The Bold Frontier

by John Jakes

  Instead of waiting until the deputies decided to come into the cell, he placed himself in position beforehand. He stood on the cell bunk, which was fastened to the rear wall. He leaned his elbows on the sill and stared out the small barred window into the dusty alley. He was standing that way when the jail door opened and the second deputy arrived with the food, brought from the Sooner House.

  The key rattled in the lock, and Croydon turned around, desperately trying to conceal his breathlessness. The first deputy pushed the door open, and Croydon noted that he still held his gun level. The other man put down his tray.

  “Well,” Croydon said, “guess I’ll eat long as you brought it. The view isn’t the prettiest I’ve seen.” He waved over his shoulder to the window. The second deputy allowed himself a grin. Croydon shifted his weight as if to step down off the bunk. His height gave him a slight advantage as he leaped.

  The deputies let out hoarse yells as he bowled into them, knocking them backwards through the cell door. The three men fell in a heap of thrashing limbs, but Croydon kept his head, seizing both their guns and leaping to his feet, each fist full of a heavy weapon.

  “All right, boys. Get inside the cell.”

  They obeyed him without hesitation. He relocked the door and tossed the keys in the corner, far away from them. Thrusting one gun into his belt and holding the other at ready, he slipped out the side door into an alley that opened to the main street.

  He slid along in the shadows of the wall, thinking rapidly. He knew where Sheriff Peters lived. That was his destination. The house lay on a quiet back street, shaded by big trees. He walked up the lawn and in through the front door without knocking.

  He went into the parlor. Mrs. Peters, a ruddy buxom woman with graying hair, saw him first. Then she saw the gun. “Why, Jeff, what are you …”

  Peters, seated with his back to Croydon, spluttered loudly. He leaped to his feet, his hand dropping toward his holster.

  “Easy, Hink,” Croydon said. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “What in hell is this?” Peters thundered. “I’ll throw the book at you for breaking out of jail.”

  “I’ve got to have a chance to prove I didn’t take those tallies. You open to a bargain?”

  “I sure as blazes am not,” Peters shot back.

  Croydon had to smile. “Here it is anyway. You know where this Rip Flinch lives?” Peters nodded. “Well, let’s stroll over there. If you walk in on him, holding your gun, and ask him point-blank whether or not he stole the tallies and planted them in my office, I think you’ll have what you really want to know.”

  “Got this Flinch all figgered, eh?” Peters said. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. His wife had long since relaxed. She knew Croydon well enough to know that no harm would come to her husband. “I think if you act like you already know he did it, say you got some evidence—he’ll spook. He’s that kind.”

  Croydon softened his tone. “But if he doesn’t scare, then I’m willing to hand over my gun to you and go back to jail peaceably.”

  He watched the lawman for reactions. “Hink, I’m betting everything I’ve got on the hunch that you can scare him into admitting the truth.”

  Peters hesitated only a moment longer. Then he extended his hand. “All right, Jeff. Hand over your iron right now, and I’ll go along with the game. I never did like that Flinch’s looks much.”

  Croydon handed his gun over, followed it with the one at his belt. Peters led him out through the kitchen, picked up his hat, and the two men moved across the back lawn. From the door Mrs. Peters wished Jeff good luck.

  Peters had Croydon ride slightly ahead of him, on one of Peters’ own mounts. “So folks don’t think I let you run around loose,” Peters explained.

  Rip Flinch lived in a seedy rooming house near the yards. The landlady informed them that Flinch hadn’t yet appeared for the morning. She goggled at the sight of the sheriff herding his prisoner upstairs with his gun.

  Croydon flattened himself outside the door while Peters knocked loudly.

  When Flinch opened the door sleepily, Peters said gruffly, “Flinch, you’re in trouble.”

  “What?” Flinch grunted. “What’s that you’re saying, sheriff? I just got outa bed.”

  “The stolen tallies,” Peters said. “The ones you took from Matheson and planted in Croydon’s office.” God, Croydon thought, he’s really taking a chance for me. “Come on, Flinch. You took those tallies, and now I can prove …”

  “Damn you!” Flinch yelped. Croydon was filled with a sense of victory. Flinch tried to slam the door shut, but Peters rammed his shoulder against it and heaved. It spanged open, throwing Flinch to the floor. Peters ran into the room, Croydon on his heels.

  Flinch seized his gun from a chair and began a wild volley of shots that blasted the woodwork into splinters but missed Croydon and Peters. They retreated quickly into the hall again. Peters tossed Croydon a six-gun. Croydon poked his head around the door in time to see Flinch, clad only in trousers and undershirt, heave himself feet first through the window. “Jumped out,” Croydon shouted, racing toward the stairs. “Let’s go after him.”

  Flinch evidently moved fast. They spent twenty minutes prowling the neighborhood around the boarding house, but he had eluded them. So they mounted up and rode all the way across town to Hunter’s office. The yard man informed them that Flinch and Hunter had ridden out perhaps ten minutes ahead of them, looking excited.

  “Ah swear,” the yard man drawled, “the fiends o’ hell was after them, sheriff.”

  Croydon vaulted up the office steps, looked in quickly.

  “They’ve skipped all right. The safe’s cleaned out.”

  Peters mounted up. “I’ll see if I can get some men. Maybe we can still catch them. You go on about your business. There’s no need for you to stay in jail any longer.”

  Exultantly Croydon headed for the Sooner House. He slammed into Elizabeth Bryant’s suite despite the protests of the maid, demanding to see the widow. Elizabeth Bryant appeared in the sitting room abruptly, surprise showing in her dark eyes.

  “What’s the meaning of all this, Croydon? I thought you were in jail.”

  “I was. But Flinch spilled his mouth to the sheriff. He stole the tallies, on Hunter’s orders. Both of them have cleared out. Hunter’s out of business, and I’m the only freighting company owner left in Sooner. So how about the contract?”

  “Not on your life. Unless you’re ahead in the tally. I’ll hire someone to run Hunter’s rig. You have till dawn tomorrow to beat his score.”

  It was stupid, prideful … but then Croydon remembered what he had done to her; how he had carelessly exposed her secret. This was her way of retaliating. He jammed his hat on his head and stalked out.

  Croydon raced back to the freight yard. There, Limerty greeted him with an expression of amazement. “Jeff! What happened to you? Come on inside, boy, before somebody sees you. If you broke out they’ll be after you …”

  “I did break out,” Croydon told him. “But things are all straightened around now.” Rapidly he summarized the events of the previous hours.

  “Then we got Miz Bryant’s contract after all,” Limerty said, pleased.

  “No we don’t. She’s a stubborn woman. We’ve still got to beat Hunter’s tally. Which won’t be easy, seeing as we only have till dawn. Now, have we still got those three men?”

  Limerty nodded.

  “Then with you and me, that will have to do it. I hope to God it does. I’ll go down to the yards and check the tally. Just say a long prayer that Hunter’s slacked off since I landed in jail.” He left Limerty wide-eyed as he leaped up into the saddle and went galloping out of the yard.

  Matheson, head swathed in bandages, greeted him with apologies. He’d already heard of Hunter’s treachery from Sheriff Hink Peters. “But the sheriff and his posse come back about half an hour ago,” Matheson concluded. “No sign of Hunter and Rip Flinch anywhere.”

  Croydon looked eagerly at the tall
ies. “How far ahead is Hunter?”

  Matheson consulted the grimy sheets. “Well, he ain’t been pushing near as hard since they salted you away. Let’s see …” He frowned, figuring laboriously. “A hundred and three barrels. He ain’t done much at all.”

  Croydon clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks. He won’t be doing anything after tomorrow.”

  And before Matheson could shoot another question, Croydon was into the saddle and away up the street.

  He reported the total to Dune Limerty, who let out a yip of pleasure.

  “Round up those three men,” Croydon said. “We’ll need five wagons. We’re going to do some mighty fast hauling …”

  Before sundown, the five wagons careened out of Sooner. Croydon had the lead, howling like a fiend at the mules, cracking the buckskin popper over their ears.

  Croydon had already formed a plan of action. Each skinner would take one of the Oh, Nellie! wells, the ones closest to Sooner, and load their wagons with crude. The margin would be close, but Croydon felt they could work it. At a fork, he swung his wagon off and went roaring down a rutted road. The others split up in various directions, having their orders to load up and race hell-for-leather back to Sooner.

  Croydon pulled up at Oh, Nellie! Number three about ten that evening. He started yelling questions to the drill boss, who informed him they had plenty of crude waiting to be freighted. Croydon sweated in the light of the lanterns, heaving the big barrels up to the wagon bed. The sound of the well, pump, pump, pump, echoed in his ears, inexorable as the ticking of a clock.

  By midnight the wagon was loaded. Croydon hoped the others would be doing as well. He gigged up the mules, turning their heads back toward Sooner. Driving at a breakneck clip, the wheels flying over the tops of the wagon ruts, he reached Sooner by two. Matheson greeted him by lantern light and chalked up the load on the tally. Croydon rolled himself a cigarette and tried to relax. It was no good. As long as the other men weren’t back he couldn’t rest.

  All the others except Limerty arrived by four o’clock. Croydon scanned the sky anxiously. It would be dawn soon, and without that extra wagon load, they would lose.

  Horse’s hooves clopped in the street. Croydon turned expectantly, then realized it was a single rider. Elizabeth Bryant, in shirt and denims, rode into the circle of lamplight.

  She climbed down, nodded to Croydon and leaned over Matheson’s shoulder to glance at the tally. Croydon saw pearly streaks in the east. Nowhere in the silent town did he hear the clatter of Limerty’s wagon

  Elizabeth Bryant faced him. “You’re still under Hunter’s total.”

  “I’ve got one more wagon due in.”

  Elizabeth Bryant smiled a chilly smile, openly defensive against any more attacks. “But Mr. Croydon—it’s dawn now.”

  “Then the contract goes to Hunter’s outfit, whether he’s around or not?”

  “I’m afraid it …” she began.

  Shots racketed in the night and the lantern exploded in a hail of glass. Instinctively Croydon swept his arm around Elizabeth Bryant and bore her to the ground.

  He snaked his gun free, listening. The whole freight yard was dark. Croydon crept forward along the ground, trying to keep from making noise. Hunter had come back. Defeated, whipped and exposed, the man nevertheless had the will to revenge himself. He wanted Croydon’s life.

  Croydon scooped up a handful of gravel and tossed it to his right. Nothing happened. He picked up a larger rock and threw it in the same direction. A second later, a gun bucketed, aimed toward the right.

  Croydon emptied his gun from where he lay. The powder-flame showed him Rip Flinch, jiggling in the door of a boxcar, his chest bleeding.

  He teetered forward slowly, and Croydon dodged backward as Flinch fell.

  Croydon turned around. Hunter was somewhere around. But where? He took a step backward, and a gun exploded. Fire ripped into his shoulder. He reeled from the pain. Somebody struck a match and touched it to a piece of wood and got a glowing torch.

  It was Matheson, standing behind Hunter. Hunter stood clearly outlined, his head turned slightly so that his eyes glowed. His gun rose slowly.

  Croydon knew his own gun was empty; it had clicked empty after he had downed Rip Flinch. He had no other.

  The pain dizzied him. Another instant and Hunter would kill him. He had to move. He had to fight. He took a step forward, trying to lunge at Hunter, but he only succeeded in falling on his face. He heard an explosion, and then something jolted down on his back and didn’t move.

  A moment later, Hunter’s lifeless body was lifted away.

  Dune Limerty stood there, pistol in hand.

  “Dune!” Croydon lunged to his feet, staggering.

  “Hunter was about to finish you. I couldn’t do much else.”

  Croydon blinked, realization sinking in. “You made it back. You got here! The contract …”

  Limerty shook his head slowly. “I … I came in on one of the mules …”

  “W—what?” Through the numbing pain, Croydon didn’t understand.

  “One of them repaired axles gave out, about ten miles out of town. I tried to fix it but I couldn’t do it by myself. So I rode in on one of the mules. I seen the tally, Jeff. I’m sorry.” The oldster averted his gaze.

  Croydon swung bleary eyes to Elizabeth Bryant, standing beside a re-lit lantern. Her face had a dazed bleached quality about it. Damn her, Croydon thought, she isn’t going to stop us like that. I won’t let her. He started to walk toward the woman. Limerty put out a hand to restrain him but Croydon shoved it away. He kept walking.

  He faced Elizabeth Bryant across the circle of lamplight. She averted her eyes suddenly, and he saw that her cheeks had turned a deep scarlet.

  “You heard what Limerty said,” Croydon told her. “You know that our last wagon load is stuck outside of town. But for that we’d have won the contract. On your terms.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, weakly this time. “I set up the rules whereby … the … the …”

  Silence.

  He moved closer to her so that Matheson, Limerty, and the other three men could not hear.

  “What’s wrong? Are you ashamed of my finding out that you’re a woman and not a machine? I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

  She looked at him then, the flush deepening. He could see the battle being fought within her, wounded pride against womanly desire. Twice she almost spoke … twice she closed her lips again. She shook her head, still unable to speak.

  Croydon turned away, disgusted. “Well, I guess I had you figured wrong, Mrs. Bryant. And I guess you can find someone to take over Hunter’s outfit—”

  “Wait.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Croydon turned and stared. “I’ll … I’m moving the time up. The final tally will be made at eight A.M. this morning.” She spun away, then, finding her horse, remounting and plunging into the darkness as if all the fiends of hell were pursuing her. No, not fiends, Croydon thought, only emotions, pride against desire. And desire had won. He’d found a chink in her armor.

  Dune Limerty raced up to him. “We’ve got until eight this morning to bring that wagon in. Get some of the boys and use one of their wagons. We’ll have that contract.”

  “You’re damned right we will,” Limerty exclaimed. He slapped Croydon on the back. The impact was enough to send the weakened Croydon toppling. He stretched out on the ground, dimly aware that the astounded Limerty was bending over him. The darkness closed. …

  Limerty brought the extra wagon in by seven-thirty. On the spot, Elizabeth Bryant awarded them the contract to freight crude for the holdings of the late Senator. When Croydon awoke, he had his arm bandaged. He sat in his office all day, doing paper work, thinking of just how long it would take to pay off the mortgage, what kind of new equipment he could afford and a hundred other similar details. Now and then he took a little whiskey for the pain.

  That evening he dressed in his best suit and called on Elizabeth
Bryant in her hotel suite. They sat opposite each other on the sofa, a polite distance between them.

  “What are your plans now?” Croydon asked.

  “I don’t know. I could go back east, but there isn’t much to look forward to there, unless …”

  “Why not stay here and manage the Senator’s business? You could learn in a year’s time, and you could probably step up production and profit if you took the trouble.”

  “I’m afraid I made a botch of things, Jeff.” She used his first name casually, as if she were accustomed to it. “This is no place for me.”

  “I think it is,” he said. He moved close, tilted her chin with his hand, and kissed her, long and hard.

  She flushed again, but she didn’t grow angry. Instead, she smiled. Croydon knew then that with time, they could have something rich and fine together.

  “Would you like to go have dinner?” he asked.

  Embarrassed, she smiled. “I think we’d better,” she said.

  The Winning of Poker Alice

  W. G. (FOR GEORGE) Tubbs belonged to the tradition of the gentleman gambler. He realized that here, as everywhere else, social levels existed. At the lowest rung came the card sharps, the professional cheats who used every trick in the book to fleece the wary Westerner of his cash. Higher up the ladder were the semi-honest gamblers; they cheated only when absolutely necessary. And at the very top stood the gentlemen of the trade, and such a one was Tubbs.

  Not only were professional ethics important to him but also the matter of one’s attire. The more ragtag was a man’s dress, the less he belonged to the finest tradition; poor clothes stamped him as nothing but a shady tinhorn. Since the gentleman gambler enjoyed a spotless reputation for honesty and straight dealing in all the raw frontier towns, Tubbs felt that it was up to him to look the part.

  Tubbs was large and red-faced, with friendly blue eyes and well-manicured fingernails. It was in the 1870’s, when he was forty or thereabouts, that he thrived in the roaring Black Hills. He was regarded as one of the cleverest gamblers in Deadwood.