Law at Angel's Landing: A Western Story

by Wayne D. Overholser

  She didn’t say anything more until she slipped on her blouse. By this time my brain was churning and I was willing to accept anything she told me. Maybe modesty had never been one of her virtues. Still, it had required courage to do what she had just done.

  “Nobody would blame you if you killed him,” I said.

  In Durango I had thought that she was a smiling woman, as happy as any woman would be who had to live the way she did, moving from one town to another to be with her husband. Now there was no hint of a smile on her face, no indication that she was or ever had been a happy woman.

  “I would kill him if I could,” she said. “I tried once and failed, and he almost beat me to death. I guess I’m afraid to try again.”

  I nodded, understanding that. I asked: “You know something that would give me a chance against him?”

  She hesitated as she finished buttoning her blouse. Finally she said: “Yes. I don’t know what you can do or how you’ll manage, but there is one thing I can tell you. Remember the man he killed this afternoon? You saw it?”

  “Yes, I saw it,” I answered.

  “He shot the man from close range,” she said. “That’s the only way he can. His eyes are bad, so bad that at a distance everything is blurred. He has glasses, but he won’t wear them. He doesn’t want people to know.”

  Suddenly she began to cry. She whirled away from me and ran out of the room and on out of the house. I stood there, thinking about her, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. I wondered if she had ever loved John Wallace, and whether she still loved him.

  Again the thought came to me that maybe this was a trap. No, I didn’t think so, not after seeing her back. I believed she felt she had delivered John Wallace into my hands, but, in spite of his abuse, she still had some love for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After Garnet Wallace left, I went to bed. I didn’t think I could sleep, and I didn’t. I simply lay there, staring into the darkness and thinking about John Wallace. Near dawn I got up, knowing I could not stand the bed another minute.

  I built a fire and set the coffee pot and the teakettle on the stove. As soon as the water was hot, I shaved and for some reason that made no logical sense I put on a clean shirt. I drank a cup of coffee, buckled my gun around me, and left the house.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, but the opalescent light of dawn had brightened the eastern sky. I heard a dog bark from somewhere to the north, then a rooster crowed. The usual sounds of town life were muted at this hour except for the crack of axe on wood from the rear of the hotel. Joe Steele’s handy man, Dombey, was cutting the day’s supply of stove wood.

  I paused, seeing that someone was running toward me. I gripped the butt of my gun. I didn’t think it would be Wallace, but I was too jumpy to take any chances.

  A moment later I saw that it was Dutch Henry. I asked: “What brings you out of bed before sunup?”

  He gripped my arm, panting. For a moment he was unable to speak, then he managed: “By hokey, I shouldn’t run. I’m too old.” He swallowed and labored for breath, then said: “There’s an old Dutch proverb that says it’s always the darkest before the dawn.”

  Usually I was patient with his philosophizing, but not this morning. I knew he had something important to tell me or he wouldn’t have got out of bed before sunup. I demanded: “What’s on your mind?”

  “Two things,” he said. “Last night Shell beat up Jerry Carruthers because he refused to pay a nickel for Wallace’s salary.”

  “Did he say it that way?” I asked.

  “Hell, no,” Henry said. “It was the same old business about paying for protection against broken windows and fire and the like. He never mentioned Wallace’s name.”

  “I didn’t think he would,” I said. “Wallace is too smart for that.”

  “Well, Tug was cruising around and he heard about it,” Henry went on, “so he tried to arrest Shell, but Shell got to him with his fists and beat hell out of him. Him and Carruthers are both in Doc Jenner’s place.”

  So that was why Tug had not been in the office last night. I asked: “Bad?”

  “Bad enough,” he answered. “They’ll live and I reckon they won’t be crippled, but they sure ain’t gonna be doing much for a while.” He took a long breath. “Now there’s another thing. I didn’t know if you was going after Shell or not, but, if you are, you’ll find him asleep in the mow of our stable.”

  It took me a moment to digest that because I hadn’t expected it. I said: “Yeah, I’m going after him.”

  “Don’t let him get his hands on you,” Henry warned. “That’s where Tug made his mistake. He’s a monster, Mark. By God, he must be part grizzly as big as he is.”

  “He’ll never get his hands on me,” I said. “I’ll kill him if he tries.”

  I’d never killed a man in my life. As a matter of fact, I had only shot at a man once, at Ten-Sleep Morgan, and then not to kill. But I was prepared to kill now, and then I was going to shoot at Wallace, and yet in the back of my mind was the knowledge that telling myself I was going to kill a man and doing it were two very different things.

  As I strode toward the stable, I was very much aware of this, but at the same time I knew I wouldn’t let this giant tear me up the way he had Tug Ralston. An officer wasn’t supposed to shoot an unarmed man, but Shell’s hands were lethal weapons and I wasn’t going to forget it.

  I went into the stable through the archway. It was quite dark inside, although a lantern hung from a nail beside the office door. I paused, letting my eyes become accustomed to the near darkness, then I called: “Shell! Come down. You’re under arrest. This is Sheriff Girard speaking.”

  No answer. I moved forward, my gun in my hand, and fired a shot upward through the opening in front of the ladder that led into the mow. I said: “Shell, I don’t know where you are up there, but if you don’t come down, I’m going to scatter some lead all over that haymow. The chances are good you’ll get hit.”

  “What’s the charge?” he asked, his voice the low rumble I’d expect from a man of his size.

  “Assault and battery,” I answered, “and resisting an officer of the law.”

  “I didn’t resist Captain Wallace,” he said sullenly, “and Captain Wallace is the only officer of the law there is in this two-bit town.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” I said. “I’m the sheriff and Tug Ralston’s a deputy. Now I don’t want to have to kill you, but, if you don’t come down, that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  “All right,” he said, “and Captain Wallace will kill you for what you’re doing. Have you thought about that?”

  “I’ve thought,” I said, “which same won’t do you any good. Now I’m done palavering. Come on down.”

  “I’m coming,” he said in a surly tone. “I’m coming, and maybe I’ll just work you over till your own mother wouldn’t recognize your ugly mug.”

  I saw his boots on the top rung of the ladder, then the rest of his huge body as he eased down one rung at a time. When he finally stood upright on the stable floor, I believed everything I had heard about him being a monster.

  He must have stood at least six feet six inches, and I judged he’d weigh close to three hundred pounds. No fat, either. He was just damned big. I would have compared him to a gorilla instead of a grizzly. In fact, his rough features, hairy face, and long arms, and the way he stood with his shoulders hunched forward, reminded me of a gorilla.

  Shell started toward me, his huge fists swinging at his sides. As I backed up toward the archway, I said: “If you rush me, I’ll kill you. I have no intentions of taking the beating my deputy took.”

  He laughed at me. His meaty lips sprang apart, then tightened. “You won’t kill me, Sheriff. Nobody shoots an unarmed man. I don’t reckon you will.”

  I kept backing up so that I maintained about the same distance between us. I sensed he was going to keep coming, that he didn’t believe I would shoot. This had probably been the secret of his succ
ess. I had a hunch that Tug, who had his share of guts and would probably have tackled John Wallace himself if he’d had the opportunity, had not been able to pull the trigger on Shell when the big man had charged him.

  Then Shell made up his mind and came at me in a rush, his head down. I lowered the muzzle of my gun enough to get him in the right leg instead of his guts and fired. I stepped back into the street because his momentum carried him another ten feet. When he went down, it was like falling a giant pine tree. He let out a yip of pain as he rolled over on his back, clutching his knee.

  “You shot me,” he said as if he still didn’t believe it was possible. “Get the doc. Damn it, get the doc.”

  “Did you get the doc for Carruthers and Tug Ralston?” I asked.

  “No, but . . .”

  “Then you can crawl to the doc’s office,” I said. “As soon as you’re able to travel, you get out of this camp and stay out.”

  “Captain Wallace will kill you for this, you son-of-a-bitch!” he bellowed. “He’ll kill you.”

  I still had no absolute evidence that Shell was Wallace’s man, but I thought this was enough. I headed for the hotel, knowing now what I was going to do, and knowing, too, that I could put it off no longer. Regardless of how the fight with Wallace came out, I felt better just knowing what I was going to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  No one was at the desk in the hotel. The night man had gone and Joe Steele was not up yet. At this hour no one was around and Steele was tardy getting to the desk. A bachelor, he slept in a room back of the lobby and took his meals in the hotel dining room.

  I had reached the point where I couldn’t risk delay, so I circled the desk and opened the door of Steele’s room. He lay on his back, snoring, his mouth open. I shook him awake, but he must have been up late because he was far down and it was a full minute before he got his eyes open enough to know who I was.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Mark?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I just got to bed. That damned Wallace worked up a poker game and wouldn’t quit. He didn’t go to bed until two o’clock. He took me for fifty dollars.”

  “Get up,” I said. “Put on your clothes.”

  “Now you just wait a dog-gone minute,” Steele said angrily. “I’ve got a right to sleep in my own bed as long as I want to. This is pretty high-handed for you to come in here and . . .”

  “Get your clothes on, Joe,” I said. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  He rubbed his eyes again and took another look at me, then started to dress. I don’t know whether there was something in my face or in the tone of my voice, but he stopped arguing. He pulled his pants on and stood up.

  “All right,” he said sullenly. “What is it?”

  “You’re going to Wallace’s room and wake him up,” I said, “and . . .”

  “Oh no, I ain’t doing any such thing,” he exploded. “I told you he didn’t go to bed until two o’clock this morning. He aims to sleep till noon. That son-of-a-bitch would shoot me if I woke him up now.”

  “If you don’t do what I tell you,” I said, “I’ll shoot you. Now take your choice.”

  He took another long look at me and asked: “What’s got into you, Mark? You’ve turned into a wild man.”

  “I reckon so,” I said. “You and Rip and the others brought Wallace here and now it’s up to me to get rid of him. I’m going to kill him, Joe. I never have killed a man, but I can kill a mad dog, and that’s what Wallace is. You know it as well as I do. I just shot his man, Shell. Now are you going to wake him up?”

  “You can’t fight it out with Wallace,” Steele said. “We never aimed for it to come to this. We’ll get along with him somehow. He’ll bleed us white just like you said, but that’s better than having you killed.”

  “He’s not going to kill me,” I said. “You wake him up. Tell him I’m coming to arrest him. If he wants a chance at me, tell him to be in the street in ten minutes. He’s anxious to get me out of the way, so he won’t turn this chance down.”

  Steele rubbed his face. “It’s a bad dream,” he said. “No, by God, it’s a nightmare.”

  “Tell him,” I said. “I’m running out of patience.” I looked at my watch. “Ten minutes. Get him into the street if you don’t want your hotel shot up and maybe some of your customers killed.”

  I turned and stomped out of the hotel. He would do it, I thought, and Wallace would accept my challenge. He would assume that I’d wait until he made his draw, that it would be the traditional street duel with both of us pacing toward each other until we were fifteen or twenty feet apart, and then I’d allow him the first move. Well, that was where Captain John Wallace was going to get fooled.

  As far as I was concerned, the old traditions that Wallace had lived by for so long didn’t apply any more. I had not given up my authority and I had no intention of doing so. If he would not submit to arrest, and I knew he wouldn’t, then I would kill him—if I could.

  The strange part of it was that at that moment I was not afraid. It had been only a few minutes before that I had decided how I could make my move. I had to do this before I lost my courage, and I would if I waited.

  I strode rapidly to my office and took a revolver off the gun rack. I saw that it was loaded. I checked the action and slipped it under my waistband on the left side. Then I checked the gun in my holster and eased it back into leather.

  I left the office. When I reached the front of the livery stable, the sun was barely showing above the eastern ridges. I would be facing it, but for a few minutes it would not be high enough to bother my vision.

  It was then ten minutes from the time I had left the hotel. I waited, alone in the street. I had a strange sensation about that. In another hour or so wagons and men on foot and on horseback would choke the street, but now I saw no one.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes, but no Wallace. Another minute. Still no Wallace. I began having doubts. If I had to go into the hotel after him, the odds would be against me. I had bet my life on the assumption that he could not turn down a challenge, but now I began to wonder.

  Twelve minutes! I could not wait much longer. I had to go after him. I had made my proposition to Joe Steele. If Wallace didn’t show in the street, I’d have to make my threat good. Then I saw him leave the hotel and step into the street, and I felt the quick relaxing that comes from release of tension. I could do it, I told myself. I had to.

  “You’re under arrest, Wallace!” I called. “Drop your gun belt.”

  “Captain Wallace, damn it,” he yelled angrily. “Now what trumped-up charge are you arresting me for?”

  “Fraud,” I shouted back. “Hiring a man to commit assault. Conspiracy to extort money from the business people of Angel’s Landing. That’ll do for a start. Now drop your gun belt and put your hands up or I’ll start shooting. If you resist arrest, I’ll kill you.”

  At this distance and in the thin morning light I could not see whether his usually expressionless face was still expressionless, but I could imagine what this man, who had done more killing than he could remember, must be feeling about being arrested by a man he had called a cowboy sheriff. Maybe he was stirred by the exhilaration that likely came to him before each kill. I had no way to know.

  He didn’t drop his gun belt, but of course I had known he wouldn’t. He started toward me, slowly, deliberately, his right hand swinging at his side but never more than a few inches from the butt of his gun.

  “I’ll give you five seconds,” I said. “Either drop your gun belt or make your play.”

  “I’ll make my play when I’m close enough for accurate shooting,” he snarled.

  I waited the five seconds, and then I drew my gun and began to shoot. We were much too far apart. I saw that my first bullet kicked up dust in front of him, the second slightly to his right, and then it happened as I had hoped it would. He panicked. He yelled something derogatory about my ancestry and drew his gun and started running toward me.

  My t
hird bullet was close, close enough to clip the crown of his hat. He yelled an oath and began shooting, but if Garnet had told me the truth, and I was gambling my life that she had, he was still too far away to see me clearly. He fired three times, each shot short, but he was close enough to make me uncomfortable.

  I took my time with my fourth shot. I got him in the chest, knocking him partly around. He fired again, his slug ripping open a shallow wound along my right side, then my fifth shot knocked him down.

  I jammed my gun back into leather and drew the second with my left hand and transferred it to my right. I paced slowly toward him, the morning sun now quite bright, in front of me, my long shadow trailing me. The echoes of the last shot died. I kept moving, watching his right hand.

  He had dropped his gun, and now, lying on his belly with life flowing out of him, he tried to reach it. His fingertips dug into the street dust, but he could not find the strength to extend his fingers those last two inches which separated him from the butt of his .45.

  “You bastard,” he whispered. “You trapped me.” A bloody froth ran from his mouth down his chin and on down his neck. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  At this moment of his death I could not tell him that the woman he had abused had given him away, so I said nothing. I stood there, looking down at him and watching him die. For some strange reason I felt apart from all of this, almost as if I had not done it, that I was someone else, a spectator who was watching this final scene. I felt no guilt, no remorse, only a great relief that this man who had indeed been a madman was no longer a threat to me or anyone in Angel’s Landing.

  Slowly men came into the street, Yager from his saloon and Joe Steele from the hotel and Doc Jenner from his office. Others were there, too, some I knew and some I didn’t. Doc Jenner turned the body over. There were two bullet holes in his chest, but one slug had hit Wallace’s big star and been partly deflected by it. Then, and the fact startled me, I saw that his star, twisted and bent out of shape by my bullet, now was smaller than mine.