Wild West

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Wild West Page 17

by Elmer Kelton


  He glanced several times toward Will Tony, wishing he knew what was running through the man’s mind. But Will never looked at him, so far as Mark could tell. Then he must believe what Krisman had been saying. Mark closed his eyes tight. The thought that Will Tony was against him hurt worst of all.

  At last the funeral was over. Chip’s close friends filed by, each to shovel a bit of earth into the grave. Then came the explosion Mark had feared all day. He heard someone say, “It’s all over now for Chip, but they shot the wrong man. If they were going to kill somebody, it ought to’ve been the sheriff who went yellow and let the kid die.”

  The voice was loud, purposely so, and the crowd which had been moving away from the cemetery stopped, waiting. Mark Truitt saw them all eyeing him curiously, waiting to see whether he would take it up or let it lie like that.

  He looked behind him, searching for the man who had said it. He found him, a tall, bull-shouldered rider named Jase Duncan. Duncan had been with Krisman yesterday at the sheriff’s office. Now he stood a little in front of the crowd, letting Truitt know it was he who had spoken. Duncan was a poker-playing, beer-drinking friend of Dalton Krisman.

  It was not hard to see where this trouble had come from, Truitt thought darkly. But he was in a squeeze, and there was no getting out. He walked toward Duncan with slow, determined steps. Two paces from him, he stopped and stood rigid.

  “That’s a lie, Duncan. Jim and Homer were with us down there in the brush. They’ll tell you it’s not so.”

  He wasn’t speaking for Duncan, because he knew Duncan probably didn’t care, one way or the other. He probably knew the truth, just as Krisman did. But he was willing to warp the truth if it suited his purpose. Jase Duncan loved to fight.

  Jase said, “Jim and Homer are your friends. You had them deputized. They’d lie for you. For all we know, they may have held back, too.”

  Truitt flinched. Jase had scored with that one. He had insulted Truitt’s friends. Now there could be no compromise. Any attempt at one would brand the sheriff a coward, sure enough.

  “A cemetery is a place of peace,” Truitt said slowly. “We can’t fight in here.”

  Jase Duncan grinned in anticipation. “It’s not far to the gate.”

  He turned and walked toward the opening. Truitt followed after him, resignedly taking off his coat as he went. He hung it across the wooden gate, and placed his hat atop a post.

  He looked back apologetically at Betty. Then he turned to face Duncan and found the man almost on him. Duncan’s fist bludgeoned into Truitt’s face, staggering the sheriff back against the gate.

  Pain roared through Truitt’s head. For a second or two he saw only a whirling bright flash. Instinctively he dropped down. Duncan’s second blow struck him on the shoulder. Truitt came up with his own fist, still not seeing clearly, but knowing Duncan must be there.

  His fist connected solidly. Duncan grunted. Truitt had hit him in the throat. For a moment, then, it was a standoff. Both men warily pulled back to recover and try again.

  Mark Truitt hated fist fighting; he always had. He had seen a little boxing a time or two, and he wished he knew something about it, wished he knew how to spar and duck an opponent’s fists while at the same time making his own connect where they were intended to. But he didn’t. He had no style other than just to try to hit a little harder and a little faster than his opponent, and see if he could outlast him.

  There was no style about Jase Duncan, either. He just came in swinging. If he happened to hit you just right, the fight was over, then and there.

  This was a poor show, even a sordid one, two grown men standing there swapping licks, slowly, painfully, wearing each other down until neither could do more than stagger around, trying to get up strength for another swing.

  Jase Duncan’s nose was bloody. One of his eyes was swelling shut. His breath was coming slow and hard, with a desperate rattle like that of a steer that had been roped around the neck and dragged too long.

  Mark Truitt was little better off. His face was bruised and cut, and a smear of red edged across the ridge of his cheekbone. His shirt was half gone. It was all he could do to pull himself along, one step and then another, and try to get strength enough for one more good punch.

  Jase Duncan finally went down and stayed down. It wasn’t so much that one man was a better fighter than the other, but simply that Mark Truitt had a little more stamina, had somehow outlasted him.

  Truitt sank to the ground and leaned heavily back against the gate post, sweat and dirt and blood streaking his face as he opened his mouth wide and tried for a deep breath. Betty Mulvane knelt beside him, anxiously looking him over, her fingers gently searching his sore face.

  “We’ve got to get back to town and take care of this,” she said.

  The crowd began melting away, and some of its members looked ashamed. They’d had all of this show they wanted. Joe Franks and Homer Brill and some of Truitt’s other friends gathered around him. They didn’t say much; there wasn’t much to be said. But just having them here was worth a lot to Truitt.

  Then Will Tony came up and stood looking down at him. Truitt couldn’t tell what he was thinking, for Will’s eyes were dark and grieving. Will Tony turned away and caught Dalton Krisman by the shoulder. Krisman had been kneeling by Duncan.

  “Krisman,” he said bitterly, “I don’t want you ever to speak Chip’s name again. You’ve been using it, making it cheap, trying to get yourself into office with it. If you do it again, I’ll make you wish you’d never heard of Chip Tony!”

  He gave Krisman a shove that landed the surprised candidate in the dirt.

  Will Tony came back and stood by Mark Truitt again, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. “They’re trying to cheapen you, Mark. And they’re cheapening Chip, too. I’m glad you fought Jase. It may not have helped you any, but it did me a world of good.”

  Relief came to Mark Truitt then. He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t. He sank down again but lifted his hand to Will Tony. Will took it.

  “I wish I’d hit that Jase Duncan a lick or two myself,” said short Joe Franks.

  Homer Brill, tall and thin, said, “You’re so stubby you couldn’t have reached him with a four-foot elm club.”

  “You’re so skinny you couldn’t even’ve picked the club up,” Joe shot back.

  These two old friends were always sniping at each other. Mark knew that right now it was for his benefit, to cheer him up. As long as he had a few friends like these left, and Will Tony didn’t blame him, he could take whatever else came along.

  “What’re we going to do now, Mark?” asked Homer Brill.

  “There’s not much we can do,” Joe put in. “I got the word straight from one of the election judges a while ago. They’ve been sneaking a count. Krisman’s carrying.”

  Mark Truitt nodded. He had expected nothing else.

  Sam Vernon leaned on the fence and said sadly, “They’ll be swearing him in Monday morning, then, and we can give the country back to the Indians. The Rankins’ll take us.”

  Mark Truitt pushed himself to his feet, holding to the gatepost. He had his breath back now, although a hammering pain had him worried at first that Duncan had cracked one of his ribs.

  “I’m not quitting without one more try,” he said grimly. “I’m still the sheriff here tonight and all day tomorrow. I’m going back into that brush. This time I’m going over that river after them, border or no border.”

  Betty was dismayed. “Mark, you can’t do that. You’re not in shape for it. Besides, they wouldn’t let you. Your term’s too nearly up. The judge wouldn’t allow you to go.”

  “He won’t know till it’s too late to stop me. Once I get down into that brush, it won’t matter if I take a day or a week. Nobody will come there after me.”

  “How’ll you know where to look for the Rankins?” asked Joe.

  “By taking the prisoner along. One way or other, he’ll talk. He may not want to, but he’ll do it.”

/>   Little Joe Franks stood up. “Well, sir, you’re not going without me.”

  Homer Brill frowned. “If you’re going to take that kid along, I guess I’d better go, too, and help you nursemaid him.”

  “Thanks, boys,” Mark said gratefully. “I hoped you would.”

  Luke Merchant, the ex-Ranger, had been squatting, tracing cattle brands in the sand. He looked up. “It’s been a long time since I rode out on something like this. I quit the Rangers because I’d had a bellyful of it. But I didn’t throw my guns away, Mark. I can be a lot of use to you, if you’ll have me.”

  Sam Vernon wanted to go, but Truitt had to turn him down. “You know why, Sam. Ten years ago, maybe, but not now. It’s going to be a long, hard trip. We can’t have any riders on our hands who might give out.”

  “No,” Sam agreed reluctantly, “I reckon not. The best of luck to you.”

  Will Tony had been standing, listening, saying nothing. Now he lifted his gaze to Mark Truitt. “Mark, I’m going too.”

  Truitt looked at him dubiously. “Will, are you sure you want to—after Chip, I mean?”

  Will Tony said firmly, “I’m going, Mark. If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll follow after you. I’m a good tracker, you know. I can even outshoot you. You’ll need me.”

  Truitt nodded then. “I’ll be tickled to have you.”

  He wound up with five men, all ones who would do to ride the river with. They were level-headed men he could trust to do what he wanted, to be where he needed them, when he needed them.

  “We’ll travel light,” he said. “We’ll take a spare horse apiece the first part of the way, so we’ll have a fresh horse to change to. We’ll drop the extras off out at George Frisco’s ranch, this side of the river.

  “Joe, you and Homer arrange for the horses over at Milt’s stable. Milt will keep his mouth shut. Remember two extra horses for Claude Nichols. Betty, I’ll let you get the grub because you can do it without anyone’s catching on. We’ll meet at your place after dark. We’ll eat a good meal there, and it may be the last we get for several days. We’ll travel all night so there won’t be anybody catching up with us and bringing us back.

  “We’ve got to keep it quiet. In the first place, the Rankins seem to know as much of what’s going on around here as any of us do. I don’t know who’s spying for them, but I do know he’s pretty good at it. In the second place, we don’t want Krisman crossing us up. So don’t tell anybody you don’t have to.”

  But, hard as they might try to keep it a secret, Truitt knew there was a fifty-fifty chance the word would leak out anyway.

  With Betty Mulvane, Truitt started the short walk back to town. He moved slowly, stiff and a little sore from the fight.

  Worriedly, Betty said, “Mark, you don’t have to do this.”

  “I do, Betty. I’ve got a responsibility to the people of this county.”

  “Your responsibility ended when they turned you out today. Let their new sheriff handle it for them, if they think he’s so good.”

  “He can’t, Betty. You know that. I don’t even know if I can. But I’ve got to try it once when I don’t have a hand tied behind my back, when I can go over the river after the Rankins.”

  “Lots of men wouldn’t care what happened after they were voted out.”

  “But I care, Betty. This town is home to me. I have lots of friends here, friends who’ve backed me whether I won or not. Before I turn the job over to a counterfeit like Krisman, I’ve got to make one more good try, for them.”

  They turned in at the sheriff’s office. T.C. stared at Mark’s battered face, but he made no comment. T.C. had had to miss the funeral so he could stay and look after the prisoner.

  “I’m going out for a little while, if you’re going to be here, Mark,” T.C. said.

  Mark nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be here.”

  He wondered where T.C. was going, until he saw the jailer hail Dalton Krisman on the street and limp over to talk with him.

  Mark grinned with what little humor was left in him. “I guess T.C. knows how the election’s going. He wants to be sure he’s still going to have a job.”

  Betty poured fresh water in the washbasin and fetched a clean cloth to wash the dirt and blood from Mark Truitt’s face. “I’ll worry about you all the time you’re out, Mark. But I want you to know this—I’m proud of you for going.”

  She leaned down and kissed him.

  They gathered at Betty’s cafe, one by one, soon after dark. There were Homer Brill and Joe Franks, as inseparable as beef and beans. They would argue and needle and insult each other all the time they were out, but if one of them ever got his foot in a trap, the other would get him out or break his neck trying.

  There was Harley Mills, a good-natured cowboy who had never said a cross word to anyone in his life, as far as Mark knew. But you couldn’t walk over him. When he got real quiet, you’d better watch out, because he might be fixing to stomp you good.

  Luke Merchant was the old hand of the bunch, quiet and efficient, gray-haired now but still rawhide tough. He could have been sheriff any time he had wanted the job. Last was Will Tony, grim, taciturn, carrying his grief and his hatred wound up inside him tighter than a watch spring.

  Betty had supper ready for them, fried steak and potatoes, with hot biscuits and red beans, and plenty of coffee. She watched soberly while they ate, and a sparkling of tears showed in her worried eyes.

  Mark broke the silence only once to ask, “Did Nichols eat much?”

  She nodded. “He put away a good supper.”

  Mark said, “He’s going to need it. He’s in for a surprise.”

  Finishing up, the men rolled cigarettes and sat smoking them, looking down at the table, or out the window into darkness, dreading the start and putting it out of their thoughts as long as they could. Every man knew the danger he was getting into, and he knew he might not come back. Chip Tony was fresh on their minds. Yet, because of Chip Tony, not a man was ready to call it off.

  There was a sound outside, and Betty looked up quickly. “Uh-oh. Trouble.”

  Dalton Krisman pushed the door open and stood there looking at the possemen. Behind him was the dried-up publisher, Scott Southall. “What do you think you’re doing, Mark Truitt?” Krisman demanded. “You heard the final count. I beat you, two to one. Where do you think you’re going, now that you’ve got to turn in your badge?”

  Innocently Mark Truitt looked at the men around him as if to ask if any of them knew what Krisman was talking about. “Who said I was going anywhere?”

  “You’ve got saddle horses waiting over in the livery barn. I saw them myself. I know what you’re up to, Truitt, and I’m here to stop you. I’m the new sheriff around here.”

  “This is Saturday,” Truitt reminded him coldly. “The last I heard, you won’t be sworn in till Monday morning.”

  “The wish of the people has been made known. There’s nothing left but a formality. You’re through, Truitt.”

  Firmly Truitt said, “I still have the badge on. Till I take it off, I’m the sheriff.”

  Krisman’s face reddened. “The judge can stop you, and he will. I’ve sent Jase Duncan to fetch him.”

  A moment of despair came to Mark Truitt. This was a sorry way for it to end. He sat down and turned his back on Krisman, as if he had given up.

  “Betty,” he asked, “you do still have some of that good plum jelly down in the cellar?

  “I’ve got some here on the shelf,” she said, not understanding.

  “It’s been open too long. I want some fresh. Lend me the key.”

  When he got it, he drew his six-shooter. “Krisman, you and Southall come along with me. We’re going to get some of that jelly.”

  Krisman blustered. Truitt poked him in the belly with the gun muzzle, and Krisman stepped sharply to the door. Joe Franks and Homer Brill grinned like a pair of Cheshire cats and followed along behind.

  The cellar was in back of the cafe, with ground-level double door
s that opened flat. Mark unsnapped the padlock and swung one of the doors open. A set of steep stairs led down into the dark, cool hole.

  “Go ahead, Krisman. You too, Southall.”

  The muzzle of Homer Brill’s gun prodded the man down the steps in a hurry. “Hurry up there, Sheriff,” he said sarcastically. “Can’t keep the press waiting.” He turned back to Southall. “You next, Editor.”

  Mark shut the door behind the pair and snapped the padlock in place. He could hear them shouting, but the earthen walls of the cellar absorbed most of the sound. It would not carry far. Unless someone just happened to be walking down the alley, it was unlikely the two would be heard.

  Mark walked back into the cafe and handed Betty the key. “You might want to take a look in there tomorrow morning,” he said.

  She smiled a little, understanding now. Then the smile was gone. He saw the tears she was fighting back. “Be careful, Mark.”

  He took her hand. “I will.” He didn’t want to let the hand go. He leaned forward and kissed her. “Betty,” he said hesitantly, “when I come back—”

  He paused there, and she asked, “What, Mark?”

  He gripped her hand tightly. The words somehow slipped away from him. “I’ll tell you then,” he said, and moved out into the night.

  The possemen held the horses in the darkness behind the jail, while Mark Truitt went in the front. He paused, looking in the window first to be sure the judge wasn’t there. Then he hurried through the open front door and took the keys off his desk. T.C. looked up from a newspaper he was reading.

  “I’m taking the prisoner, T.C.,” Mark said.

  The crippled jailer stood up worriedly. “They’re not working up a lynch mob again, are they?”

  Mark didn’t answer. He swung the cell door open and motioned with his chin. “Come on, Nichols.”

  Mark locked the handcuffs on Claude Nichols’ wrists and handed the man his hat from a nail on the wall. “Let’s go.”

 

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