The Bold Frontier

by John Jakes

  Coldfield’s men opened fire as they crept along the sidewalk, filling the night with the flat racket of answering fire. Other rifles took up the fight from the Queen’s decks. Winters was behind Coldfield, Acton on the other side of the street. Coldfield signaled him, then broke into a run across the open wharf.

  He heard slugs whine around him. Something plucked his coat sleeve; he kept running. He reached the gangplank just as one of the crew started to raise it.

  Coldfield stopped, aimed, and squeezed off a careful shot. The man pitched forward. The plank fell back into place with a thud; Winters and his men swarmed up. Coldfield followed, just ahead of Acton’s group.

  Coldfield knew the plan of the vessel, and he deployed the men quickly. Half a dozen went to cover the main saloon. Others headed below, to round up the roughnecks who worked the boilers. Coldfield himself hurried toward Chapman’s quarters. Occasional shots banged in the night air. A rifleman went sailing down past Coldfield from the deck above, disappearing into the dark water with a loud splash. Just ahead Coldfield saw someone running. He recognized Frankie Topp and yelled his name. The man turned and spit out a snarling curse as he reached for his hideout gun. The stubby barrel had just cleared the edge of his vest pocket when Coldfield’s shot caught him chest high, spinning him around. Topp slumped over the rail, done for. Coldfield stepped around him, hurrying again.

  He came to the door, stopped, and steadied himself. With his free hand he reached out and grasped the knob. Turning it, he pulled the door open, slipped silently into the curtained foyer, and closed the door without a sound. He stepped to the curtain, swiftly brushing it aside with his Colt barrel to reveal the office.

  Tom Chapman knelt in front of the safe, his back to Coldfield, jamming papers and currency into a carpetbag. Coldfield grasped the curtain with a white-knuckled hand. He wanted to pull the trigger; wanted to see the slugs striking Chapman’s back one after another, tearing it apart, ripping bone and flesh into shreds of red and gray. He wanted to see Chapman die as recompense for the way he had humbled Coldfield and tossed him out like a river tramp. He wanted to shoot Chapman in the back, but in a silent, seemingly eternal moment he realized that he couldn’t.

  Instead, purposely, he coughed.

  As Coldfield moved into the office, Chapman whirled around, his eyebrows rising in a ludicrous expression of surprise. “Hello, Tom,” Coldfield said. Chapman’s hand groped at his holster. Coldfield let him reach, feel the emptiness. “I’ve got your gun right here, Tom. You should have taken time to get another.”

  Chapman licked his lips. “You going to shoot me, Graham?”

  Coldfield hesitated a second. “No, Tom.” He tossed his Colt on a chair. “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”

  Chapman laughed, pleased. “Tinhorn, you’re not strong enough. You’re a sick man.”

  “We’ll see, Tom.” Coldfield’s fist caught Chapman on the jaw, spinning him a quarter turn. But Chapman was powerful; he steadied himself and pounded two blows into Coldfield’s stomach that sent the gambler reeling away, pain all through his chest.

  Chapman moved to press his advantage. Coldfield brought his fist upward clumsily, bashing Chapman’s jaw and pitching him back across the desk top. But he quickly regained his feet. Coldfield parried a jab at his head; took another brutal blow in the gut, then one to the head. Coldfield bounced against the wall. His head struck a framed picture and the glass shattered, splinters drawing blood from the back of his neck.

  Chapman staggered toward the foyer, ripping the curtain down and kicking the door outward. Coldfield was after him in a second, fighting the renewed pain in his chest brought on by exertion. But he drove himself, out to the deck and the chill air. Chapman was running aft toward the gangplank. In his rush through the door, Coldfield bumped the rail, righted himself and went after him. Only a few shots sounded now, sporadic and distant.

  Chapman stumbled suddenly, tripped by Frankie Topp’s body. Coldfield pulled up short a foot from Chapman, reaching for his shoulder. Chapman whirled suddenly, Frankie Topp’s gun in his fist. Coldfield saw Chapman’s finger whitening on the trigger an instant before he kicked out. Coldfield’s boot caught Chapman’s hand, diverting the bullet upward. Using both hands, Coldfield jerked Chapman to his feet and shoved him against the cabin wall. Coldfield was ready to work on him when a rifle cut loose in the darkness. Shot after shot ripped out, splintering the planks of the wall. Coldfield ducked instinctively. When the firing died and he looked up again, Chapman was sitting on the deck, legs outstretched. His face was red and almost unrecognizable.

  Acton appeared. He stepped over the body and rested his rifle on the rail. “Sorry I stole your thunder, Coldfield.” His eyes were shadowed, brooding. “But I lost my daughter because of him. I figured it was my right.”

  Coldfield nodded. “I got my share.” He gripped the rail with one hand, reaching for his handkerchief with the other. Moments later, when the fit of coughing subsided, he realized that Marshal Winters had arrived.

  “You gents better get off,” Winters said. “We got all of Chapman’s men rounded up and me and my boys are going to fire this tub.”

  Coldfield turned quickly and went back to the office. From Chapman’s fallen carpetbag he took two thousand dollars in currency, thrusting the bills into his coat. Then he headed back outside, exhausted, drained of the last reserves of energy. The pain in his chest was sharp, almost excruciating.

  A man passed him on the plank carrying two buckets of pitch. Coldfield joined the crowd of curious townspeople on the wharf. A pair of urchins played tag around his legs, pulling at his coattails, asking questions. He didn’t answer, watching the first flame shoot from a broken window of the main saloon. Soon the air reeked of smoke and burning. The firelight shone in Coldfield’s eyes, illuminating a macabre satisfaction. This part of his life was finished. Somehow he felt relieved.

  It took three hours for the Queen to burn to the waterline and sink, disappearing with much smoke and hissing beneath the Blackwater after the wreckage was towed out to center channel.

  Coldfield turned away then, pushing through the now-sparse crowd. The night air was bothering him. His teeth started to chatter and he felt another coughing fit. coming on. Then he saw Harriet, sitting stiffly in the carriage. He walked to her and climbed up. Her hand fastened on his arm, her eyes anxious.

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill him. Acton got there first.” He smiled briefly. “But I got in some licks with my fists. I was strong enough to do that.” He couldn’t keep a certain fierce pride out of his voice. Sick or not, he still had strength left, and some years; years that might heal his weakened body.

  “I’ve got your two thousand,” he added.

  “Bless you, Graham.” She gestured to the horses. “Where to?”

  He stared at her. “Why don’t we try Arizona? Plenty of sun. Plenty of time to relax and live. I ought to be able to make some kind of living out there.”

  Harriet smiled. “I know a man here in St. Elmo who could arrange things.” Something danced in her blue eyes. “Sooner or later, Graham, if a man and woman stay together, they’ll probably fall in love: And I want it legal.”

  He laughed. “You’re a forward wench.”

  She laughed too though he could still see strain on her face. “You don’t know everything about me, Graham. Not yet.”

  He reached for a cigar. “It’s a long way to Arizona.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. “I know.” The carriage leaped under the reins in her hands and went rolling back up the main street, leaving the river behind.

  The Naked Gun

  GEORGE BODIE SAT SMOKING a cigar in the parlor of Chinese Annie’s house on Nebraska Street when the message came.

  Bodie had his dusty boots propped on a stool and his heavy woolen coat open to reveal the single holster with the Navy Colt on his hip. He might have been thirty or forty.

  His cheeks in the lamplight were shadowy with po
x scars. He was ugly, but hard and capable looking. His smile had a crooked, sarcastic quality as the cigar smoke drifted past his face.

  Maebelle Tait, owner of the establishment—Chinese Annie had died; her name was kept for reasons of good will—hitched up the bodice of her faded ball gown and poured a drink.

  “Lu ought to be down before too long,” she said. From somewhere above came a man’s laugh.

  “Good. I’ve only been in this town an hour, but I’ve seen everything there is worth seeing, except Lu. Things don’t change much.”

  Maebelle sat with her drink and lit a black cheroot. “Where you been, George?”

  Bodie shrugged. “Hays City, mostly.” His smile widened and his hand touched his holster.

  “How many is it now?” Maebelle asked with a kind of disgusted curiosity.

  “Eleven.” Bodie walked over and poured a hooker for himself. “One more and I got me a dozen.” He glanced irritably at the ceiling. “What’s she doin’? Customer?”

  Maebelle shook her head. “Straightening up the second-floor parlor. We got a group of railroad men stopping over around two in the morning.” Mae-belle’s tone lingered halfway between cynicism and satisfaction.

  The front door opened and a blast of chill air from the early winter night swept across the floor. Bodie craned his neck as Tad, Maebelle’s seven-year-old boy, came in, wiping his nose with his muffler. Maebelle’s other child, three, sat quietly in a chair in the corner, fingering a page in an Eastern ladies’ magazine, her eyes round and silently curious.

  “Where you been, Tad?” Maebelle demanded.

  He glanced at Bodie. “Over at Simms’ livery stable. I … I saw Mr. Wyman there.”

  Bodie caught the frowning glance Maebelle directed at him. “New law in town?” he asked.

  Maebelle nodded. “Lasted six months, so far. Quiet gent. He carries a shotgun.”

  Bodie touched the oiled Colt’s hammer. “This can beat it, anytime.”

  Maebelle’s frown deepened. “George, I don’t want you to go hunting for your dozenth while you’re on my property. I’m glad for you to come, but I don’t want any shooting in this house. I got a reputation to protect.”

  Bodie poured another drink. The boy Tad drew a square of paper from his pocket and looked at his mother.

  “Mr. Wyman gave me this.”

  He held it out to Bodie, with hesitation. “He said for me to give it to you right away.” Bodie’s brows knotted together. He unfolded the paper, and with effort read the carefully blocked letters. The words formed a delicate bond between two men who nearly did not know how to read. Bodie’s mouth thinned as he digested the message:

  WE DO NOT WANT A MAN LIKE YOU IN THIS TOWN. YOU HAVE TIL MIDNIGHT TO RIDE OUT. (SIGNED) DALE WYMAN, TOWN MARSHAL

  Bodie laughed and crumpled the note and threw it into the crackling fire in the grate.

  “I guess the word travels,” he said with a trace of pride. “Maybe I will collect my dozenth.” He raised one hand. “But not on your property, Maebelle. I’ll do it in the street, when this marshal comes to run me out. So’s everybody can see.” His hand went toward the liquor bottle.

  Maebelle pushed Tad in the direction of the hall. “Go to the kitchen and get something to eat. And take sister Emma with you.”

  Grumbling, the boy took the tiny girl’s hand and dragged her toward the darkened, musty-smelling hallway.

  The girl disengaged her hand, and stopped. Curious, she lifted Bodie’s hat from where it rested on a chair.

  Maebelle slapped her hand smartly. “Go along, Tad. You follow him, Emma. Honest to heaven, that child is the picking-up-est thing I ever knew. Born bank robber, I guess, if she was a boy.”

  “Where the hell’s Lu?” Bodie wanted to know.

  “Don’t get your dander up, George,” Maebelle said quickly. “I’ll go see.”

  She went to the bottom of the staircase and bawled the girl’s name several times. A girlish “Coming!” echoed from somewhere above. A knock sounded at the door and Maebelle opened it. She talked with the man for a moment, and then his heavy boots clomped up the stairway. As she returned to the parlor Bodie looked at the clock.

  “Quarter to eleven, Maebelle. An hour and fifteen minutes before I get me number twelve.” He chuckled.

  Maebelle busied herself straightening a doily on the sofa, not looking at him.

  Bodie helped himself to still another drink, and swallowed it hastily. “Don’t worry about the whiskey,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m even faster when I got an edge on.”

  Light footsteps sounded on the stair. Bodie turned as the girl Lu came into the room. She ran to Bodie and kissed him, throwing her arms around his neck. She was young beneath the shiny hardness of her face. Her lips were heavily painted, and her white breast above the gown smelled of dusting powder.

  “Oh, George, I’m glad you got here.”

  “I came just to see you, honey. Two hundred miles.” His arm crept around her waist, his hand touched her breast. He kissed her lightly.

  “Well, I’m not running this for charity, you know,” Maebelle said.

  “I’ll settle up,” Bodie replied. “Don’t worry. Right now though …”

  He and Lu began to walk toward the stairway.

  Another knock came at the door. Maebelle went to open it, and Bodie heard a voice say out of the frosty dark, “Evening, Miz Tait. Lu here?”

  Bodie dropped his arm.

  Maebelle started to protest, but the man came on into the lighted parlor. The cowboy was thin. His cheeks were red from wind and liquor, and he blinked at Bodie, with suspicion. Lu gaped at the floor, flustered.

  “Hello, Lu. Did you forgit I was comin’ tonight?”

  “Maybe she did forget,” Bodie said. “She’s busy.”

  “Come on, Fred,” Maebelle said urgently. She pulled the cowboy’s arm. “I know Bertha’d be glad to see you.”

  “Bertha, hell,” the cowboy complained. “I rode in sixty miles, like I do every month, just to see Lu. It’s all set up.” He stepped forward and grabbed Lu’s wrist. Bodie’s fingers touched leather, like a caress.

  “You’re out of luck, friend,” Bodie said. “I told you Lu’s busy tonight.”

  “Like hell,” the cowboy insisted, pulling Lu. “Come on, sweetie. I come sixty miles, and it’s mighty cold. …”

  “Get your hands off her,” Bodie said.

  Lu jerked away, retreated and stared, round-eyed, like a worn doll, pretty but empty.

  “Don’t you prod me,” the cowboy said, weaving a little. His blue eyes snapped in the lamplight. “Who are you, anyway, acting so big? The governor or somebody?”

  “I’m George Bodie. Didn’t you hear about me tonight?”

  “George Bo …”

  The cowboy’s eyes whipped frantically to the side. He licked his lips and his hand crawled down toward the hem of his jacket.

  “Not in here, George, for God’s sakes,” Maebelle protested.

  “Keep out of it,” Bodie said softly. His eyes had a hard, predatory shine. “Now, mister cowboy, you got anything more to say about not bein’ satisfied with Bertha?”

  The cowboy looked at Lu. Bodie and Maebelle could read his face easily: fear clawed, and fought with the idea of what would happen if he backed down before Lu.

  His sharp, scrawny-red Adam’s apple bobbed.

  His hand dropped.

  Bodie’s eyes glistened as the Navy cleared and roared.

  The cowboy’s gun slipped out of his fingers un-fired. He dropped to his knees, cursed, shut his eyes, bleeding from the chest. Then he pitched forward and lay coughing. In a few seconds the coughing had stopped.

  Bodie smiled easily and put the Navy away.

  “One dozen,” he said, like a man uttering a benediction.

  “You damned fool,” Maebelle raged. “Abraham! Abraham!” she shouted. “Get yourself in here.”

  In a moment an old arthritic black man hobbled into the room from the back of the house.


  “Get that body out of here. Take the rig and dump him on the edge of town. Jump to it.”

  Abraham began laboriously dragging the corpse out of the parlor by the rear door. Boots, then feminine titters, sounded on the stairs.

  Maebelle held down her rage, whirled and stalked into the hall.

  “It’s all right, folks,” she said, vainly trying to block the view. People craned forward on the steps. Abraham didn’t move fast enough. “Nothing’s happened,” Maebelle insisted. “The man’s just hurt a little. Just a friendly argument.”

  “He’s dead,” a reedy male voice said. “Any fool kin see that.”

  Bodie stood in the doorway, his arm around Lu once more, complacently smirking at the confusion of male and female bodies at the bottom of the stairs. He heard his name whispered.

  The thin voice popped up, “I’m getting out of here, Maebelle. This is too much for my blood.” A spindly shape darted toward the door.

  “Now wait a minute, Hiram,” Maebelle protested.

  The door slammed on the breath of chill air from the street.

  Maebelle walked back toward Bodie, her eyes angry. “Now you’ve done it for fair. That yellow pipsqueak will spread it all over town that George Bodie just killed a man in my house.”

  “Let him,” Bodie said. He glanced back at the clock. “In an hour I got an engagement with the marshal anyway. But that’s in an hour.”

  Lu snuggled against him as he started up the stairs. The crowd parted respectfully. Maebelle scratched her head desperately, then spoke up in a voice that had a false boom to it:

  “Come on into the parlor, folks. I’ll pour a drink for those with bad nerves.”

  Abraham had removed the body, but she still noticed a greasy black stain on the carpet. Her eyes flew to the clock, which ticked steadily.

  Bodie awoke suddenly, chilly in the dark room. His hand shot out for the Navy, but drew back when he recognized the boy Tad in the thin line of lamplight falling through the open door. He yawned and rolled over. Lu had gone, and he had dozed.