’ Frank said sombrely. ‘Talbot wasn’t in their class when it comes to handlin’ a gun. What made him do it?’
‘They bushwhacked old Slim Edmond just after noon, shot him down without warning.’
‘Slim — dead?’ Frank sat wholly still as the other told him, his lips stretched thin and tight, his face a mask. He drew in a long breath, then turned his gaze away from Fortune and stared expressionlessly at the window. Only the white knuckles standing out in his hands gave any indication of the terrible depth of his feelings.
‘You got any idea why they’d want to shoot him down, Doc?’
Fortune shook his head slowly. ‘Far as I know, it was just a senseless killing with nothing behind it. I may be wrong, of course. Could be that Slim had falle
n foul of those boys sometime in the past and this was a vengeance killing, but if he had, he never spoke of it to me.’
‘Nor to me.’ Frank’s voice was icy cold. With an effort, he swung his legs to the floor, stood up, clinging for a moment to the bed for support as a wave of dizziness swept over him, accentuating the weariness in his battered and bruised body.
‘What do you aim on doing, Frank?’ There was a faint note of concern in the other’s tone. He stepped forward to give him a helping hand but Condor waved it away with an impatient gesture.
‘This is a chore I’ve got to finish,’ he said tightly. ‘Seems I’ve been livin’ in a fools’ paradise for the past year.’
Three: The Avenging Gun
For a moment, after opening the drawer in his room, Frank stared down at the guns lying there, without reaching out to touch them. He had made a vow never to use them again after that shot which had killed his brother had been fired from them. Now it seemed that the fates which had been stalking him ever since had finally caught up with him. Almost savagely, he drew them out, buckled the heavy belt around his waist. Gently, he eased the weapons in the holsters, his hands moving almost of their own volition, swinging the guns clear of leather, thumbing back the hammers. The old skill was still there, never lost, not even after more than a year.
Opening the drawer a little wider, he found the star thrust at the back, drew it out, fingered it for a brief moment. Even though he’d thrown in that job back in Texas after the gunfight in which his brother had died, he still considered himself a lawman. At the back of his mind he figured that Talbot would raise no objections to having another gun on his side. Throwing back the flap of his jacket, he pinned the badge on to his shirt, let the jacket fall back into place, hiding the star.
He locked the door of his room after him, stepped out into the corridor, looking in both directions before making his way down the creaking stairs. The clerk, seated behind the desk, glanced at him curiously as he walked past, then went back to his perusal of the paper he had been reading. It was no business of his what the other did, but his eyes had widened just a shade as he noticed the heavy guns strapped to the other’s waist. If there had been any sign that big trouble was due to hit Benton soon, that was surely it, he decided. He was vaguely glad that he was not the object of Condor’s attentions.
Frank walked slowly in the direction of the square. He kept himself deliberately alert, for there was still the possibility that some of the Double Circle crew were around town and might pull off a dry-gulching as they had with Slim. He noticed the eyes of several of the townsfolk on him as he strode by, knew they were all wondering at the gunbelt low on his hip. Reaching the sheriff’s office, he rapped on the door with his knuckles, then went inside. He caught Talbot in the act of rising hastily from behind his desk, his hand reaching for the gun on top of it. The other relaxed visibly when he saw who it was.
Without speaking, he sank down into his chair again, rubbing a hand over his chin. There was something about the man who stood in front of the desk which he had not seen before. But Talbot had been around long enough to be able to put his finger on this elusive quality. Frank Condor was completely co-ordinated. He was entirely confident — utterly deadly.
‘I won’t bother you with details, Sheriff,’ Frank said even. ‘I think you can guess why I’m here.’
‘The Macey brothers.’
Frank nodded tersely. ‘I want them on two counts, but only one matters at the moment. They bushwhacked my best friend in Benton.’
‘I know.’ Talbot sighed and leaned back resignedly. ‘I tried to bring ’em both in and you know what happened. I guess I’m gettin’ a mite too old for this sort of business. But there’s nobody else and — ’ He stopped. The other had leaned forward over the desk, his jacket falling open as he moved, and, for the first time, Talbot saw the star pinned on Frank’s shirt. He gestured weakly towards the nearby chair.
‘Sit down, Frank. I can see you’ve got somethin’ else on your mind, otherwise you wouldn’t be wearin’ that badge. You’re invitin’ trouble with that around here. I suppose you know that.’
‘I’m just beginnin’ to realize a whole heap of things,’ Frank said harshly. He fingered his bruised face tenderly. ‘I know I don’t have any authority in Benton. Matter of fact, I maybe don’t have any authority anywhere now. But just so long as I’m wearin’ this, I’m keepin’ the right to gun down any man who gets in the way between me and the Maceys.’
‘If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll swear you in as my deputy. That way, it’ll make things a little more legal. There are some of the Town Council who may baulk at the idea. One or two are almost certainly in Foran’s pay. They didn’t back down anyway when Blackie Carron and Frisco rode in and put on that fake trial with the two Carson boys.’
Frank shook his head. ‘I’ll stay as I am. There ain’t no law I know of against gunnin’ down killers. Seems like Foran is tryin’ to make himself the law in this part of the territory anyway.’ He paused, rolled a smoke, lit the cigarette and dragged the sweet-smelling smoke into his lungs. ‘What about the other ranchers? Figure they would back me in this play?’
‘Could be. You want me to talk to them, maybe get them into town where you can put the proposition to them yourself?’
Frank pondered that a moment, then got up. ‘Do that,’ he said tightly. ‘But don’t waste time. Foran won’t be standin’ still now that he’s got the Maceys on his payroll. My guess is he’ll move against Phil Carson as soon as he Figures he’s got the edge on his side. Phil has plenty of men, but they’re none of them gunfighters.’
‘I’ll see to it that as many of them as can are here tonight,’ said the other enthusiastically. He stretched out a hand, gripped Frank’s tightly. ‘I’m real glad you’ve taken this step, Frank. You can rely on me to back up any play you make.’
Frank wasn’t quite sure how much he could count on the other when things began to get really rough; but there was the fact that Talbot had gone into the saloon after those two killers when he had heard they had bushwhacked Slim, so there might be some courage left in the other yet. Trouble was, he was no longer as fast with a gun as he probably used to be and that could be a distinct disadvantage, not only as far as Talbot himself was concerned, but also for anyone who had to look out for the other when the lead started flying.
Leaving the office, he made his way to the store near the end of the street where he purchased some ammunition for the Colts, pressing the slugs into his belt until every loop was filled. This done, he made his way to the funeral parlour, to pay his lasts respects to the man he had come to know better than anyone else in Benton. The undertaker was a wizened little man with a permanent stoop. He always seemed to be wringing his hands together as though mutely apologising profusely for his calling.
‘This is a bad business, Mister Condor,’ he said in a high, nasal voice. ‘A very bad business. I only wish I knew what it was all going to lead to. Believe me, before this is finished, there will be a lot more men lying there where he is now.’
Frank stared down in silence at Slim’s face, now devoid of all the marks of care and worry which it had borne in life. His brother had looked a little like that the last time he had seen him, he reminded himself. The ways of violence never changed, especially out here along the frontier. Men died and were buried, and then they were forgotten. The law of the jungle still prevailed, and for many men their lives depended on the speed of the hand and the accuracy of a tiny piece of lead, no bigger than the tip of his little finger.
He turned away from the coffin, sickened to his stomach at the utter senselessness and stupidity of it all. This, he told himself was the reason he had taken his guns and locked them away in the drawer in his room. Now the fates had taken another hand in the game and he had been forced by circumstances to take the guns out again, to make himself the target for a bullet from any direction. Thrusting his fingers into the gunbelt, he hitched it a little higher about his waist.
At the door of the undertaker’s, he was accosted by a thinfaced man whom he recognized as one of the grooms at the livery stables.
‘Frank Condor?’ inquired the other breathlessly.
Frank nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Sheriff Talbot asked me to find you. I was to tell you that Blackie Carron and some of the Double Circle boys are in town. He figures they may be lookin’ for you.’
‘You know where they are now?’ Frank asked flatly. He let his gaze drift up and down the street.
‘Carson’s at Frenchy’s right now. The rest of the boys were headed for the saloon last time I saw ’em.’
‘Thanks.’ Frank gave a brief nod. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
The other gave him a curious look as he stepped down into the street, but Frank had already forgotten him. There was the chance that he might be able to force Foran’s hand. If he arrested Carron on a charge of lynching those two riders and locked him up in the town jail, it could throw all of Foran’s well-laid plans out of gear, might even forestall any attack on Phil Carson’s spread. Deliberately skirting the main street, he made his way around to the rear of Frenchy’s place, a dingy rooming house that stood alone, separated from the buildings on either side, having been erected on a vacant plot when the town itself had been thrown up. Entering the rear door, he cat-footed to the stairs, paused as the owner, a tall, French-Canadian, came out of one of the back rooms. He opened his mouth in surprise as he caught sight of Frank, closed his mouth with a snap as one of the Colts leapt into the other’s hand.
‘I’m here on business, Frenchy,’ he said tautly. ‘So don’t go tryin’ to warn any of your customers.’
‘You have no business here,’ growled the other. He stared down unwinkingly into the barrel of the Colt.