Marshal Jeremy Six #6

by Brian Garfield

  He left the stable and cruised into the center of town, feeling the pulse of the town. It had stopped raining but the sky was matted with slate-gray clouds and the air hung heavy with mist; the weather had not turned much for the better, and the present relief was obviously temporary. Within an hour it would likely start to drizzle again. Some of the cowhands had ridden out of town, going home to their ranches to take advantage of the few comparatively dry hours the morning offered. But none of them would be likely to get much work done, except the vital chores like hauling trapped steers out of rain-swollen bogs. Steady rain made a quagmire of the entire plain, and saddle horses had too much of a struggle just getting from place to place when the terrain was turned to half-quicksand. Unless the sun came out hot and clear for a few days running, there wouldn’t be anything but continuing frustration for the ranchers. And that, Six knew, could spell trouble for Spanish Flat—especially with Wade Cruze and his angry crew hanging around town just waiting for Travis Canaday to ride in with his Warbonnet crew.

  Cruze was making his headquarters in the Drover’s Rest, where he spent the time playing cards desultorily with his foreman, Sid Arklin, and a few saloon hangers-on. The rest of the crew was scattered around Cat Town somewhere, ready to form up on signal. Six had seen two of them ride out of town last night, probably to keep watch on the trail so that they could give Cruze plenty of warning when Canaday approached town.

  He had spent several hours poring over the statute books, but there was no legal loophole that would allow him to jail Cruze or run him out of town. And it was not part of Six’s lexicon to go beyond the limits of the law. His job was to keep the peace, but only within the framework of the system of laws; and there wasn’t a thing he could do about Cruze as long as Cruze sat peaceably playing cards in the Drover’s Rest.

  Sooner or later, he had no doubt, there would be hell to pay. And the main thing was, Jeremy Six intended to see to it that the innocent citizens of Spanish Flat didn’t end up paying it.

  He stood on the hotel porch, testing the temper of the town, frowning up the street. Cruze’s two hired gunmen, Candy Briscoe and Fred Hook, were banging on the door of the gun shop. Lanphier was still out of town, somewhere on the desert banging away with his long-barreled revolver, and the shop was locked up. That didn’t seem to discourage Briscoe and Hook, who kept pounding on the door. They were laughing crudely and boisterously, obviously more than half-drunk. That would give Six a legal excuse to jail them, but this wasn’t the time to do that. Canaday’s herd was still three or four days out of town. If he threw the two gunmen in jail now, he couldn’t hold them on a drunk-and-disorderly charge for more than forty-eight hours. He would have to release them in plenty of time for them to raise hell when Canaday arrived.

  Their drunken performance outside the gunsmith’s shop did give Six room for hope. If they kept behaving like this, he could clap them in jail in a day or two and have them safely out of the streets when Canaday’s crew came in. That wasn’t much help, but every least bit counted. It gave Six an idea, and he turned abruptly toward the back of town, stalking the sagging boardwalks of Cat Town until he reached the Glad Hand.

  He had to duck his tall head to clear the low doorway. Inside, he paused to accustom his eyes to the dimness. Two teamsters, temporarily at leisure because the roads were too boggy for their heavy freight wagons, sat at a back table drinking beer and regarding Six sleepily. At the bar stood one of Cruze’s Terrapin cowhands, nursing a cup of coffee, obviously bored and restless; the cowboy’s eyes came up and laid a hard challenge at Six, daring him to pick a fight.

  Six ignored him. He stopped at the corner of the bar and said to the bartender, “Miss Vane up and around yet?”

  “Sure, Marshal. Go on back.”

  Six nodded and stepped away from the bar. He walked around the Terrapin cowboy, but as he went past he paused and glanced at the cowboy. “Morning,” he said courteously.

  “Marshal,” the cowboy acknowledged reluctantly.

  “It’s stopped raining,” Six offered.

  “That a fact?”

  “Thought you might want to stretch your legs before the rain starts again. A man gets pretty cramped up staying indoors all the time.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” the cowboy agreed emphatically. “Much obliged. Reckon I’ll take you up on that idea.” He threw his head back to finish his coffee.

  Six said casually, “By the way, any word on how far the Canaday bunch has come?”

  The cowboy shrugged. “Due in sometime Saturday, I reckon.”

  “Uh-huh,” Six said. “Well, have yourself a good time, cowboy. The town’s open to you.”

  The cowboy looked at him in surprise. “Why,” he said, “sure, Marshal. Much obliged again.”

  Six smiled amiably, turned and went back to Clarissa’s door. He rapped and removed his hat.

  She was dressed in a simple green skirt and white blouse. The skirt showed off her slim waist. She smiled up at him. “This is a surprise, so early in the day.”

  “I’d like to ask a favor.” He glanced over his shoulder. The Terrapin cowboy was on his way out of the saloon. He stepped inside and closed the door.

  “You sound terribly serious,” she said, half mocking him.

  “Might be,” he answered. He grinned at her. “Might even cost you a few dollars out of your profits.”

  “My goodness,” she said. “It must be serious. You’d better have a pretty good argument—I’m a very shrewd businesswoman.”

  “For a fact,” he acknowledged. His elaborate nod of the head made her laugh.

  “Well, then, Mister Chief of Police, what’s it all about?”

  He explained, “Things are building to a head. Wade Cruze is waiting for a man named Canaday to arrive Saturday with a crew. Unless I can head it off, there’s likely to be a bloodbath in the main street.”

  “It is serious, then.”

  “Yes. As far as the law’s concerned, I can’t stop the fight until somebody makes a move. And nobody’s likely to do that until it’s too late to stop it.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He smiled at her. She was like that; she didn’t badger him with questions or expressions of worry. Just, “What do you want me to do?”

  “I saw a couple of Cruze’s gunmen a few minutes ago, half-drunk and making some noise in the street. It gave me an idea. I can jail anybody for forty-eight hours on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. Now, if Canaday’s coming into town sometime Saturday, I’d like to get as many of Cruze’s men out of the way as I can. If he’s only got a handful of men left when Canaday comes in with his big crew, Cruze may think twice about starting a free-for-all gun battle.”

  “And?” she said.

  “Today’s Wednesday. Starting about Friday afternoon, I’d like to have a good legal reason to start taking some of Cruze’s hired men out of circulation.”

  “In other words, you want to get them drunk and disorderly.”

  He nodded. “If we can get them drunk the disorderly part will take care of itself. They’re already getting tired of sitting around and waiting.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Be friendly to them,” he said. “I’m going to spread the word around all the saloons in town. I want everybody to make Cruze’s men feel at home. Make them feel welcome and get them sociable. Set up drinks on the house if you have to. I want them to get used to the idea that we don’t mean them any harm—that we’re all happy if they’re having a good time. Let them get drunk tonight and tomorrow night. Unless they start busting things up, I won’t lay a finger on them. They’ll get the idea the town’s wide open. If it works, by Friday night I should be able to clap just about the whole pack of them in jail.”

  “If it works—and if they don’t gang up on you when you start arresting them.”

  “I reckon I’ve got to take the chance,” he said. “It’s the only possibility I see.”

  “It just might work,” she observed. “Any
how, it’s worth a try.”

  “Thanks,” he said gravely. He reached for the doorknob but paused, grinned, and turned back to touch her lips with a brief kiss.

  He made the rounds of Cat Town, passing the word to all the barkeeps and saloonkeepers. Once they knew the danger that waited for Saturday, they agreed to a man. By the time Six came back to the main street, every saloon in town was racking its bottled stock to show the Terrapin hands a good time—and to put them off guard.

  Six made his way to the Drover’s Rest, cautiously eyeing the lowering sky. Any minute now it would start raining again. He shook his head angrily—this weather could get to anybody. Turning into the saloon, he found Hal Craycroft, the owner, tallying ledgers at the far end of the bar. He got Craycroft’s ear and spoke in a low voice calculated to carry no farther than Craycroft, who finally nodded and said, “Will do, Jeremy,” and gave him a grim, reassuring smile.

  Six went back to Wade Cruze’s table and stood overlooking the matchstick game of poker that Cruze was playing with Arklin and two teamsters. Cruze looked up warily. “I haven’t broken any laws yet, Marshal.”

  “I reckon you haven’t,” Six said. “I went through the law books last night and it might please you to know that I can’t touch you.”

  “I could have told you that much.”

  “I’ll have to lay down this warning, though,” Six told him. “I can’t touch you until you start a donnybrook, but once it starts, don’t count on me to turn my back. If I have to, I’ll gun down the first man who draws a pistol.”

  “I’ll be expecting you,” Cruze said in a monotone. “That’s all, Marshal?”

  “I guess it is,” Six replied. “In the meantime there’s nothing I can do to stop you, so I’ll have to tell you the town’s open to you and your men. They may as well enjoy themselves while they’re still alive to do it.”

  “Anybody gets killed, it won’t be me to blame,” Cruze said. “If there’s any fighting it’ll have to be Travis Canaday who starts it. All I want is my herd back.”

  “Well, then,” Six said, feigning optimism, “maybe there won’t be a fight at all.”

  “Sure enough,” Cruze said. “I keep telling you, you’re getting all het up over a no-count little private disagreement that most likely won’t come to anything at all.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Six said. He nodded amicably and turned away. On his way out, he caught Hal Craycroft’s eye. Craycroft nodded and glanced meaningfully toward Arklin and Cruze.

  Feeling better than he had before, Six stepped out onto the porch, hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, and surveyed the street. His glance started at the foot of the street and worked its way casually uptown, past his own office and the smithy and the hotel, and finally up the street to the farther end. That was when he stiffened.

  A single rider was threading his way through the rutted mud of the street, coming into town at a slow walk. His hat shaded his features and a loose, flapping rain slicker concealed most of the rest of him, but for Jeremy Six there was no mistaking the oddly military carriage of those narrow, bony shoulders and the thoughtful droop of the man’s head.

  That was Cort Danziger, riding into Spanish Flat.

  Five

  Six watched with a steadily narrowing frown. The horseman came forward at a gait so slow it seemed reluctant. Danziger reached the front of the hardware store, a half block distant, and lifted his head to survey the boardwalks. His glance swept past Six, went on, and flicked back to Six; his hat brim lifted another inch in recognition, and he reined the horse toward the Drover’s Rest.

  The rain started up again, a pinpoint drizzle that misted the street with a scatter of steamy puffs. Danziger halted below the Drover’s Rest porch and sat his saddle, oblivious to the rain, scanning Six’s face with a hollow expression.

  “Hello, Jeremy.”

  “Howdy, Cort.”

  “This your town?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know that. Hadn’t heard.”

  “It’s been my town for quite a while now,” Six said.

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve been out of circulation.”

  “You look about a hundred years old, Cort.”

  “That’s strange,” Danziger said, “because I don’t feel a day over ninety-five.” He tipped his head slightly to the side. His face was the same as Six remembered it, only older—gray and gaunt and tracked with tired creases. The casual elegance was washed out of Danziger’s face just as it was frayed and worn out of his once-expensive clothes.

  Danziger said, “I hope you don’t mind my noticing, but you don’t look happy to see me.”

  “Afraid I’m not,” Six replied.

  Danziger nodded. “Can’t say I’m too surprised. It used to surprise me, but it doesn’t anymore.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “A man runs out of friends awfully damn fast,” Danziger said. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason why I should’ve expected you to be glad to see me.” He shook his head vaguely. “Hell, I didn’t expect anything. Didn’t even know this was your town. I haven’t been paying attention to things lately.”

  He puzzled Six; Six remembered him vividly—an alert and quick-witted man, known up and down the circuit as a top-string, high-rolling gambler with the elaborate elegance of background that marked the New Orleans breed: impeccable clothes, courteous and gallant manners, and an aura of high style left over from the gentlemanly days of the antebellum South. But all of it seemed to have weathered and chipped away. Danziger wasn’t old, but he looked old—tarnished and beaten down and careless.

  Danziger said, “Don’t look at me like that, for Christ’s sake. I’m the same man you used to know.”

  “Are you?”

  Danziger rubbed his fist awkwardly. “Everybody changes a little.”

  “I’ve got to ask you this, Cort. Are you on a job?”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Gun job.”

  “Maybe,” Danziger said. He seemed to wince. “Maybe not. Why?”

  Rain drifted down between them, in diaphanous waves of tiny droplets. Six said, “It might be too much of a coincidence for you to show up right now. We’ve got a fight shaping up.”

  “Range war?”

  “Not exactly. Something like that.”

  “Then I’m not in it,” Danziger said. His mouth twisted. “Nobody hires me for that kind of thing anymore, Jeremy, or hadn’t you heard?”

  “The word is you’re off the circuit,” Six said. “That’s all I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah,” Danziger said. “That’s right. I’m off the circuit.” His hooded eyes drifted across the street and he said abstractly, “That hotel any good?”

  “As good as you might expect.”

  “Uh-huh.” Danziger’s hand slipped into his coat pocket and jingled coins there; his glance went up to the top of the hotel’s false front and back down to its porch. A young woman came out of the lobby and stood on the porch for a moment looking at the rain; she shook her head in a slight gesture of feminine disgust and turned back inside. Danziger said, “Who’s that girl, Jeremy?”

  “I believe her name’s Marianne Holbrook. Why?”

  “I, uh, thought I might’ve known her somewhere.”

  “Doubtful,” Six said.

  “I imagine it would be, to you.” Danziger smiled briefly; his smile was like a knife turned toward his own chest, bitter and full of self-contempt. “Well,” he said, “it’s been a long ride and kind of wet. Think I’ll hire a room and get into a hot bathtub.”

  Six said, “Two names, Cort. Wade Cruze and Travis Canaday.”

  “So?”

  “Either of them mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve heard both,” Danziger said. “What of it?”

  “Are you on the payroll for one of them or the other?”

  “No,” Danziger said. He wasn’t looking at Six. He added vaguely, “Not that I know of.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean
?”

  “It means what it sounds like,” Danziger said irritably. “I’m getting drenched, Jeremy. I’ll see you sometime.” He reined his horse around and trotted up the street—a haunted man, driven by some torment inside him. Six’s frown lowered and he kept his attention on Danziger until the seedy gunfighter’s ghost disappeared into the hotel stable.

  Fred Hook twisted his dirty moustache between tobacco-stained fingers and glanced petulantly at his big partner’s beady eyes. Candy Briscoe was eyeing the storekeeper’s stock of jaw busters and penny candies. “Jesus,” Hook said, “don’t you ever get sick of that stuff?”

  “I can’t help it if I got a sweet tooth, Fred. I always did, ever since I was a kid. Hell, quit bellyaching—at least I’m not a drunk. I’ll bet I’m the most dependable partner you ever had. I’ve never passed out on you.”

  “Maybe. But it makes me sick to watch you cram all that junk down your throat.”

  “Don’t watch, then,” Briscoe said reasonably.

  Hook said, “Aagh,” in disgust, and wheeled away toward the front of the place. He stood by the door looking out. “Ain’t this puking rain ever going to let up? Christ.”

  “I don’t mind,” Briscoe said. “I never had such an easy time in my life. Just drifting from one candy counter to another. No work all week, and we’re getting paid gun wages just to sit around and loaf.”

  Hook whirled and seemed ready to lash out at him. Then his shoulders slumped and he wagged his head back and forth, throwing up his hands. “Haven’t you got any nerves at all?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” Hook growled, and turned back to his vantage point. His waspish expression settled in sour and aggravated; his glance whipped restlessly up and down the visible portion of the street outside. And then his whole body became still and his eyes narrowed down.

  Seeing his partner’s sudden concentration, Briscoe said, “What’s up? Canaday coming into town?”

  “Naw, you idiot. It’s that Lanphier girl. The gunsmith’s wife. Look at the way she jiggles it along the walk there.”