Maverick Marshall (6 page)

Frank said, “What happened, Brackley?”

The rancher, keeping his eyes on Church, took the hat one of the drovers held out to him. “Nothing I can’t take care of,” he said, and staggered out of the place without further talk.

Church, cracking a grin, made as though to start after him. Frank put a hand out. “Just a minute.”

Will jarred to a stop, the dart of his eyes turning narrowly watchful. “Takin’ that tin pretty serious, ain’t you?”

Frank kept digging into Will with his stare. Church didn’t like it and something shifty in the man began to squirm under so long an inspection. Again he started around Frank and this time Frank let him go. But at the door Will’s bile caught up with him and he said, bitterly wheeling, “Give a thirty-a-month cow-walloper a badge to pin on and — ”

Frank asked quietly, “You want I should shut that big mouth of yours?”

“Mebbe,” Church sneered, “you better look at your hole card. For a jasper that’s let a pair of saddle tramps sucker him — ”

Something he saw in Frank’s stare muzzled the rest of it. With a strangled oath he reached for the door, recoiling when it came suddenly at him. Kimberland’s foreman, Bill Grace, came in from the night with a gust of cold air, turning all the way around to stare after the man as Church plunged blindly out through the opening.

“Well!” Grace said, taking a sharp look at Frank, “somebody sure must’ve shoved a burr under his tail. Ain’t seen Will move so fast since the time that centipede crawled up his pants leg.”

A couple of cowpunchers laughed. Danny Settles came in with his long coat flapping around him. His unlined face lighted up when he saw Frank. “We found those keys!”

“All right,” Frank said, catching the grins. “You get on back,” he said curtly. “I’ll be over there directly.”

He saw Settles’ face fall, but the man turned and went out. The two trail hands, racking their cues, also left. One of the others said, dourly critical, “You ain’t hired that halfwit fer anythin’, hev you?”

“He’s acting as jailer,” Frank admitted.

Bill Grace said, “The town fool for jailer and a cow-thievin’ Mex for deputy. I expect the taxpayers — ”

“Any pay Danny rates will come out of my pocket.”

“All we need now is some of them Benchers on the Council! I don’t wonder that killer got away from you.”

“You feel so strong about it,” Frank said, “why’n’t you go run him down? Maybe they’d make
you
marshal, then your boss could have things just like he wants them.” Frank hadn’t meant to let go of that last, but the words were out now and he had to stand back of them.

The Bar 40 ramrod looked him up one side and down the other. “It’s sure as hell time this town hired a
man
to do its work.” With another hard look and a snort he departed.

Chet Garrison dug an elbow into Frank’s ribs. “Looks like you been told, boy.” There was a vein of friendliness in the man’s tone Frank hadn’t looked for. A suggestion of that spirit was in some of these other faces. It warmed him, washing away some of his bitterness, allowing him to recover in some measure his sense of proportion. He grinned tiredly and left and outside climbed into his saddle.

The blow was whipping itself into a gale. He had to bend his head against it. Everything seemed to have got itself in motion; dust, trash — even the damned shadows. What few horses were still at the hitchrails had sidled around to get their rumps to the wind. Blinds flapped and banged, but nothing disturbed the wail of the fiddles coming through the doors of the Opal.

It was getting colder than frogs. Frank thrust his hands in his pockets, content to guide the dun with his knees. Then, remembering, he snatched his hands out again. He’d need every advantage a man could get if he bumped into Tularosa.

The dun was breasting the Mercantile, shuttered for the night, when a hunched-forward shape floundered out of the shadows. Frank’s instant reaction was to reach for his pistol. Fear of ridicule was greater than Frank’s fear of trouble. The man wasn’t Tularosa. Believing the fellow was drunk Frank swerved aside but the man cut after him, clutching his hat, and Frank was close enough to recognize Kelly.

“Was figurin’ ” Kelly shouted, “you might could use a little help.”

Frank put the dun into the lee of Ben’s Furniture. Kelly, lurching after him, still clutched at his hat. He caught hold of the gelding’s cheekstrap.

“Thought you were hauling for Kimberland,” Frank said.

Kelly snorted. “Old friends come first.”

“I’ve got Chavez now.”

“Wind’s swingin’ around.” Kelly brought the gray blob of his face back to Frank. “Heard about that. Won’t be no use to you. Ain’t nobody goin’ to take orders from no halfbreed.”

Frank stared down at him uncomfortably. He was tugged one way by ties of past friendship, dragged another by allegiance to the man he had hired. There was some truth in Kelly’s words; Chavez would put some people’s backs up. Town Council had ought to be thought about too. Frank could use them both till he got shut of Tularosa. But he could hardly afford to hire Kelly out of pocket.

Seeming almost to read Frank’s thoughts the man said, “Hell, I’ll work for nothin’. Glad to string along till these damn cows quit comin’ through here.” He let go of the dun, stepping back like it was settled. Frank said, thinking of Settles, “I can’t just kick Chavez out like a dog.”

A note of resentment put an edge on Kelly’s voice. “Never mind. I ain’t quitting a good thing to play second fiddle to no Mex. If I don’t rate top spot with you — ” He seemed to catch himself then. He made an irritable gesture. “What I mean — Damn it, you got Will Church down on you. Gurden’s still riled about that killer gettin’ loose. Krantz hates your guts. Now, with this pair of yaps you’ve latched onto — ”

“What you mean,” Frank said, “is that I’ve made a fine hash of this.”

“I never said that!”

“You might just as well have. It’s the truth.”

Kelly stared up at him, hugging his coat, edging back more to get out of the wind. “Hell, you know what this town is! All I was tryin’ to say is you’ve mebbe bit off more than one guy can handle — ”

“Hickok’s handling Abilene.”

“Hickok!” yowled Kelly. “What you need’s
help —
a friend at your back, another gun you can count on.”

“I ain’t heard of Bat Masterson hiring any bodyguard.”

“You think you can gun-whip this town into line? Talk sense, damn it to hell!”

“Does it make sense for you to quit a soft job to go with a man who’s apt to get burnt down before he’s two hours older?” Frank picked up his reins. “I’ve got to get moving.”

Kelly followed him, the gale at their backs now. “Swingin’ into the southwest — we’re like to hev weather.” He relapsed into silence, hanging onto Frank’s stirrup.

At the Bon Ton Frank wheeled the dun around. Keeping to a pattern was just asking for trouble; Snob Hollow could look after itself for a spell. Coming into the light from the New York Cafe he got hold of Kelly’s hand and grimly pushed the man’s fingers across the swell of his saddle, across the ripped place where the bullet had struck. Kelly jerked back like he’d touched a snake.

Frank looked down at him with inscrutable eyes. “That leather won’t bite. Be thankful, old friend, you ain’t called on to help.”

The teamster twisted his head against the slap of the wind. They were passing Ben’s Furniture before he got enough breath back to make himself heard. “Tularosa?”

Frank shrugged. He seemed to be catching the habit from Chavez. “Him, or another. Don’t make much difference to a stiff whose slug tags it.”

They were opposite the jail, hardly ten strides from Gurden’s batwings when Kelly pulled up. “Mebbe I better be turnin’ off here. I — ”

The hammering explosions of two shots, one climbing hard over the heels of the other, barreled through Kelly’s words. Both men flung startled looks at the Opal. Frank, sending the dun forward, was out of the saddle on skidding bootheels, catching at a porch post, smashing into the half-leaf doors. Two more shots, slamming the doors, drove him back. He had no further thought for Kelly. He dropped flat to the porch planks, palming his gun, firing beneath the doors at the gangling shape diving through a side window. One of the doors jerked over Frank’s head but he was already coming off of the boards, throwing himself headlong at the mouth of the alley.

He was too mad for caution but there was no one in sight when he looked into the alley. The man he had fired at was Tularosa and now, still staring, Frank found himself shaking as caution belatedly sank its hooks into him. He backed away from that slot and swiveled a look round for Kelly. The teamster wasn’t in sight.
Gone up the other
side
, Frank thought, and ran along the dark front of the Mercantile, feverishly pushing fresh loads into the cylinder.

At the entrance to the passage between Krantz’s and Ben’s Furniture he fell back a moment, listening, but the racket of the wind made hearing other sounds unlikely. He ran east as far as the barber’s pole. Dropping into a walk, he moved up that dark alley. This blackness had an almost tangible quality, folding around him like the wrap of a blanket, cutting off the wind, reducing its clamor to a kind of muffled groan.

He stopped three paces from the passage’s end but still heard nothing he could imagine was Tularosa. Frank knew the chance he would take if he looked. A cold sweat filmed his flesh as he moved into the open but no bullet came at him. In this moonless murk the killer could have crouched ten feet away without discovery.

Frank wanted to turn back but the words of Kimberland’s foreman still rankled. He raked the dark with angry eyes, weighing his chances and not at all liking them. Frank, jaws clenched, moved forward, driven by the knowledge of his responsibility. If Frank had kept hold of Tularosa the man wouldn’t be here now.

Several times Frank stumbled in the trash underfoot and twice his boots sent tin cans rattling but he reached the back of the Opal without having discovered any trace of his quarry.

Swearing under his breath, he went around to the front, pausing on Gurden’s porch for another look at those swing doors. Then he stepped in and talk broke. He tramped down an opening lane and found Brackley. The man was dead. Frank’s eyes stabbed Gurden. “Let’s have it.”

“Brackley come in here maybe half an hour ago. Said he wanted to talk so we went in the back room.” Gurden’s eyes were bland. “Turned out he wanted a loan.”

Frank had been wondering what had fetched Brackley in. The man hadn’t liked towns, hadn’t been to South fork more than twice in three years. “So you gave it to him. Backed, of course, by a plaster on his spread.”

Gurden’s mouth thinned around its tightened grip on his cigar. “Naturally.”

“Got it handy?”

“It’s in the safe.”

“So you gave him the money and put the lien in your safe. Then the pair of you came out — and Tularosa shot him.”

Gurden’s eyes were bland no longer. They gleamed like bits of metal and there was color creeping into his beefy jowls. “I didn’t see the man killed; I was still in my office when I heard the shots.”

Frank discovered Wolverton in the crowd and tipped his head at him. “You want to say anything?”

The saddle merchant said, without looking at Gurden, “Jace came out by himself.”

“And where was Tularosa?”

Wolverton shrugged. “I didn’t see him.”

Anger came into Frank’s face then. “Did
anybody
see him?”

A Boxed T man said, “He came in by that door over there,” and pointed across the room toward the gun shop. “He slid in just as Brackley came out of Chip’s office. He yelled ‘Brackley!’ and when Jace turned, shot him.”

A Kimberland rider said, “No argument or nothin’.” And Bernie, who was by the bar, said, “Tularosa let go soon as he spotted Brackley — just yelled and shot while Brackley was still turning.”

“Then jumped for the window, eh?”

“Close enough,” Wolverton said, “there was a racket of hoofs and someone come onto the porch. That’s when he went for the window.”

“All right.” Frank looked at Gurden. Then his glance singled out two punchers, Squatting O hands from farther unpriver. “Pack Brackley over to where they’ve got Jo Ashenfeldt and hang around till I get there.” His eyes snapped back to Gurden. “Close up.

In this town Chip Gurden was one-third of the law and he was not in the habit of taking orders from anyone. His reaction was instant. “Now look — ”

Frank cut him off. “Take it up with Krantz or Arnold. I want this crowd out of here in three minutes.”

Gurden’s look swelled with hate. “If you think — ”

“Clear this place,” Frank said, “or I’ll do it.” He felt the man’s fury swirling round him like a fog, but in the end Chip threw a hand up and his housemen got the exodus started. One of his aprons climbed up on the bar and started putting out lamps. Frank nodded at the Squatting O punchers and they picked Brackley up and joined the departing customers.

When the most of them were out Frank said to the Opal’s proprietor, “We’ll go into your office and you can show me that lien.”

“Go to hell!” Gurden snarled and went into the back room, slamming the door.

Frank was minded to follow but Chavez came in with a double-barreled shotgun. Frank sent him after the furniture man, who was all the coroner they had in these parts. Frank had cooled some by then and decided to shelve the matter of Brackley’s plaster until he could secure reliable opinions on the signature.

Leaving the place, he went back to the street and got onto the dun and sat a while, frowning. Then he picked up his reins and rode over to Ben Holliday’s furniture place. There was a light at the back, and he got down and went in. Brackley was stretched out alongside Joe’s body but the pair who had fetched him were nowhere in sight.

• • •

Back at Chip Gurden’s the new bouncer, Mousetrap, stepped into the office and carefully shut the bar door. Gurden, eyeing the man bleakly, hauled a bottle off his desk and helped himself to a snort. He was putting it down when somebody’s knuckles rattled against the back door. Mousetrap raised the hairy black of his eyebrows and, at Gurden’s nod, went across to open it.