by Jonas Ward
“Oh? Do you mean he’s taking Hamp’s place?”
“That’s right.”
“Congratulations, Stix,” Dolly said and a glimmer of complete understanding appeared in Larson’s eyes. “You be very careful now,” the girl added. “Don’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’m always careful, Miss Dupré,” Stix assured her. “In everything I do.”
“All right, Dolly, leave us be,” Malvaise ordered.
“I think I’ll go for a ride,” she said.
“A ride,” Malvaise repeated. “Anybody that’d ride for pleasure in this heat …”
“Oh, but it’s nice down by the stream,” she told him. “Nice and cool and shady.”
“The stream?” Malvaise protested. “That’s too damn far for you to be riding alone.”
“Oh, Bart, how could anything happen with all your men to protect me?”
“It’s the men, damnit, I’m talking about! Who the hell else would bother you?”
“Bart, what a thing to say!” Dolly said, her voice dismayed. “About your own men.”
“Men are men!” Malvaise exploded. “Which you ought to know!”
“Oh! If only my brother were here!”
“What brother?”
“Or some man,” Dolly said, causing Stix Larson to shift uneasily. He had received the invitation to a tryst at the stream clear enough, but her impulse to push things to a showdown between himself and Malvaise right here and now caught him unprepared. Not unwilling, especially, just not prepared.
Malvaise saw her motive, too, came out of the chair with a start.
“What the hell’s your game here, Dolly?” he rasped at her. “What kind of trouble are you trying to start?”
“I’m not starting anything,” she replied just as warmly. “You’re the one who’s insulted me, treated me so horridly …”
“And you’re the one who’s asking for it,” Malvaise stormed back, “Down here dressed like a goddamn tart! Now get on back up to your room and stay there!”
“I’ll go and pack, that’s what I’ll do!” she shrilled at him defiantly. “I’m going back to San Francisco. Where there’s gentlemen, civilized men, not a bunch of savage animals!”
This buckshot charge took in Stix Larson, made him stiffen in anger. He was aware of Bart Malvaise moving past him and an instant later watched Malvaise’s upraised arm descend and knock the girl to the floor. She cried out in pain. The dressing gown parted to her bare hips. Malvaise reached down, grabbed her under the arm and pulled her aloft like a rag doll. He slapped her hard again, brought the back of his hand across her other cheek, spun her around and shoved her toward the stairway.
“Get up to your room!” he ordered ominously. “We’ll finish this discussion later.”
There was a loud pounding on the front door that captured all their attention momentarily. So urgent did it sound, and so rattled by the swift change of events was Larson, that he drew his gun. Malvaise turned to him, and it was obvious that the same wildly improbable thing was on both their minds.
“Go see who it is,” the owner told him.
The pounding came again.
But it couldn’t be, Larson thought. It couldn’t be the scudder he’d dubbed Mr. Trouble. Speer, Nash—at least one of the boys would have spotted him and raised a warning.
“Go on,” Malvaise was saying. “See if—see who it is.”
“Let her answer the door,” Stix suggested gallantly. “We can cover anything from in here.”
That suited Malvaise.
“See who’s out there,” he said to the bruised, disheveled-looking Dolly. “Move!”
The girl was not so dazed, nor so outraged by the beating that she didn’t sense the fear and apprehension in both of them. That was something entirely new at the Big M. From Bart and Hamp, clear down to the Chinaman, she had never seen such an assortment of confident, cocksure men. But their confidence was gone now. These two, at any rate, were nervous as cats.
“Move!” Malvaise said, taking a threatening step toward her.
The knock sounded a third time, insistently.
“Who are you expecting?” she asked tauntingly. “What are you so afraid of?” Malvaise raised his arm to her and she moved back out of reach, went to the door. Standing to one side, the girl pulled it open. There, frowning in puzzlement, was the high sheriff, himself, of Pasco County.
“What—what’s going on?” Sam Judd asked, peering into the dim interior.
Dolly stepped from behind the door.
“You’re just the man I want to see,” she said. “Come on in and arrest Bart Malvaise.”
“Do what?”
“Arrest him,” she repeated. “He struck me with his fist.”
Malvaise came up behind her quickly, pulled her out of the doorway with a rough jerk.
“Get on up to your room before I really work you over!” he snarled. “Get up there and stay there.”
“Help me, Sheriff!” Dolly appealed, but it was Judd who looked as though he needed help in this situation.
“Come on in, for crissake, and close that door!” Malvaise barked at him. “Do you think I want my whole crew to see this?” The lawman jumped to obey, slammed the door shut at his back.
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Dolly demanded. “What kind of a sheriff are you?”
“I’d do like the boss says, ma’am,” Judd advised, staring down the neck of the parted wrapper. He’d heard about the woman Malvaise was keeping here at the ranch, heard physical descriptions. No one had mentioned that Malvaise had trouble keeping her in line.
“‘Boss?’” Dolly was throwing back at him. “Well, that’s a fine thing …” Malvaise laid both hands on her this time, lifted her bodily to the foot of the stairs.
“Climb up there!” he roared. “I’m telling you for the last goddamn time!”
Dolly looked up into his stormy face scornfully, had enough left over for Judd and the quietly watching Larson.
“I’m packing my things,” she said. “I’m going back home.”
“Some home!” Malvaise said unkindly. “She calls a whorehouse a home!”
“It sure beats this one!” she countered. “It has it all over this house!”
“And how do you expect to get back to ‘Frisco? Walk?”
“I’ll crawl all the way,” she answered. “I’ll do anything to get away from you and all your friends!” As she spoke she moved slowly up the staircase. Now Malvaise abruptly turned his back to her, stomped on into the other room. He went directly to the decanter, poured himself a generous shot and tossed it off without extending the invitation to the other two. Then he swung to Judd.
“Well? What the hell do you want up here?”
“I rode out, Bart, to bring you up to date on things,” the sheriff said, eying the whisky thirstily. It had been a hot, dry trip, he reflected, and on top of that an unnerving introduction to Baby Doll. Any envy he had felt about Malvaise’s providing himself with company was dissipated.
“All right, damnit, start bringing me up to date,” the owner snapped.
“I could sure stand a little refreshment,” Judd said. “This has been a tough day.”
“A tough day, he says! He’s been having a tough day! Crissake, I can’t even come back here and get any peace! Go on, go on,” he added harshly. “Pour yourself a drink.”
“Obliged, Bart,” Judd said, tipping the decanter gratefully. He drank, smacked his lips.
“Well? Start talking!” Malvaise’s impatience seemed on the verge of exploding.
“The bad news first, Bart,” Judd said. “Biggie got himself killed by that fella. Kind of strange, too …”
“I’d already written Tragg off,” Malvaise said grumpily. “What do you mean ‘strange’?”
“He wasn’t gunshot,” Judd explained. “He got killed in the storehouse back of Trail Street, and it was a broken neck.”
“The ranny broke Tragg’s neck?” Stix Larson said hollowly.
“No,” Judd said, “it looked like Biggie broke his own neck. He jumped from the second floor.”
“What difference does it make?” Malvaise broke in. “If he’s dead, he’s dead. What else you got to tell me?”
“That Biggie didn’t leave the ranny in such good shape his ownself. He’s lyin’ flat on his back in Doc Lord’s place right now.”
Malvaise’s face underwent an almost miraculous change. Away went the petulance and anger and worry. A hard, cruel smile of triumph appeared and his dark eyes glinted wickedly.
“Larson,” he said, “fill up your glass. We’ll drink to good old Biggie Tragg. So that other sonofabitch got his, did he?” Malvaise asked Judd. “Is he near dead, or what?”
“All I know, Bart, is that Lord sewed him up. How bad off he is I wouldn’t want to guess.”
“The Doc sure is going out of his way to comfort my enemies, ain’t he?” Malvaise said musingly. “Remind me to ride him out of Bartsville on a rail next week.”
“Out of where?” Larson asked.
“Bartsville, seat of Malvaise County. I guess you didn’t hear the changes that are going to be made around these parts.”
“No,” Larson said, “I didn’t.” Stix, himself, was relieved to hear about the drifter’s bad luck, but he marveled at the transformation it worked on Malvaise. The other man seemed to be expanding before his eyes, growing taller with each passing second. Even the sound of his voice was different, and the abruptness of the change struck Larson as highly unusual, made him wonder if Malvaise was completely sane. Bartsville. Malvaise County. That was pretty biggety talk from a man that couldn’t keep his doxie in line five minutes ago.
“Spread Eagle was hanging around Lord’s office right close,” Judd told Malvaise. “The old man, and Riker— Say, what was it happened to him, Bart?”
“Riker stepped out of line,” Malvaise said. “I had to teach him some manners.”
“Well, you sure did that for him,” Judd said, and if he guessed the boss had had considerable help he wisely kept it out of his expression.
“So Spread Eagle’s keeping a death watch, are they?” Malvaise said. “Might be a good time to hit them like I planned.”
“Might not, too,” Larson answered him. “The boys have already had one round trip in this heat today.”
“You ask me, Bart,” Judd said, “I’d make double damn certain of that drifter. First things first.”
“You said he’s flat on his back, didn’t you?”
“I did. And I recollect Tragg and Ruppert having him flat on his back an hour or so ago. Maybe cats ain’t the only critters with nine lives,” the sheriff added cautioningly, “although that fella sure seems to have run his quota in Pasco.”
“Should have plugged him in the Silver Queen when I had the chance,” Malvaise said. But with his braggadoccio echoing in the room, he appeared to be remembering those wintry blue eyes focused dead center on him. “You might have a point, Sam,” he added thoughtfully. “We’ll put him in his grave first, then bury Spread Eagle.”
“I’ll keep an eye on developments in town,” Judd suggested, “and keep you posted. Might even get a chance to slip into that place of the Doc’s and finish him off myself.”
That, Larson thought, ain’t too likely to happen. Aloud he said, “If I was Spread Eagle, boss, I’d get him back to headquarters. He’d be too easy to get at in town.”
“You’re right, Larson,” Malvaise agreed. “Sam, get back down there pronto. If they move him, or if he stays put—let me know fast.”
Judd left the house, made the return trip to Indian Rocks.
Chapter Seven
“WHAT IN THE WORLD do you think you’re doing?” Kathie Lord exclaimed. The nurse had come back into the room to check on her patient—to find that he had not only regained consciousness but was sitting on the edge of the cot to which they had shifted him.
Buchanan raised his eyes to the pretty girl, gave her a replica of the grin that had been haunting her off and on since early today. It amazed her, the times this man could pick to smile at a person.
“Now you just lie back down there,” she told him sternly. “You’re not supposed to even move.” Or be able to, she added to herself.
“You’re the doctor’s little girl,” Buchanan said, still sitting erect, his feet planted on the floor.
“I’m Kathie Lord,” she said, bridling some.
“Right. How’s your pa?”
“My father is just fine, Mister Buchanan, and this is no time for polite chitchat. You’re in a very serious condition.”
“Story of my life,” Buchanan confessed. “Out of the pan, into the fire.” His glance traveled around the room. “And I seem to have misplaced my hat and gunrig again.”
“Your gun! What use do you have now for a gun?”
“No offense,” he answered, “but I’ve never been in a town where a man needed one more.”
“You’re safe enough here,” Kathie assured him. “Pecos and Billy are standing guard outside.”
“Thoughtful,” Buchanan said. “But I’d still feel better with my own Colt.” “Don’t!” she cried. “You can’t stand up!”
“You’re about right,” he admitted, swaying to and fro on the balls of his feet. “It ain’t easy.”
“Lie down!” she implored him. “Please!”
The door swung open. Doc Lord stood there with Billy Rowe behind him.
“What in tarnation are you up to?” Lord demanded. “Get down on that cot where you belong!”
“Hello, Doc,” Buchanan greeted him. “Thanks for the sewing job. Real professional.” He raised his arm to Billy. “Hi, partner. How you doing?”
“I’m fine,” Billy said, “but you’re supposed to be half-dead.”
“Not hardly,” Buchanan said. “Though I ain’t bragging. You seen my stuff any place?”
“Got it out here in the office, Buchanan,” Billy said. “What’re you fixin’ to do with it?”
“Resume my travels,” Buchanan said.
“We had somethin’ else in mind for you.”
“Like what?”
“Like puttin’ you on the mend up to Spread Eagle,” Billy said. “Then finish the job on Big M.”
“Not me, Billy. My personal grievances are settled here.”
“How about the thousand dinero?”
“What thousand dinero?”
“That old Matt deposited to your name in the bank.”
“What’d he do that for?”
“Services rendered. Past, present—and future.”
Buchanan marked the other Texan’s emphasis, shook his shaggy head. “I can’t take the man’s money,” he said.
“Well,” Billy said, “that kind of puts me and Pecos in a spot.”
“How come?”
“We kind of signed you on ourselves,” he said. “Committed you like.”
“They sure did!” Doc Lord piped up. “You’re in this argument now, Buchanan, come hell or high water.”
“Not if he doesn’t want to be,” his daughter protested. “He doesn’t have to get in all this terrible fighting.”
“Well, no,” Lord said, looking up into Buchanan’s face. “A man can’t be made to fight, I guess.”
Buchanan frowned back down at him, glanced at Billy Rowe.
“So you and Pecos made me available, did you?” he asked unhappily.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Billy said. “We were talkin’ when we shoulda been listenin’—as per usual.”
“Amen,” Buchanan grunted. “But what makes this Spread Eagle such a fire-eatin’ bunch so sudden? All I’ve heard from morning on is how bad they’re licked.”
“That’s right,” Doc Lord said, “licked. That was before some big hipaninny come bustin’ through here and showed ’em that Bart Malvaise ain’t really taller’n God after all.”
“Malvaise,” Buchanan repeated thoughtfully, looking at Billy. “Nobody happened to plug that bas—excuse me, ma�
��am—Nobody got him today, by any chance?”
“Never laid eyes on him,” Billy answered. “Slid out the back door and slunked off home with the crew.”
“With what crew he had left,” Lord said. “Another twenty-four hours like this and Spread Eagle’s goin’ to draw about even in gunpower.”
Pecos Riley stuck his leathery, lively face inside the doorway.
“Well, look what’s up on his hindpaws, good as new.”
“And shouldn’t be,” Kathie Lord put in anxiously. “I wish you’d lie down like you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Hi, San Antone,” Buchanan answered Riley. “Pure guess, but did you come fetch me out of that grainhouse?”
“I found you,” Pecos admitted. “Took four of us to fetch you.”
“Sure pulled a damn fool stunt with that Biggie,” Buchanan said. “Never figured him to be totin’ a knife.”
“That’s not all you didn’t figure,” Doc Lord told him then. “Another eighth of one inch, either way, and you’d a’ been a dead man, Buchanan.”
“It’s a life of inches, isn’t it, Doc? Inches and seconds?”
“For some of us,” Lord agreed. “But what about Matt Patton? You backin’ out on him?”
“Dad, that’s not fair!” Kathie said.
“I don’t mean to be ‘fair’,” her father shot back. “What’s ‘fair’ about the way Big M’s been manhandlin’ Spread Eagle?”
“You’re pullin’ stakes, Big Bend?” Pecos asked him, keeping the question neutral.
“This war don’t fit in my plans, Pecos,” Buchanan said, trying to make the other man understand. “I got other fish to fry.”
“Like what?” Lord asked him. “What big deals you got lined up? Tell me.”
“Well …” Buchanan said, rubbing his chin.
“Go on,” the doctor ragged him. “Tell me your plans for the next month. The next year.”
“I’ll tell you this much,” Buchanan said. “They include a helluva lot—excuse me, ma’am—they include plenty of peace and quiet. You folks been havin’ your troubles, I know. But I’ve been havin’ mine, too. I’d as lief wrap that old Colt in an oil rag and stash it away permanent.”
“But, man how’d you live?” Billy Rowe asked.
“Hondo,” Buchanan answered plaintively, “There must be some way. There must be.”