Maverick Marshall (8 page)

The wind flapped his clothes, staggering him with its violence. Digging chin into his collar, he tried to beat his way against it, needing to get into the lee of something, knowing the danger of being trapped in the open. Already those fellows across the way had got under cover. Grit stung his eyes. Dust boiled up by the running herd got so thick he couldn’t see ten yards in front of him.

He locked his teeth against their chatter, trying to find Fentriss’ barn. To move at all was like bucking a blizzard. Above the racket of hoofs, the shots and the bawling, Frank caught the screech of rending wood, the yells and crash as a building toppled. Those steers wouldn’t leave enough of this town for kindling.

He found a wall and stumbled along it, drunkenly reeling, cursing floundering feet that wouldn’t track. He could almost feel the snorting breath of those beasts as the leaders funneled into the far end of the street, bawling, horns clacking. The gunshots sounded like cork stoppers popping. Frank reached the end of the wall and the wind hit him solidly, driving the breath back into him. The dust-laden gusts tore at him, half blinding him. He staggered through the stable’s door hole into a blackness impenetrable as lamp soot. Loose boards shook and rattled. The place was noisy with the clamor of frightened horses. Frank wiped his streaming eyes on the back of an abrasive wrist.

Across the street through the blowing dust there were patterns of foggy radiance where turned-up lamps shone through the windows, but these didn’t make seeing any easier to speak of. The dust cleared a little as the gusts slid into a lull. The herd had been stopped, was beginning very slowly to revolve on itself; but Frank knew, without riders, how chancey was this respite, how swiftly those steers would run again should something upset them. He took his chance while he had it and darted into the open, thinking to get up on the roof of the Mercantile where he’d be able to see a little better.

In the dust and confusion he miscalculated someway and wound up before the half-leaf doors of the Opal. He shouted for Gurden but got no answer. The stopped cattle were still milling in front of Minnie’s. He heard Chavez’s voice:

“Douse them lamps before you burn up this town! Pronto!”

This seemed to make sense to quite a number of folks. One by one the nearer lights winked out. The horses tied in front of the Flag had gone away with their hitchrail. Gurden hadn’t locked up; Frank saw the batwings flap as wind picked up the dust again with a howl. Something flapped, too, behind the herd. Frank felt the ground quiver under him as every steer in it suddenly churned into motion. Frank dived for the Opal.

He knew where the lamps were. He got one, letting go of the rifle, and dragged a match across the seat of his pants. A lantern would have been better, but he took what he could get. His fastest wasn’t any too quick. There they came, boiling out of the dust with their eyes big as wash tubs. As Frank crossed the porch and ran into the street some woman cried shrilly,
“Is he crazy?”
And then the herd was engulfing the street like a monster, so near he could see their slobber-flecked chests and the sharp wicked glint of their tossing horns.

Frank flung the flaring lamp high above them.

The herd broke like splatter, the whole front melting away, panicked by the sight of that flame diving at them. Several steers crashed head-on into buildings, adding their terrified bellows to the uproar, but the great bulk of the mass veered off south after the lead steer who, by the kindness of God, took for the largest chunk of open space in sight, trailed by his followers in a curve that tipped east back of Fentriss’ livery. One crazed brute, lone-wolfing it up the street through the dust, almost ran Frank down while he was standing there shaking. He fired twice pointblank with his pistol, yet blind panic or momentum carried the animal the length of the Mercantile’s front before collapsing.

Frank’s legs folded under him. Cramps ravaged his stomach.

Dragging a hand across his mouth Frank shoved up off his knees and got out of the street. There was much random shouting, lights were commencing to flare up behind windows as anxious merchants and the incurably curious came forth out of hiding to assess the damage. The wind — after the manner of that rail and those horses — seemed to have gone somewhere else. Frank could hear occasional gunshots but these were scattered, sporadic, probably mercy slugs for cripples. He supposed he ought to get back to the office where he could be found, but that plaster of Gurden’s was still on his mind and he went down Krantz’s wagon pass and thumped on the Opal’s back door with his fist. He kept at it a long while before convinced he would not get any answer.

He dragged himself around to the front, unutterably weary, almost out on his feet. He guessed he ought to be hunting Tularosa but he just wasn’t up to it. He went back to the office and, finding Danny Settles in the bunk, collapsed on the floor.

He woke up in the bunk with the morning sun nearly three hours high. He was so crammed with aches when he tried to move he didn’t much care if he never got up. He heard steps outside and Danny Settles came in with his breakfast, his old-young face looking cheerful as a man who has just been handed a king full on aces. “Good morning, Frank.”

Frank said contentiously, “Is it?” and grimaced.

Danny, chuckling out of the wealth of his good humor, put the tray down on the desk. Frank sat up. The sight of food nauseated him. “Better eat that yourself.” He lay back and stretched out his legs. “Well?” he growled when he discovered Danny watching him.

“It probably doesn’t amount to anything,” Danny said, “but that pianist at the Opal — Sleight-of-Hand Willie — was over here before daylight. He looked pretty banged up — ”

“What’d he want?” Frank asked, showing interest.

“He seemed to think you ought to know Kelly’s into some deal with Gurden. Seemed to have the idea that gun — ” He broke off as someone pounded the door.

“Come in,” Frank said impatiently.

It was Councilman Krantz, the Mercantile’s owner. His eyes looked like they would jump through his glasses. “That pizness last night — ” He shook his head. “I haff mizchudged you, my poy. But you vant to look out for that Chip, he iss after you. He vas ofer to mine house pefore breakfast yet. He vants to take that star avay from you — says you von’t enforce that new gun law.”

“He was never more wrong in his life,” Frank growled. He flung off the blanket and stamped into his boots. He’d lost his hat last night in the wind and reached for Danny’s. He said, glowering at Krantz, “Do I look like the kind that would sell a man out!” and caught up his shell belt, slapping it around him.

Danny Settles, alarmed, said, “Frank, where are you off to?”

Even Krantz looked worried. But Frank had had about enough of Chip Gurden. “I’m going to do something I should of done last night!” he said hotly.

He tramped across to the hotel, went up to the barber’s room and talked Pete into shaving him at the point of a pistol.

“But gol darn it, man, this is
Sunday!
“ Pete protested.

“If you want to see Monday,” Frank said, “get busy.”

He felt more himself as he went down the stairs. He’d cooled off a little, too, and decided he might as well stop for a cup of coffee, secretly hoping he might catch sight of Honey. He had the dining room to himself except for Joe Wolverton who owned the saddle shop and, not being married, was enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Sight of Joe eating suddenly whipped up Frank’s appetite. “Ham and eggs,” he told the hasher. “Wreck ’em and fetch the java right away.”

He was midway through this food when the swish of a skirt and the tap of high heels swung his face around. A warm pleasure rushed through him when he saw Honey moving between tables. He looked — as the saddle man later told his cronies — “like a winter-starved dogie catchin’ a whiff of fresh alfalfa.”

It was the first time Frank had got near enough to speak since he had saved her from Church’s bull. She completely took his breath away but at least he had sense enough to drag off his hat.

“How are you, Frank?” She came right up to him and put out her hand. She saw the star on his shirt. “So you’re our new marshal. Frank, I’m proud of you.”

He felt her hand squirm and finally let go of it. Fussed up and grinning, he stood twisting his hat. She’d filled out a lot, he thought — looked prettier than a basket of chips. Honey, squeezing his arm, laughed up at him softly.

Somebody scraped back a chair and Frank, recollecting Wolverton, became self-conscious and awkward, knowing the man would be taking this in.

Honey, still hanging onto him said, “I think — I’m almost sure — I will be staying over tonight. Abbie’s been making some new hats for me. Perhaps we could get together for dinner….”

Frank stared and gulped, his grin showed embarrassment. Then remembering his job he said glumly, “I’ll be on duty tonight.” But he wasn’t on duty this noon — he wouldn’t go on before one. He said, brightening, “Could I take you this noon?”

Honey, hesitating, smiled. “That will be all right.”

“Swell!” Frank said, forgetting Joe Wolverton, and the waitress who was also watching them with an interest not untinged by envy. “Twelve o’clock?”

Honey took a deep breath. “We’d better make it twelve-thirty. I might not be through by twelve.”

Giving his arm a final squeeze, she moved off toward a table by the windows where the hasher, stiffly smiling, was holding a chair out. She had been nourishing a hope of catching Frank for herself.

The marshal saw Wolverton drop some change on his table and then he noticed Gurden by the cigar case lighting a stogie. Gurden, completely ignoring Frank, was taking Honey apart with his stare. Frank was starting to shove up with his face black as thunder when Kimberland turned into the room from the lobby.

The boss of Bar 40, pulling off his gloves, said: “Hello, Chip — Frank, how are you?” even nodding to Wolverton as he stopped by Frank’s table. A cropped black beard concealed the most of his expression. His shrewd eyes probed Frank’s and he said with approval, “I think, from what I hear, you must have established some kind of a record last night, stopping that herd with a lamp singlehanded. South Fork certainly owes you a large vote of thanks.”

With another brisk nod he went over to Honey. Frank stared after him like a man in a dream. Wolverton, coming up, said, “Nice going, Marshal,” and clapped Frank on the shoulder.

Frank finished his meal in a kind of a daze. He probably didn’t taste one thing he put into him. He got up when he’d finished and left a silver dollar beside his plate. He was halfway back to the office before, with a scowl, he remembered Chip Gurden. He shrugged and crossed over, intending to wait at the Opal; then he saw Abbie Burks.

She owned the Bon Ton Millinery and, according to the way Frank had got it, was the orphaned niece of rancher John Arnold. She was in her middle twenties and was not a bad looker. The trouble with Abbie, Frank had always imagined, was that she couldn’t get over her New England raising. She probably wanted a man bad as any woman, he reckoned, but those she could catch she held off with her stiffness and those she’d have taken wanted something more cozy to warm their beds of a night. Frank had watched her at dances — had even swung her himself, but it had been like hauling around a becorseted flapjack. She hadn’t spoke ten words the whole time he had hold of her. When the fiddles had quit Frank had said, “Thanks — Prudence,” and gone off and got plastered.

But she seemed glad to see him this morning, actually breaking out a smile, though he could see it was quite a strain. When she held out a hand Frank perversely grabbed and pumped it like she was leaving him her will. Her cheeks got pink and flustered. “My — ” she said as if she’d just run a mile, “you certainly gave this town something to talk about! I — I do wish you well, Frank. Uncle John was saying — ”

“He still around town?”

“I — why, yes — I think so.”

Now what the hell would she blush about that for? She said, her lips pale, “Please let go of my hand, Frank.”

“Hell, I washed this morning — took a bath in the hotel.”

Anger brightened her eyes and she twisted away from him. “You don’t understand — you don’t even try!” And then her voice broke. “You don’t know what it’s like to — ”

“Abbie,” he said, “don’t work so damn hard at it.”

An indescribable look came over her face and without another word she hurried off toward her shop.

Frank rubbed his jaw. “Women!” he said, and cut back toward the jail. Then he remembered the ride he’d got mapped out to take and went along to the livery. While he was saddling his dun the owner, Fentriss, came up. Frank twisted his head. “You seen Arnold this morning?”

“Nope,” Fentriss said. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. Lost John, hev you? Chip can’t find his piano pounder, either.”

Frank led the dun out and climbed into the saddle. Then he remembered the rifle he had left in the Opal, and rode back to the hotel and got down and went in. The rifle, of course, was only Frank’s excuse for another look at Honey, but she and her Dad had already left. He spotted Gurden paring his nails at a table with two others who had just started eating. One was Ben Holliday (coffins and furniture); the other was McFell who owned the Blue Flag. Gurden said, grinning, “McFell thinks your gun law ain’t got enough teeth in it.”

“I’ll put the teeth in it,” Frank said, “never worry.” He put his eyes on Chip grimly. “I left a rifle in your place.”

“Yeah. It’s back of the bar. You aim to pay for that lamp?”

Frank tossed two coins on the table, lips twisting. “Where was you when I came back a while later?”

“Pounding my ear, I guess.”

“You must sleep like the dead.”

Gurden smiled thinly. “I sleep all right.” He rolled the cigar across his teeth. “Now why don’t you ask me what my place was doing open?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“Well, it seems like I had some company. Somebody tried to get into my safe. When are you going to start earning your money?”

“I suppose,” Frank said, “he went off with that paper.”