Marshal Jeremy Six #5

by Brian Garfield

  “Yes,” said Wes Marriner. “And you can tell me one other thing. Who’s the town bully?”

  “What?”

  “The biggest, toughest, meanest man around. There must be one like that.”

  The blacksmith looked at him as if he were slightly crazy. “Mister, we’ve got a town full of big tough gents.”

  “But who’s the nastiest one? There’s got to be some big son of a bitch who pulls wings off flies around here.”

  “Why d’you want to know?”

  “Maybe I just like to know who I’ve got to look out for,” Marriner said. “Look, never mind. I’ll ask somebody else.”

  The blacksmith shrugged. “Don’t make no never-mind to me. If you want to get yourself whupped, the man to look for is Rube Malloy.”

  “And where do I find him?”

  “If he ain’t in jail, he’s in the Drover’s Rest swamping the floor for supper money. And if he ain’t in the Drover’s Rest, he’s in the Chinese cafe. Eats like a horse, spends half his time in the cafe.”

  “What makes him so mean?” Marriner asked.

  “I don’t rightly know as he’s got a reason,” the blacksmith said. “Some folks is just born that way.”

  “Obliged,” Wes Marriner drawled.

  He walked back down the street as far as the Drover’s Rest. Sunlight slanted down past the high false fronts of the buildings on the west side of the street; the hard light glinted off Wes Marriner’s small spurs. The six-gun at his hip rode snug, tied down where it wouldn’t slip out of reach. He stepped up onto the porch and met the enigmatic stares of the men who were posted there. They hadn’t moved. They were still waiting for something. Currents of intrigue seemed to run crosswise in the air under the shadow of the porch roof. Wes Marriner felt irritated, because they all knew something that he did not know.

  He said evenly, “Afternoon.”

  And one of them, the tall one in the stovepipe chaps who had his boot propped against the porch rail, replied with equal reserve:

  “Afternoon, friend.”

  “Hot,” said Wes Marriner.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “This where I might find a gent called Rube Malloy?”

  The tall cattleman’s eyes swept Wes Marriner up and down. “Inside,” he said, but a new light of speculative interest illuminated his shrewd eyes. He swung his boot down and turned squarely toward Wes Marriner. “My name’s Tracy Chavis.”

  “Seems to me I’ve heard it,” said Wes Marriner; he deliberately withheld his own name, only nodding briefly to Tracy Chavis and the others, and walked through their midst. He turned in at the batwing doors and entered the Drover’s Rest.

  It was a big place, not ornate, not gaudy, but big. It was sturdy and solid, with massive mahogany curling along the rim of the bar and a big gold-frame mirror behind. There were no chandeliers, only oil lamps at regular intervals along the walls. Two men were in the place, that was all; Spanish Flat was a working town and Marriner hadn’t expected to find a crowd at this hour of the afternoon. There were half a dozen men out there on the porch, Chavis and his friends, and as soon as the noise started they would look in. That would give Wes Marriner all the witnesses he wanted.

  The two men in the Drover’s Rest were the bartender, arranging bottled stock on the back bar, and a huge lump of a man pushing a mop across the floor. That had to be Rube Malloy.

  Wes Marriner took off his gunbelt and hung it on a coat peg just inside the door. Then he turned around to inspect Rube Malloy.

  Somewhere back along the trail, somebody must have stomped hard on Rube Malloy. And ever since, Rube Malloy had carried a grudge against the world. That much was easy to see in his face. Bent over the mop he was pushing, Rube Malloy stared angrily at the floor as if he fully intended to scrub it hard enough to make it disintegrate. His lips kept moving—he was muttering curses. Rube Malloy was well over two hundred pounds of muscle and bone and hate.

  Wes Marriner cleared his throat. Malloy’s small-eyed glance whipped up to him. Light from the windows glistened in ripples on the sweat of Malloy’s face. He had a barrel chest and arms girthed as wide as a cowboy’s thighs. His head was round like a bullet. His lips stopped moving; he frowned against the insolent uptilt of Marriner’s lip corner.

  A boot scraped the porch. Marriner glanced obliquely in that direction and saw Chavis appear, head and shoulders over the half-doors. Chavis stood there, looking in, without any visible expression on his cheeks.

  Rube Malloy scowled. No one had spoken. Wes Marriner went roving into the saloon, threading the empty tables. He began the game by walking forward and brushing Malloy deliberately; he whirled. “Watch yourself.” A slight smile changed his mouth again.

  Temper, always right on the surface, crowded Rube Malloy. He dropped his mop, lumbered around and cocked his fist. “Bud,” he growled, “I’ll tear the puking ears off you.”

  “Come on, then,” said Wes Marriner. “Come on, Rube.”

  Across the room, Chavis stepped into the saloon, followed by the others. Someone said, “Wait a minute, there,” but by then Rube Malloy had lunged in, driving his fist up.

  Marriner was half Malloy’s size. He stepped inside, under the blow, hooked his fist into Malloy’s belly, and leaped away before Rube Malloy could grab him. A hard sadism clamped itself down on Malloy’s features. Wes Marriner took one step backward. He heard boots tramping forward—Chavis or one of the others—and he said flatly, “Keep out of this, gents.”

  Malloy advanced, chasing him, flat-footed and anxious enough to forget caution. Wes Marriner set his feet, stood still and waited for him. When Rube came into reach, Marriner drove a fist toward Rube’s belly, which brought the big man’s guard down; Marriner’s arm flashed and his fist smacked against the side of Rube’s round jaw.

  Rube’s face was slick with sweat; Marriner’s blow slid off. Someone said, “Look at that pint-sized idiot.” Rube Malloy stood flat-footed, balled his hammy fist and feinted, making Marriner duck away—right into Rube’s fist. It connected with Marriner’s face and drove him back against a table. The rim of the table caught Marriner behind the thighs. Rube swarmed in with two quick blows against Marriner’s shoulder and cheek. Pinned against the table, Marriner batted the big man’s arms aside and rammed his head into Rube’s chest.

  Rube backpedaled. Marriner charged him, hooking two diamond-hard fists into his midriff. The pair of flat echoes slapped around the saloon, but when Rube Malloy wheeled back he set himself with canny precision, on guard and implacable. The sound of both men’s heavy breathing began to saw above the scuffle of their boots; someone spoke and Chavis’ voice said, “No, let it finish. He wanted this.”

  The fighters circled. The outcome seemed clear: Marriner was outweighed and outspanned—Rube had a far longer reach—and Rube knew how to use his fists.

  Marriner danced around. He wanted all of them to see how he was outmatched; he wanted them convinced. He let Rube come in and rain blows against his quick, certain guard. Rube did little damage but made a lot of noise doing it, and a man’s voice spoke in awed fear: “Rube’ll crunch him to powder!” Marriner turned, letting one of Rube’s hard-swinging fists slide by his shoulder. Marriner sidestepped like an Indian, wheeling in to come toward Rube’s shifting flank before Rube had time to swing his mass to meet the attack. The four blade-stiff fingers of Marriner’s hand sliced into Rube’s ribs.

  Rube grunted and stopped. The blow had hurt him. Marriner heard the rush of his own hard breathing and the rasp of Rube’s. The smell of sweat circled, strong and acrid. Marriner made a hatchet of his right hand, thumb extended at a ninety-degree angle to stiffen the edge; he curled under Rube’s jabbing arm and chopped at Rube’s lowered face.

  When he dodged back, he saw a thin trickle of blood at Rube’s nose. Rube was roaring. Watching the big man’s right, Marriner saw it coming and caught it with his open palm. He used the forward momentum of Rube’s blow, pulling straight back and dragging Rube through. Off-balance,
Rube scratched the floor with his feet, and went forward against a chair. All tangled up in the woodwork, Rube howled and battered the chair away. Wheeling like a thunderstorm, Rube swung his arm backhand. Unexpected, it caught Marriner across the cheekbone, rocking him back.

  Marriner got his balance and circled quickly away, waiting for his vision to clear. Someone spoke again: “About time to put a stop to this.”

  “No.” That was Chavis. “Let them finish it.”

  The backhand had caught Marriner’s face soundly; the bone of Rube’s wrist had struck hard, dazing him. It would put a shine-bruise on his cheek for certain. He tried to clear his head, tried to stay out of Rube’s reach, but Rube came after him. Rube’s fist took him in the belly, bending him over; a weighted fist crashed upward into his face. Feeling as if his insides were on fire, Marriner saw a red haze creep up over his vision. Rube brushed his guard away with a contemptuous sweep and rammed a steam hammer blow forward. Marriner only had time to turn far enough to take it on the chest rather than the face.

  It tumbled him back across the top of a table; under him, the table skidded six feet back into a litter of chairs. Marriner scrambled away from the pile of furniture and shook his head violently, like a dog coming out of a river. He had lost his hat somewhere in the fight. The steel-gray hair flapped around and he brushed it back out of his eyes. For a moment he couldn’t find Rube. Then, out of the fog of pain and dizziness, he saw Rube drilling forward across the floor, coming in to finish him.

  For Rube, it was just another brawl. But for Wes Marriner it might be the most important contest of his life. Knowing that, he summoned his will, locked his stomach muscles, and lifted his guard.

  I’ve got to lick him.

  He didn’t hate Rube. Rube was just something Wes Marriner had to prove.

  He made ax blades of both hands, fingers rigid, thumbs out, and he danced back and forth, watching Rube roll his shoulders heavily forward and lunge in.

  With grim purpose, Marriner feinted in from one side, drawing Rube’s attention around, and drove his left hand in a brutal knife-chop against the side of Rube’s throat. Rube hawked. Marriner caught Rube’s side with a bladed blow that sounded like a hammer striking wood. Rube’s wide face tilted. He windmilled his arms, coughing and yelling at the same time. Marriner drilled stiffened fingers into his belly, folding him down, and quickly measured Rube before he blasted the heel of his open hand up against the round point of Rube’s jaw. With all the muscles of Marriner’s wiry chest and arm behind the stiff-wristed punch, he lifted Rube completely off his feet; Marriner wheeled off to one side, braced both legs, leaped into the air and plunged his boot heels into Rube’s big belly.

  Marriner hit the floor on knees and elbows and bounced to his feet like a cat; but that was all. Rube was on the floor, arms supporting him, the breath hung up in his throat.

  He rolled over and got halfway to his feet, and then collapsed. His heaving breath rumbled in and out.

  Wes Marriner swayed on his feet. The red mist receded from his vision.

  The tall rancher, Chavis, walked over to the bar. Marriner didn’t pay much attention to what Chavis was doing there, but after a moment Chavis came over to him, carrying two glasses and a jug. One of the glasses was half full of whisky. Chavis handed it to Marriner without comment, then turned and tossed the pitcher’s water all over Rube Malloy. Malloy sputtered and shook his head, and sat up.

  Chavis turned around. Marriner dipped his head in acknowledgment, then threw his face back to drink the whisky down. It burned against a cut in the corner of his mouth.

  Chavis put down the empty pitcher. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “Japanese fellow in Chihuahua,” Marriner said. “When you’re a runt like me you learn all the tricks.”

  Chavis said, “All right. What do you think you’ve proved?”

  Marriner was a while answering. He held out his right hand, flexed the fingers and looked at it. The outside edge of his hand was tender and sore, but the fingers hadn’t been bruised. All right, then, he thought; he walked toward the door and said, “Come outside a minute. I want you to see something.”

  The five onlookers made way for him. Marriner took down his gunbelt from the peg on which he had hung it. He buckled it around him, wincing against the raw bruises on his midriff; he tied down the holster and walked outside onto the porch.

  Chavis came out, followed by the others. Marriner was looking up and down the street; finally he lifted his arm and pointed down-street at the high false front of the general store. MERCANTILE EMPORIUM was painted in foot-high letters across the high open boards of the false front. The building was perhaps 250 feet distant.

  Marriner said, “See the ‘O’ in that sign?”

  “What?” said one of the cattlemen, not understanding.

  “Fourth letter in the word ‘Emporium.’ See the ‘O’?”

  “Well, sure, but what’s that got to do with—”

  Rube Malloy had come to the door; his long arms hung over the batwings and he stared drunkenly at Marriner. Marriner said, “Had enough, Rube?”

  “I ain’t stupid,” Rube said. “You licked me. You a bastard but I won’t fight you again.”

  “That’s fine,” Marriner said. “Clap your hands, Rube.”

  “Huh?”

  “Clap your hands. Any time you feel like it.”

  “What you talkin’ about, bud?”

  “Just one handclap, Rube. Wait till I turn away.”

  Marriner turned deliberately, facing away from Rube; he could not see Rube’s hands. The general store was off to his right at a quarter-angle. He stood relaxed, smiling slightly with his bruised face. He could feel a lump growing up on his cheek where Rube had clobbered him.

  Rube’s palms smacked together and it seemed that the clapping sound had not altogether died when Wes Marriner was whipping his gun up. The first shot roared on the heels of Rube’s handclap, and four deliberate shots followed in quick succession. When the last echo died, Rube had not had time to step all the way through the door.

  Tracy Chavis said, “Fast.”

  Marriner began punching empties out of his revolver. He said conversationally, “One of you gents might walk over and have a look at that sign. I believe you’ll find all five holes inside the ‘O’ up there. The ‘O’ being about the size of a man’s head.”

  As he spoke the last, he turned slowly, and his brittle gray eyes lifted to lie against Chavis’.

  Chavis murmured, “Have a look, Bones.”

  A fat man stepped off the porch and walked over to the general store with a rolling gait. Several heads had popped out, to see what the shooting was all about; the man called Bones lifted his voice: “All right, folks—just a little sharpshooting exhibition. No trouble.” Bones went out into the middle of the street and squinted up at the false front of the general store. He nodded, turned, and retraced his steps to the Drover’s Rest porch.

  “You could cover all five with the palm of your hand,” he reported matter-of-factly. His eyes appraised Wes Marriner cautiously. “Right fancy shooting,” he remarked.

  “Jesus,” said Rube Malloy. “How come you wanted to use your hands on me?”

  “To prove that a tough man’s tough with or without a gun,” Marriner replied. “You get my point, gents?”

  Tracy Chavis said, “I don’t think we do. We’re just country boys down here, friend. Maybe you’d better spell it out for us.”

  Marriner grinned at him. “Don’t play country boy with me, Chavis. I’ve seen you on the Circuit. A few years back, maybe, but I remember the name and now I recall the face. I could outgun you, but you’re fast enough.”

  Chavis said, “I like to know who I’m talking to. I still haven’t caught your name.”

  “I still haven’t given it.” Wes Marriner finished plugging fresh cartridges into his revolver; he let the gun slide comfortably back into its holster. He said, “I put on this little show for you boys because soone
r or later some clown will get the idea that maybe there’s a bounty on my head up in Oregon or Montana, and I want to head off that kind of trouble before it can get started. I’ve got no secrets and I’m not wanted by the law in this Territory. But I’ve decided to settle down in this town of yours, and I don’t want anybody laying hands on me. That make sense to you?”

  “Maybe it does,” Chavis told him, “but I’ll tell you this much: you picked a strange way to move into Spanish Flat if you aim to make any friends here.”

  “Friends are where you find them,” Marriner said. “I don’t aim to make trouble for anybody, now that I’ve made my point.” His lopsided grin included Rube Malloy. “No hard feelings, Rube?”

  Rube growled in his throat and swung back into the saloon, but Marriner knew Rube would leave him alone. Rube had had enough.

  Chavis murmured, “This town’s known for its gentle disposition, friend, but there are limits. You can settle here if that’s what you’ve a mind to do—a man’s got a right to settle where he chooses. But don’t try to make this town into your personal hobbyhorse.”

  “If it was the kind of town that would let me do that,” Marriner said, “I wouldn’t want it.”

  Bones Riley observed, “Sounds fair enough.” He was looking out toward the end of town, in the direction of the malpais country. “About time for Matador to come ramming in here, ain’t it?”

  Chavis said, “They’ll send one man in ahead of the bunch to scout the lay of the land.” His glance lay thoughtfully against Wes Marriner. “I don’t suppose you’re that man? No, I reckon not. Old Buel might have put a man up to the roundabout stunt you pulled, just to throw us off the track. But Ma Marriner wouldn’t think that way.”

  Ma Marriner. The name settled in Wes Marriner’s gut like a lump of red-hot lead.

  Chavis was saying, “I take it we can assume you’re not from the Matador?”

  “You can,” said Wes Marriner, which was true enough.

  Bones Riley said, “We still might kind of like to know your name, stranger.”

  Wes Marriner glanced at him. “Mayo,” he said. “Wes Mayo.”