Rock turned and looked up, and Sue Landon was standing on the boardwalk.
“Oh, Rock, you came back.”
“Don’t reckon I ever really left, Sue,” he said slowly. “My heart’s been right here all the time.”
She caught his arm, and the smile in her eyes and on her lips was bright. He looked down at her.
Then he said aloud. “Thanks, Jack.”
She looked up quickly. “What did you say?”
He grinned at her. “Sue,” he said, “did I ever tell you about my brother? He was one grand hombre. Someday, I’ll tell you.” They walked back toward the horses, her hand on his arm.
A Strong Land
Growing
At 8:00 a.m. Marshal Fitz Moore left his house and walked one block west to Gard’s Saloon. It was already open, and Fitz could hear Gard’s swamper sweeping up the débris from the previous night.
Crossing the street, the marshal paused at the edge of the boardwalk to rub out his cigar on top of the hitching rail. As he did, he turned his eyes but not his head, glancing swiftly up the narrow street alongside the saloon. The gray horse was gone.
Fitz Moore hesitated, considering this, estimating time and probabilities. Only then did he turn and enter the Eating House just ahead of him.
The Fred Henry gang of outlaws had been operating in this corner of the territory for more than two years, but this town of Sentinel had so far escaped their attentions. Fitz Moore, who had been marshal of Sentinel for more than half of that time, had taken particular care to study the methods of the Henry outfit. He had wanted to be ready for them—and now there was also a matter of self-protection. In several of the recent raids the town marshal had been slain, and in the last three the slaying had occurred within seconds after the raid had begun.
A persistent pattern of operation had been established, and invariably the timing of the raids had coincided with the availability of large sums of money. And such a time in Sentinel, Fitz Moore knew, was now. So, unless all his reasoning was at fault, the town was marked for a raid within two hours. And he was marked for death.
The marshal was a tall, spare man with a dark, narrow face and a carefully trimmed mustache. Normally his expression was placid, only his eyes seeming alive and aware.
As he entered the restaurant now, he removed his flat-crowned black hat. His frock coat was unbuttoned, offering easy access to his Smith & Wesson .44 Russian. It was belted high and firmly on his left side just in front of his hip, butt to the right, the holster at a slight angle.
Three men and two women sat at the long community table in the Eating House, but only one of them murmured a greeting. Jack Thomas glanced up and said, “’Morning, Marshal,” his voice low and friendly.
Acknowledging the greeting, the marshal sat down at the far end of the table and accepted the cup of coffee brought from the kitchen by the Chinese cook.
With his mind closed to the drift of conversation from the far end of the table, he considered the situation that faced him. His days began in the same identical manner, with a survey of the town from each of the six windows of his house. This morning he had seen a gray horse tied behind Peterson’s unused corral, where it would not be seen by a casual glance.
With field glasses the marshal had examined the horse. It was streaked with the salt of dried sweat, evidence of hard riding. There were still some dark, damp spots, implying that the horse had been ridden not long before, and the fact that it was still bridled and saddled indicated that it would soon be ridden again. The brand was a Rocking R, not a local iron.
When Fitz Moore had returned to his living room, he had seated himself and opened his Plutarch. For an hour he read quietly and with genuine pleasure, finally rising to glance from the back window. The gray horse had not been moved.
At 8:00, when he had left for breakfast, the horse was still there, but by the time he had walked a block, it was gone. And there lingered in the air a faint dust.
Down the arroyo, of course, in the access to cañons, forest, and mountains, there was concealment and water. Taking into consideration the cool night, the sweat-marked horse—not less than six miles to the point of rendezvous. The rider of the gray obviously had been making some final check with a local source of information. To get back to the rendezvous, discuss the situation and return, he had two hours, perhaps a little more. He would deal in minimums.
The marshal lighted a cigar, accepted a fresh cup of coffee from the Chinese cook, and leaned back in his chair. He was a man of simple tastes and many appreciations. He knew little of cattle and less of mining, but two things he did know. He knew guns and he knew men.
He was aware of the cool gray eyes of the young woman, the only person present who he did not know. There was about her a nagging familiarity that disturbed him. He tasted his coffee and glanced out the window. Reason warned him that he should be suspicious of any stranger in town at this time, yet instinct told him this girl warranted no suspicion.
The Emporium Bank would be open in approximately an hour. A few minutes later Barney Gard would leave his saloon and cross the street with the Saturday and Sunday receipts. It would be a considerable sum.
The Emporium safe would be unlocked by that time, and, since they had been accepting money from ranchers and dust from miners, there would be plenty of ready cash there. In one hour there would be $20,000 in negotiable cash within easy reach of grasping fingers and ready guns. And the Henry gang had taken steps that had made them aware of this. The marshal realized this now.
He did not know the name of the stranger who had played poker with the Catfish Kid last week. He had known the face. It had been that of a man who had been in Tascosa with the bandit leader, Fred Henry, two years ago. Tied to this was the fact that the Rocking R brand was registered to one Harvey Danuser, alias Dick Mawson, the fastest gun hand in the Henry outfit.
He was suddenly aware that a question had been addressed to him. “What would you do, Marshal,” Jack Thomas was saying, “if the Henry gang raided Sentinel?”
Fitz Moore glanced at the burning end of his cigar. Then he looked up, his eyes level and appraising. “I think,” he said mildly, “I should have to take steps.”
The marshal was not a precipitate man. Reputed to be fast with a gun, that speed had yet to be proved locally. Once a few years ago, he had killed the wrong man. He hoped never to make that mistake again.
So far he had enforced the peace in Sentinel by shrewd judgment of character, appreciation of developing situations, and tactical moves that invariably left him in command. Authorized to employ an assistant, he had not done so. He preferred to work alone, as he lived alone. He was, he acknowledged—but only to himself—a lonely man. If he possessed any capacity for affection or friendship, it had not been obvious to the people of Sentinel. Yet this was an added strength. No one presumed to take him lightly or to expect favoritism.
Long ago he had been considered a brilliant conversationalist, and even in a time when a cowhand’s saddlebags might carry a volume of Shakespeare as often as one by Ned Buntline, he was a widely read man. He had been a captain in the cavalry of the United States; a colonel in a Mexican revolution; a shotgun messenger for Wells, Fargo; and a division superintendent on the Butterfield Stage Line.
Naturally he knew considerable about the Henry gang. The outlaws had been operating for several years, but only of late had exhibited a tendency to shoot first and talk later. This seemed to indicate that at least one of the gang had become a ruthless killer.
All three of the marshals who had recently been killed had been shot in the back. It indicated that a modus operandi had been established. First kill the marshal, then rob the town. With the marshal dead, resistance was unlikely before the bandits could make their escape.
Fitz Moore dusted the ash from his cigar. He thought that gray horse had been standing long enough for the sweat to dry, which meant he
had been ridden into town before daybreak. At that hour everything was closed, and he saw no one on the street, which indicated that the rider went inside somewhere. And that indicated he not only knew where to go at that hour but was sure he would be welcomed.
The Henry gang had an accomplice in Sentinel. When the rider of the gray horse had left town, that accomplice undoubtedly had been awake, and with a raid imminent it was unlikely he would go back to sleep. What place more likely for him to be than in this café? Here he could see who was around and have a chance to judge the marshal’s temper.
Had anyone entered just before he had arrived? Fitz Moore knew everyone in the room except the girl with the gray eyes. She was watching him now.
Each of the others had a reason to be here at this hour. Barney Gard had opened his saloon and left it to the ministrations of the swamper. Jack Thomas directed the destinies of the livery stable. Johnny Haven, when he wasn’t getting drunk and trying to tree the town, was a hardworking young cowhand and thoroughly reliable.
The older of the two women present was Mary Jameson, a plump and gossipy widow, the town’s milliner, dressmaker, and Niagara of conversation. When she finished her breakfast, she would walk three doors down the street and open her shop.
But the girl with the gray eyes? Her face was both delicate and strong, her hair dark and lovely, and she had a certain air of being to the manor born. Perhaps it was because she did possess that air, like someone from the marshal’s own past, that she seemed familiar. And because she was the sort of girl … But it was too late for that now. He was being a fool.
Yet there was a definite antagonism in her eyes when she looked at him, and he could not account for it. He was accustomed to the attention of women—something he had always had—but not antagonistic attention.
Disturbed by this and by that haunting familiarity, as of a forgotten name that hangs upon the lips yet will not be spoken, he shook off these questions to consider his more immediate problem.
The marshal glanced thoughtfully at Johnny Haven. The young cowboy was staring sourly at his plate, devoting his attention almost exclusively to his coffee. Over his right temple was a swelling and a cut, and this, coupled with his hangover, had left Johnny in a disgruntled mood. Last night had seen the end of his monthly spree, and the cut was evidence of the marshal’s attention.
Johnny caught the marshal’s glance and scowled irritably. “You sure leave a man with a headache, Marshal. Did you have to slug me with that gun?”
Fitz Moore once more dusted the ash from his cigar. “I didn’t have an axe handle, and nothing else seemed suitable for the job.” He added casually: “Of course, I might have shot you.”
Johnny Haven was aware of this. He knew perfectly well that most marshals would have done just that, but coming from Fitz Moore it was almost an explanation.
“Is it so easy to kill men?” It was the girl with the gray eyes who spoke, in a voice that was low and modulated, but also in it contempt was plain.
“That depends,” Fitz Moore replied quietly, “on the man doing the shooting and upon the circumstances.”
“I think”—her eyes seemed to blaze momentarily—“that you would find it easy to kill. You might even enjoy killing. That is, if you were able to feel anything at all.”
The depth of emotion in her voice was so apparent that even Johnny turned to look at her. She was dead white, her eyes large.
The marshal’s expression did not change. He knew that Johnny Haven understood, as any Westerner would. Johnny himself had given cause for shooting on more than one occasion. He also knew that what Marshal Moore had just said was more of an explanation than he had ever given to any other man. Fitz Moore had arrested Johnny Haven six times in as many months, for after every payday Johnny came to town hunting trouble.
The girl’s tone and words had in them an animosity for which none of them could account, and it left them uneasy.
Barney Gard got to his feet and dropped a dollar on the table. Johnny Haven followed him out, and then the milliner left. Jack Thomas loitered over his coffee.
“That Henry bunch has got me worried, Marshal,” he said. “Want me to get down the old scatter-gun, just in case?”
Fitz Moore watched Barney Gard through the window. The saloon man had paused on the walk to talk to Johnny Haven. Under the stubble of beard, Johnny’s face looked clean and strong, reminding the marshal again, as it had before, of the face of another boy, scarcely older.
“It won’t be necessary,” Moore replied. “I’ll handle them in my own way, in my own time. It’s my job, you know.”
“Isn’t that a bit foolish? To refuse help?”
The contempt still in the girl’s voice stirred him, but his expression revealed nothing. He nodded gravely.
“Why, I suppose it might be, ma’am, but it’s the job they hired me to do.”
“Figured I’d offer,” Thomas said, unwilling to let the matter drop. “You tell me what you figure to do, and I’ll be glad to help.”
“Another time.” The marshal tasted his coffee again and looked directly at the girl. “You are new in Sentinel. Will you be staying long?”
“Not long.”
“You have relatives here?”
“No.”
He waited, but no explanation was offered. Fitz Moore was puzzled, and he studied her out of the corners of his eyes. There was no sound but the ticking of the big old-fashioned clock on the shelf.
The girl sat very still, the delicate line of her profile bringing to him a faint, lost feeling, a nostalgia from his boyhood when there was perfume in the air, bluegrass, picket fences … And then he remembered!
Thomas got to his feet. He was a big, swarthy man, always untidy, a bulge of fat pushing his wide belt. “You need my help, Marshal,” he said, “you call on me.”
Fitz Moore permitted himself one of his rare smiles. “If there is trouble, Jack,” he said, as he glanced up, “you’ll be among the first to know.”
The clock ticked off the slow seconds after the door closed, and then the marshal spoke into the silence.
“Why have you come here? What can you do in this place?”
She looked down at her hands. “All I have is here … a little farther west. I left the stage only to hire a rig … And then I heard your name, and I wanted to see what manner of man it would be who could kill his best friend.”
He got to his feet. At this moment he knew better than ever before what loneliness meant.
“You must not judge too quickly,” he said quietly. “Each man deserves to be judged against the canvas of his time and his country.”
“There is only one way to judge a killer.”
“Wait. You will know what I mean if you will wait a little while. And stay off the street today.” He walked to the door and stopped with his hand upon the latch. “He used to tell me about you. We talked of you, and I came to feel that I knew you well. I had hoped … before it happened … that we could meet. But in a different way than this. What will happen today I want you to see. I do not believe you lack the courage to watch what happens, nor to revise your opinions if you feel you have been mistaken. Your brother, as you were advised in my letter, was killed by accident.”
“But you shot him. You were in a great hurry to kill.”
“He ran up behind me.”
“To help you.”
“I had seen him a hundred miles from there. It was … quick. At such a time one does not think. One acts.”
“Kill first,” she said bitterly, “and look afterward.”
His face was stiff. “I am afraid that is just what one does. I am sorry, Julia.”
He lifted the latch. “When you see what is done today, try to think how else it might have been handled. If you cannot see this as I do, then before night comes you will think me more cruel than you have before. But if you under
stand, where there is understanding there is no hate.”
Outside the door he paused and surveyed the street with care. Not much longer now.
Across from him was Gard’s Saloon. One block down the street, his own office and his home, and across from it, just a little beyond, an abandoned barn. He studied it thoughtfully and then glanced again at Gard’s and at the bank, diagonally across, beyond the milliner’s shop.
It would happen here, upon this dusty street, between these buildings. Here men would die, and it was his mission to be sure the right man lived and the bad died. He was expendable, but which was he? Good or bad?
Fitz Moore knew every alley, every door, every corner in this cluster of heat-baked, alkali-stamped buildings that soon would be an arena for life and death. His eyes turned thoughtfully again to the abandoned barn. It projected several feet beyond the otherwise carefully lined buildings. The big door through which hay had once been loaded gaped widely. So little time!
He knew what they said about him. “Ain’t got a friend in town,” he had overheard Mrs. Jameson say. “Stays to hisself in that long old house. Got it full of books, folks say. But kill you quick as a wink, he would. He’s cold … mighty cold.”
But was he? Was he? When he had first come to this town, he found it a shambles, wrecked by a passing trail-herd crew. He had found it terrorized by two dozen gunmen and looted by card sharks and thieves. Robbery had been the order of the day, and murder all too frequent. It had been six months now since there had been a robbery of any kind, and more than nine months since the last killing. Did that count for nothing at all?
He took out a cigar and bit off the end. What was the matter with him today? He had not felt like this in years. Was it, as they say happens to a drowning man, that his life was passing before his eyes just before the end? Or was it seeing Julia Heath, the sum total of all he had ever wanted in a girl? And, realizing who she was, knew how impossible all he had ever longed for had become?
They had talked of it, he and Tom Heath, and he knew Tom had written to Julia, suggesting she come West because he had found the man for her. And two weeks later Tom had been dead with Fitz Moore’s bullet in his heart.
The Strong Land Page 5