“It was a very pleasant evening.” Seymour swallowed hard. “But don’t try to make anything out of that. Absolutely nothing improper happened.”
“I’m sure it didn’t,” Sam said. He changed the subject. “We took a look around that barn where those fellas jumped you.”
“Did you find anything that told you who they were?”
Sam frowned. “Not really. The rope they used could’ve come from anywhere. The only unusual thing was that their footprints looked like they were wearing shoes instead of boots.”
Seymour’s forehead creased in thought, too. “That’s a bit unusual for these parts, isn’t it?”
“Well, not really. A lot of folks here in town wear shoes instead of boots. All it really tells us is that the men who tried to kill you probably aren’t cowboys, or anybody else who rides a horse on a regular basis.”
Seymour grunted. “I suppose that eliminates some of the suspects at least.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “In fact, I was thinking—”
Matt knew that Sam was about to mention his theory about Seymour’s Uncle Cornelius and the three dry-goods salesmen being connected somehow to the attempts on Seymour’s life, but before Sam could lay those cards on the table, the sound of a commotion in the street came through the hotel room’s open window.
At first, it was just loud laughter, but that laughter was followed immediately by the braying of a donkey, angry voices, and then several regularly spaced gunshots.
“What in the world?” Seymour exclaimed as he swung around toward the window. He hurried over to it, followed by Matt and Sam, and looked out to see what all the ruckus was about.
Down in the street, the gunfighter named Cole Halliday had confronted a stocky young Mexican leading a burro. It was obvious that Halliday had shot the straw sombrero right off the Mexican’s head. The sombrero, now with a couple of bullet holes in its tall crown, lay in the street, and every time its owner reached for it, Halliday fired again, knocking the sombrero just out of the Mexican’s reach. He laughed raucously—sounding oddly like the young man’s burro, in fact—as he tormented the Mexican.
“Blast it,” Seymour muttered. “That’s just about what Cole did to me. I thought he’d gotten over such childish antics.”
Seymour swung around and headed for the door in a hurry, obviously intending to put a stop to Halliday’s fun. Matt and Sam went after him. Even though they hadn’t been in Sweet Apple when it happened, they had heard all about how Cole Halliday had shot up Seymour’s derby the day Seymour first arrived. The story had already become part of the town’s lore and legends, despite the fact that it had happened less than two months earlier.
Clearly, Seymour was angry that Halliday was resorting to such crude sport again, this time at the expense of a helpless Mexican farmer. There were plenty of them in this border country, and all they wanted was to be left alone to eke out a living for themselves and their families.
Even though Halliday had been behaving himself lately, there was no telling what he would do if Seymour confronted him and tried to force him to stop doing what he was doing. So the blood brothers knew their presence might be necessary to keep Seymour from getting in over his head.
On the other hand, Seymour was the law in this town now, and Matt and Sam weren’t going to be around to help him forever. He had to start learning how to stomp his own snakes if he was going to be the marshal of Sweet Apple.
That thought seemed to occur to Matt and Sam at the same time, because they glanced at each other and hung back a little as Seymour stormed angrily out of the hotel. They wanted to see how he was going to handle this.
Quite a crowd had gathered to watch Halliday humiliate the farmer. Some of them were laughing along with the gunslinger, while others frowned in disapproval. Another shot rang out and sent the bullet-riddled sombrero flying into the air for a few feet. Its owner stumbled after it.
Before Halliday could fire again, Seymour pushed through the crowd and stepped out into the open area in the middle of the street. One of his feet came down right beside the sombrero. “Cole!” he shouted. “Cole Halliday! Stop that right now!”
Seymour’s voice was still hoarse from the attempted lynching the day before, but it carried well regardless, silencing the laughter. Halliday stared at him in surprise as smoke curled from the barrel of the Colt in the gunslinger’s hand.
“Hell, Marshal, you shouldn’t ought to do a thing like that,” Halliday said after a moment. “I was gettin’ ready to ventilate that greaser’s hat again. I might’ve hit you by accident.”
“There’ll be no more shooting at this poor man’s hat or anything else,” Seymour declared. He reached down, picked up the sombrero, and extended it toward the Mexican, who shuffled forward and accepted it with a grateful nod.
Looking at Halliday again, Seymour went on. “In fact, if you don’t holster that gun immediately, I’m going to confiscate it and place you under arrest for disturbing the peace.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Halliday exploded. “You’re gonna take my gun and throw me in jail?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Marshal.”
“That’s what’s going to happen if you don’t do as I say,” Seymour insisted.
Halliday shook his head. A nervous hush hung over the street now, because the townspeople knew that Halliday’s pride wouldn’t allow him to accept this.
Matt and Sam had stopped on the hotel porch. They leaned against the posts that held up the second-floor balcony, their casual poses belying the fact that both of them were ready to go into action in less than a heartbeat if needed.
Halliday glared at Seymour and said, “I thought you had more sense than that, Marshal. I’ve been tryin’ to steer clear of you, but I’ll be damned if that means I’m gonna let you buffalo me.”
“All I’m asking you to do is to cease tormenting this man and go on about your business. Whether you make it more than that is up to you.” Seymour’s voice shook a little, but it had an underlying core of steadiness. Everyone could tell that he wasn’t going to back down either.
Halliday looked past Seymour and sneered. “I see now why you’re so brave this mornin’, Seymour. You’ve got your two pet gunfighters with you.”
Matt straightened, and his voice crackled with anger as he said, “We’re nobody’s pets, Halliday. And Seymour called the turn. This is his dance, not ours.”
Halliday looked like he didn’t believe that. “You’re sayin’ that you’ll stay out of it if the marshal and I throw down on each other?”
“That’s what we’re saying,” Sam responded quietly.
Folks in the street began to scatter as it started to look more and more like lead would be flying soon.
“You know that if I draw on Seymour, I’ll kill him,” Halliday said. “And he’s not Seymour the Lily-Livered anymore, so he doesn’t have that to protect him.”
None of the gunfighters who hung around Sweet Apple wanted to be known for killing The Most Cowardly Man in the West. That was the only thing that had saved Seymour’s life during his first couple of weeks in town. But as Halliday had pointed out, that dubious reputation was no longer in place to shield him.
Matt shrugged in response to Halliday’s declaration. “Maybe you will kill him,” he said. “But it could be that Seymour’s better with a gun than you give him credit for, Halliday. Sam and I have been helping him practice.” Matt reached in his pocket and brought out a coin. “I’ve got a twenty-dollar gold piece right here that says he gets some lead in you, no matter what you do.” He raised his voice. “Any takers for that bet?”
No one stepped forward to take the wager.
Halliday’s scowl darkened even more. “Damn it, I don’t want to gun down a lawman. Then every other star-packer in these parts will be after me. I’m not scared of ’em, but it’d be a damned nuisance.”
“Then holster your gun and walk away,” Seymour said. “It’s that simple.” He paused. “Anyway, Cole, I know
you’re not really a cruel man. We fought side by side when those outlaws attacked the town. Just don’t fall back into your old habit of making trouble.”
“Damn it, you’re tryin’ to civilize me!” Halliday swept his free hand around in a gesture that encompassed the whole settlement. “Sweet Apple used to be the most hell-roarin’ place in the border country! Look at it now! It’s gettin’ positively tame since you came to town, Seymour!”
Seymour smiled. “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment.”
“I didn’t mean it as a damned compliment!” Shaking his head and muttering frustrated curses, Halliday suddenly jammed his revolver back in its holster. “There! You satisfied, Marshal?”
“Indeed I am,” Seymour said with a nod. “Thank you.”
Halliday jabbed a finger at him. “You ain’t welcome!” Still fuming, he turned and stalked toward the Black Bull, obviously intent on guzzling down some whiskey despite the relatively early hour.
What was left of the crowd started to break up. Seymour waited until Halliday had slapped aside the batwings and vanished into the saloon before he turned and walked back to where Matt and Sam waited on the hotel porch. His face was pale but composed. He managed to smile faintly as he said, “Well, that was a near thing.”
“If you mean Halliday came close to blowin’ a hole through you, you’re right about that,” Matt told him.
“Would you have let him do it?”
Sam said, “We’ll be riding on one of these days, probably before too much longer. It’s going to be up to you to keep the peace, Seymour. You have to be able to handle the job.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“What I said was true,” Matt told him. “I think there’s a good chance you’d have got lead in him. Halliday knew that, too. That’s why he turned and walked away. You pushed him just far enough, Seymour, but not too far. He knows you’re the law now, and he knows you mean business. I reckon even an hombre like Halliday can respect that.”
“I hope so,” Seymour said with a sigh. “And I hope Sweet Apple does become civilized.”
“We’ll be long gone before that ever happens,” Matt said with a grin.
Seymour felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see the stocky young Mexican standing there, his ventilated sombrero in his hands. The young man had a round face and a mustache that drooped over both ends of his mouth. He nodded and said, “Gracias, señor. I . . . appreciate . . . your help.”
His halting speech showed that he spoke English but seemed a little rusty at it, as if he hadn’t used the language in a while.
Seymour smiled at him and said, “That’s quite all right. It’s my job to see that no one is mistreated in Sweet Apple. I don’t recall seeing you in town before.”
“I have not been here in . . . a long time. I have a farm . . . down by the border . . . by the Rio Bravo. I came to . . . buy supplies.”
Seymour nodded. “Well, I hope this unfortunate incident won’t keep you from coming to town more often in the future, Señor? . . .”
“Gallindo,” the Mexican said. “My nombre is Hector Gallindo. And thanks to you, Marshal, I will be able to stay in Sweet Apple until I have everything that I need.”
Cornelius Standish twitched the curtain closed and uttered a disgusted curse. “I thought that gunman was about to take care of my problem for me,” he said. “Then, not only would I be rid of Seymour and any possible interference with my plans, but I wouldn’t have to pay that bonus I promised to those so-called professional killers either.”
Rebecca Jimmerson knew that Standish had been watching a showdown of some sort in the street between Seymour and one of the local gunslingers. She had listened to the almost gleeful sound of his voice as he described what was going on. But she hadn’t gotten out of bed to watch it with him.
Now, though, she stood up and wrapped a silk dressing gown around her nudity as she went over to him. “Bonus?” she said.
Standish nodded. “That’s right. I told Welch, McCracken, and Stover that in addition to the fees we already agreed on, I’d pay a three-thousand-dollar bonus to whichever one of them actually kills Seymour.”
“You really want him dead, don’t you?”
Standish frowned at her. “I thought you knew that already. Why else do you think I came out here to this godforsaken wilderness?”
“Oh, I knew,” Rebecca said. “I just didn’t know how far you were willing to go.”
“As far as it takes,” Standish snapped.
She nodded, realizing that the same thing was true of her. She had thought that Seymour himself might represent a way out for her. That was why she had revealed her feelings to him.
And then he had rejected her. All because he was in love with that dough-faced, little half-breed schoolteacher. The memory was still like a knife in Rebecca’s guts.
Well, Seymour didn’t know it, but he still might represent a way for her to get away from Cornelius Standish for good. Three thousand dollars would take her a long way. With that much money, she could start a whole new life for herself.
And if Standish was willing to pay that much to one of those incompetent bumblers he had brought with him, surely he would pay it to someone who could actually deliver what he wanted to him.
Rebecca turned her back to Standish and smiled at the thought. She didn’t lose the smile even when he slid the silk off her shoulders and began caressing her. Her mind was somewhere else and she barely felt his touch.
Hector led the burro toward the general store, aware that Marshal Standish and the two gringo gunfighters, Bodine and Two Wolves, were watching him. General Alcazarrio had explained who those men were—and why he hated them so.
If the general hated them, then so did Hector. But it was more difficult to do so than he had expected, because of the way the marshal had risked his own life to intervene when that other gunfighter decided to humiliate a poor Mexican farmer. Bodine and Two Wolves had stood ready to take his part, too, if they needed to.
Hector forced any thoughts of sympathy and gratitude out of his mind. Alcazarrio had sent him to Sweet Apple to carry out an important mission, and he intended to do exactly that, no matter what it required.
He certainly hadn’t hesitated early this morning when he stole the burro from an old man’s farm just north of the Rio. If he was going to pretend to still be a farmer himself, it would look better if he had a burro. So he had taken one from the first place he came to. Unfortunately, the animal’s owner had seen Hector leading it out of the barn and had run out of the house, screeching furiously and waving around an equally ancient shotgun that probably wouldn’t even fire.
Hector hadn’t waited to find out if the old scattergun worked. He had used the rifle that Alcazarrio had so kindly provided for him and blown the old man’s brains out.
Then, leading the burro, he’d resumed his journey to Sweet Apple. Outside of the settlement, he had found an arroyo and changed out of the new clothes the general had given him, putting on the white shirt and trousers and the sandals he had been wearing when he left his village to join the revolutionaries. He cached the better clothing there, along with the rifle and his horse. Now he was armed only with a knife, which was not an uncommon weapon for a farmer to carry. It would arouse no suspicion.
Hector went into the general store and pretended to look around. In reality, he was listening to the conversations going on among the townspeople around him. The best places to pick up useful information were stores such as this one and saloons like the Black Bull, which Hector had noticed across the street.
Diego Alcazarrio both spoke and read English. Even in hiding in the mountains of Mexico, he was able to obtain gringo newspapers from Marfa, El Paso, and San Antonio. In them he had read accounts of the battle at Sweet Apple, when the American army and the citizens of the town had prevented him from obtaining the new rifles he desired so badly. That was how he had learned of Sweet Apple’s marshal, Seymour Standish, and the two gunmen Bodine an
d Two Wolves. The one called Two Wolves was half-gringo, half-Indian, but that didn’t matter to Alcazarrio. Half-gringo was the same as all gringo as far as he was concerned, and worthy of just as much hatred as any other gringo.
The general had explained all of this to Hector in the group’s camp below the border. Alcazarrio had explained as well about the ranchers named Colton and Paxton.
“They are the two richest men this side of El Paso,” the general had said. “And each man has a beautiful young daughter.” Alcazarrio had leaned back against the rock and laughed. “Eh? Eh? You know what I mean, Gallindo?”
“Sí, General,” Hector had said as he bobbed his head, but in truth, he didn’t know what Alcazarrio meant at all.
“Those gringos will pay handsomely to ensure the safe return of their daughters,” Florio Cruz had put in.
Alcazarrio had continued to laugh and slap his thigh. “One hundred thousand American dollars for each,” he had said between wheezes.
Hector’s eyes had grown so wide at that, it seemed as if they might escape from their sockets. Now he understood what the general was getting at.
Diego Alcazarrio planned to kidnap the two young American women and force their fathers to pay a huge ransom to get them back. A king’s ransom, as far as Hector was concerned. He could not even imagine a sum as large as two hundred thousand dollars, let alone dream that he might be part of obtaining such a fortune for the noble cause that drove them. Why, with that much money, Alcazarrio could raise an entire army to throw out the dictator, Diaz.
“What can I do to help, General?” he had asked breathlessly.
So Alcazarrio had explained how he, Hector, would go to Sweet Apple and pretend to be nothing more than a peasant, the sort of poor farmer who was as plentiful as fleas in the border country. Once there, he would find out everything he could about the ranchers Colton and Paxton and their families. What Alcazarrio really wanted to do was to raid Sweet Apple again, this time while both girls were there. It would be too difficult to steal them from their fathers’ ranches, he had explained. But an attack on the town would create much confusion, and in that chaos it would be easier to snatch the young women and get away with them.
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