Maverick Marshall (2 page)

Knowing all this, considering it, Frank stood on Ben’s steps and scowlingly eyed the street. Up till now he’d thought only of Honey and the prestige of being the Law in this town. Now he was forced to look at other things, the town itself, the obligations of this job, and he had his moment of dark, grim wonder.

Ranch hands, trail hands, tramped the scarred walks and stopped in clotted knots of drab color wherever they came across friends or an argument. Staring over the heads of this noisy throng, over the collection of rigs and paintless wagons wedged cheek by jowl into that restive line of stamping, tail-switching rein-tied horses, Frank’s glance prowled the street’s far side with some care.

Most of the whiskey was consumed in three places, all of them on Frank’s side of the street. Directly across loomed the Hays Hotel. East, to the left of the place as Frank faced it and separated only by a vacant lot, was the stage depot, horse barns and Halbertson’s hay shed. West of the hotel was the jail and marshal’s quarters, Fentriss’ livery with its pole corrals — a growing establishment doing considerable business at this time of the year catering to drovers. Next west was the Chuckwagon where a stove-up Church cowhand eked out a living cooking for those who cared for that kind of grub; he had plenty of vacant space on both sides of him. Farther west — the last building — was the blacksmith shop. Beyond was just grass, a ragged chewed and trampled sea of it, bed grounds of the trail herds.

On this side where Frank stood, dividing the respectable and sinful sides of it, was Gurden’s Opal Bar, hangout of horsemen, mecca of those wild ones howling up out of the south. Beyond Gurden’s, looking west, was Bernie’s gun shop, a pool hall with a red-lettered, Billiards, chipped and peeling across its front and, west of this, the Blue Flag saloon, another vacant lot, then Minnie’s place, the wrecked Fantshon store and Trench Brothers lumber.

East of Gurden’s, separated from it by no more than the width of Krantz’s wagon pass, was the Mercantile where Frank had just been to meet with the Council and latch onto this job John Arnold had got him. Next in line was Ben’s Furniture (where Frank stood now), Pete’s Tonsorial Parlor, the New York Cafe where drummers and comparable local fry did their nooning, the Bon Ton Millinery, a bake shop run by a Swede from Istanbul, and Wolverton’s Saddlery.

A little beyond, dubbed ‘Snob Holler’ by the bunk-house fraternity, were the homes of the merchants and socially elite. Clerks and artisans lived on the south side in a heterogeneous muddle of shacks congregated beyond Halbertson’s hay shed. Behind the town, north of it, were the barrens leading into the Claybank Hills; between barrens and hills swirled the opaque crimson waters of the river that gave South Fork its name.

Peering again southwest toward the holding grounds Frank considered the dark mass of close-bunched cattle, knowing these would have no connection with Draicup whose own stock would now be strung out on the trail. This was an outfit just lately arrived, peaceful-seeming in the night but sure to have dumped more strange riders on the town.

Frank hauled Tularosa out of the back of this survey where he’d been crouched, emptily grinning. Frank had only bumped into the fellow once and had privately hoped never to see him again. Six feet four, rawboned and gangling — so thin, as someone put it, he could have crawled through the eye of a needle and “never got one damn hair outa place.” The odd thing was that, except for his eyes, he didn’t look like a killer. He had a lantern-jawed dished-up sort of a face framing clackety store teeth and a spatter of freckles. He was a queer guy to look at — with that wistfully sober kind of bewildered expression frequently glimpsed on small boys called up for a lecture. Inside he was nothing but a bundle of nerves, unpredictable, explosive as capped dynamite.

Frank reckoned himself seven kinds of a fool to take the job but turned west up the street, alert to each shape that dragged its spurs through the dust. Without sighting his quarry he pushed through the batwings into Gruden’s Opal Bar, braced against the racket that rolled against him like a wave.

All the games were in full swing. Men stood bellying the bar six deep. There were a lot of strange faces but not the one he was hunting. A couple of men suddenly flanked him, grinning. One of these was Kelly, a man Frank had used to punch cows with — narrow-chested, fiddle footed, always looking for something he didn’t have, but a fair enough hand in a pinch or a bender.

“Man,” Kelly said, “you’re sure stickin’ your neck out!”

Frank passed it off and shot a glance at the other one. This was Gurden’s chief bouncer, a fellow called “Mousetrap” who would tip the scales at about 280 and fancied himself pretty slick with a gun. He was new around here, a recent investment on the part of Chip Gurden.

“Better sign me up, Frank,” Kelly said, “while you’re able.”

Frank grinned and, using his elbows, moved up to the bar.

Scowls twisted faces colored by resentment. Frank picked up a bottle and thumped the bar top for attention. Turning his back against the wood he faced the packed room and called out, “As of twelve noon tomorrow there will be no pistols carried where whisky is served. All guns will be left with the barkeep. That’s a new town ordinance and it’s going to be enforced.”

He went out through an ominous silence.

The night felt cold against his face. He felt a chill digging into the small of his back.

Bill Grace, Kimberland’s range boss, came along with a couple of punchers, showing no surprise at the sight of Frank’s star. He stared up at Frank’s face with the briefest of glances, jerked a nod and went on. The punchers looked back. Frank saw one of them grinning.

Cutting around the Blue Flat he stepped in through the rear, still without catching sight of Tularosa. He stood a bit, thinking. The fellow might be over at Minnie’s or following his bent in the dark of some alley. He might be at the blacksmith’s or feeding his face in the New York Cafe, though this last was out of bounds. Frank found himself listening for gunshots.

The Flag didn’t have as much flash as Gurden’s which flaunted framed women without clothes above its bar and a bevy of live ones not clad a heap warmer. This place wasn’t as noisy though money was changing hands pretty regular. Young Church, old Sam’s son, was at the bar getting rapidly plastered. Arrogance lay in the flash of his stare and when he saw Frank a surge of roan color rushed into his cheeks. He pushed away from the bar, still carrying his bottle, and reeled toward Frank.

Frank said, “Hello, Will.”

Eyes ugly, Will Church floundered to a stop three feet away and glared belligerently. He indulged the manners of a drunken hidalgo surveying a truant peon. “You were told to stay out there at Bospero Flats.”

“That’s right,” Frank said.

“Then why ain’t you out there? You think those cows’ll stay hitched without watching’?”

Some of the nearer noise began to dim away as men twisted around or looked up from their cards. Frank’s eyes flattened a little. “If they’re worryin’ you, Will, perhaps you’d better go see to them.” Frank’s hand brushed the star that was pinned to his shirtfront.

The wink of the metal suddenly caught Church’s attention. He showed a sultry surprise. His mouth twisted with fury as men back of him shifted, the sound of this seeming as a goad to his temper. As heir apparent to the second largest spread in the country young Church wasn’t accustomed to being talked back at. His cheeks began to burn. He had never liked Frank anyway.

Frank, smiling meagerly, was turning away when Church lunged for him, lifting the bottle. Frank’s head whipped around. Ducking under the bottle he came up, tight with outrage, hammering four knuckles to the point of Church’s chin. It sounded like a bat knocking a ball over the fence.

Church’s head snapped back with all his features screwed together. The off-balanced weight of chest and head abruptly toppled him. He hit the floor on his back and skidded into the bar, the bottle jaggedly breaking against the brass foot rail.

Will Church climbed to his feet groggily shaking his head. He discovered the splattered whisky and his stare, coming up, found Frank. He let out a shout and came at Frank with the bottle neck.

Church was big, even bigger than Frank, with a bulging swell of chest and arm and the hatred of balked arrogance baring his teeth. He shortened his grip on the neck of the bottle to give more reach to the jagged shard. He looked like an ape above the glitter of the glass.

Frank asked quietly, “Sure you want to go on with this, Will?”

Church showed the brawn of a gorilla and about as much reason as he stood there shifting his weight, breathing heavily. Men were crowding in through the batwings as word of the fight ran down the street. Frank got hold of the back of a chair.

“Mind the mirrors!” the barkeep yelled. Somebody’s laugh was a sound of hysteria. The faces around Frank grew tense and avid as he brought the chair up in front of him.

Now Will leaped, throwing up a hand to ward off the chair, attempting to dive in under it. One spur hooked into the cloth of a pant’s leg and he went down, cursing viciously. Frank, prodded by past injustices, brought the chair up over his head; but something stayed him and he reluctantly stepped back, allowing the man to regain his feet.

It was while Church was trying to get up that the racket of shots came — five of them, close-spaced, whipping Frank around, scowling.

He let go of the chair. The batwings were blocked by a solid crush of onlookers. He put his weight against the edge of the crowd. “Make way!” He shoved the nearest man roughly, driving broad shoulders into the wedge, hurling them back with the ram of his elbows.

Someone swung at him, knocking his hat off. He could feel them stiffening. A man swung at Frank, yelling wickedly. Frank hurled him back into the crowd with black fury. He tore the gun from a fist and beat his way clear with it, leaving behind the wild sound of their temper. He stumbled into the night, his shirt hanging in ribbons.

He ran around the back end of the pool hall and came into Gurden’s with the gun still in hand. He backed out almost at once, finding no sign of trouble, sprinting down the passage between the Opal and Bernie’s gun shop. Coming onto the walk he caught the sharp bark of two additional shots and swore in exasperation. It was nothing more alarming than a string of whooping ranch hands letting go at the moon as they roared out of town.

Frank threw the pistol away and remembered his hat. For ten years that hat had been a part of himself but he didn’t go back after it. He tramped instead into the Mercantile and bought himself a new one, black this time, and a dark shield-fronted shirt, going — out of deference to female shoppers — into the back room to get into it.

Coming out he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Honey, having noticed a Bar 40 wagon out front. While he was looking Krantz grabbed his elbow. “You get him?”

“Get who?”

“Tularosa.” The lamps’ shine winked off the thick lenses of the storekeeper’s spectacles. “He vas in mine blace.”

Frank, swearing, bundled the discarded shirt into Krantz’s hands and hurried through the front door. He stopped under the overhang, avoiding the stippling of light from the windows. He found it hard to make out anyone, what with so much in shadow and all the dust stirred up by the traffic. He looked for five minutes and decided to try Minnie’s.

He got his horse from the rack, the big dun he’d come in on, a
bayo coyote
with black mane and tail and a stripe down its spine in addition to smudges about the knees. A black horse in this job would have probably been smarter but Frank, like most of those who rode after cattle, was sold on duns, particularly duns with zebra marks descended from the toughest Spanish stock in the land.

Still riled with himself Frank got into the saddle and pointed the horse toward the west end of town.

Minnie was a character, practically an institution. A lot of folks would have liked to see her moved but she had, in Frank’s mind, as much right to her business as anybody else. She kept an orderly house, which was more than could be said for the likes of Chip Gurden. More he thought about the place the more convinced Frank became that he would find his man holed up there. Tularosa made no secret of his affinity for the ladies.

All the shades were drawn but there were horses at the tie rail — two roans, a paint and three sorrels. Frank tied the dun and took a last look behind him. He ducked under the rail and felt to see if he had his pistol, resettling its barrel lightly, not hankering for anything to balk his need if he were forced to put hand to it.

He drew off his dark thoughts and pulled open the door.

This layout had once been a food stop on the overland stage line between Elk City and Dalhart, and the face-lifting Minnie had given the joint had not greatly changed its flavor. The big room Frank stepped into had all the look of a stage stop bar. She had got the place cheap when town expansion had decided the company to remove to a site directly across from the New York Cafe.

The old potbellied stove still held its key spot in the middle of things. The scarred pine bar took up most of the left wall, the wall across from it being cut by three doors. No mirrors, no pictures; five kitchen chairs were racked before the north wall, the south wall was set up similarly except that here only two of the five were empty. Strangers held down the other three, men Frank had never run into before. None of them much resembled Tularosa beyond their big hats, brush-scarred boots and the gun-weighted cartridge belts strapped about their middles.

Frank, after that one sweeping glance, darkly stared at the three closed doors to his right. The nearest, he remembered, let into the woodshed. The farther, opening onto closed stairs, gave access to the rooms above. It was the middle door that held his attention. It led directly outside behind the screen of the woodshed and was a means of escape for men embarrassed to be found here.

Frank, ducking out, left the door standing open and ran around the shed’s bulk, eyes expectant, gun in hand. But if there was anyone lurking in these shadows he didn’t see them. Holstering his gun, he went back inside, ignoring the truculent looks the men gave him.