Chancy (1968) (18 page)

"One thing," I said, "that girl Queenie is in town. She could tell the truth about this if she would. She's got no use for me, but she was there when I killed that man who was packing this gun. She saw it happen."

Nobody said anything. We could hear the shouts from the town, and then the sound of a door slamming. We could hear them coming, stumbling and swearing. These were the riffraff--drifters, no-accounts. I knew the type, for I had seen them before, many of them good enough men when sober, but now as a mob they were beyond reasoning, thinking only of a good man gone, and a prisoner who might get away with it.

"Why don't you two leave?" I suggested. "It's me they want."

"We're partners," Tarlton said. "Remember?" The marshal made no reply; he merely opened the window and closed the heavy shutters, and then opened a loophole in the shutter.

"All right, out there!" he shouted. "Turn right around and go back! There'll be no lynching tonight!"

They kept coming, and he fired into the ground, well ahead of them. "Back up, now!" he said loudly. "I'm not alone, and if you want a fight you can have it."

They stopped and stood there in the darkness, a tight knot of men, muttering among themselves.

"Turn him out, Marshal!" one man called. "Turn him out and we'll give him what he's got coming!"

"Not tonight you won't!" It was another voice, speaking from the roof top. "I'm up here with a Colt repeatin' shotgun, an' I can cut your front rank down with my first two shots!"

It was Handy Corbin--I would have known his voice anywhere. He must have brought my shotgun from camp. And he was right: at that range that shotgun would kill or maim half a dozen at each firing. It didn't carry bird shot, but buckshot of .38 caliber.

Bob Tarlton stood up- and opened the door. "Forget it, boys. We don't want to hurt anybody, but we've got an open field of fire and you wouldn't have a chance."

Drunk as they were, they knew they were up against at least three men, maybe more. Muttering, they backed off. Some of those in the front rank began to ease off, trying to put other men in front of them. Those in the rear began drifting back toward the saloon. In a few minutes the space in front of the jail was empty.

The marshal lighted a lamp. Reluctantly, I laid my rifle on the table, then started to unbelt my pistol.

"Hold that," the marshal said. "You keep your rifle. I'll need that pistol for evidence."

"Thanks. There's a herd of cattle out yonder, and a long trail ahead of us. If you want me, I'll be at the Hole-in-the-Wall. You just come up there or send a messenger and I'll come down. I'm not guilty of anything except defending a herd from bunch-cutters."

"You go ahead," the marshal said. "I believe you, but there'll have to be a hearing."

"The crime wasn't committed in your jurisdiction, Marshal," Tarlton said quietly, "and the story of that shooting was well known in Kansas. I'd heard it before I ever met Otis Tom Chancy."

We walked back toward the doctor's office together, and we had gone fifty yards before I remembered Handy Corbin. Letting go of Tarlton, I turned to go back, but there Corbin was, only a few yards behind us.

"You huntin' me?" he said. "I figured to trail along an' make sure you got home safe. You got enemies, boy."

"I know--I saw Kelsey and his crowd ride in."

We had reached the door of the doctor's office by then. Corbin grinned at me, but his eyes were serious. "I wasn't talking about them," he said; "I was referring to some other folks."

I couldn't figure out who he meant. He walked along a few steps and then said, "You know the railroad has men back east recruitin' settlers--dirt farmers, most of them. They've promised 'em big farms, rich soil ... land that's almost for the taking. Well, they've convinced a lot of folks, and some of the crooked land speculators have been back there, too.

"Why, they tell that whole villages have picked up an' come west, just achin' to get rich. You ain't been around Cheyenne much, but you can see trains come in with fifty, sixty families getting off, all to once. An' it's even worse in some places back along the line."

"What's that got to do with enemies of mine?" I asked.

Corbin stopped and pushed his hat back. He started to build a cigarette.

"Seems like some crackerjack salesman went into the Tennessee country and fetched 'em such tales they all packed up, bag an' baggage, to come west. I was sort of perambulatin' around when they come in, and heard some talk. Somebody mentioned that they shouldn't be too anxious to leave town, not with a hangin' to watch.

"Well, when they heard who was being hung, they all swore they'd not want to miss seeing the boy hung, when they'd helped hang his pa."

"Was one of them a big, burly man with a reddish face?" I asked.

"A loud-mouth but big and mean," Corbin said.

"Stud Pelly. Well, what about that? And I figured I'd have to traipse all the way back to Tennessee to see him."

We went into the doctor's office and helped Bob Tarlton back into bed. By now he was in bad shape, for exposure and loss of blood had robbed him of his strength. It would take a while to build it back.

"We'll get a wagon, Bob," I told him, "maybe one of those army ambulances. We can carry our grub in it, and you too. This Wyoming air and a lot of buffalo steaks will put you back in shape in no time."

Handy Corbin walked with me to the hotel and we got us a room. Come daybreak, we'd be going back to the herd, and would be driving north to the Hole-in-the-Wall country. If we took short drives the first few days, Tarlton might be able to drive the wagon, leaving the four of us to handle the herd. It was not enough, but so far we hadn't found another hand. We could have used two or three more.

Folks in the hotel looked sharp at me when I came in, and more than one of them glanced at my empty holster, but nobody said anything. The crowd who'd been around the saloons had mostly gone home or to wherever they slept, and the folks I now saw were a different sort--men who'd been working, and up late ... good people, for the most part.

The hotelkeeper, too, gave me a sharp look. "I'll deny no man a place to sleep, but I want no trouble, do you understand?"

"Mister," I said, "you're looking at a man who's had more than trouble enough. All I want is a few hours' sleep."

Then I went to the register and started to sign my name. The name in the space right above it was Martin Brimstead.

I did not even look at the other names. All I could see was that name, which seemed as if it was burned into the page.

Stud Pelly was a brute; but whatever Stud had done, he would not have done if Brimstead had lifted a hand to stop him. Stud might have held the rope, but it was Martin Brimstead who had hanged my pa.

And Martin Brimstead was here ... in this hotel! Carefully, I replaced the pen.

Martin Brimstead had come west to speculate in Wyoming land and now I was going to see that he got a piece of it. I was going to take particular care to see that he got the right piece, and of the right size.

It had to be about six feet long, and about three feet wide.

Chapter
13

When I rolled out of bed the sun was already high in the sky. It was a bright, sunny morning. I pulled on my jeans and stomped my feet into my boots, and then headed for the washbasin. I could see that the first thing I needed was a razor and a shave.

When I went to the window I pulled back the curtain and looked up and down the street. Everything looked about as it should in a western town on a nice morning.

There were a dozen horses tied at the hitching rails, a buckboard stood in front of the bank, the team dozing in the warm sun. Farther down a wagon was being loaded. A few idlers loafed along the boardwalk, enjoying a morning smoke. Nothing seemed out of kilter.

Putting on my gunbelt with its empty holster, I checked my rifle and then put it carefully to one side. Only then did I realize that Corbin was gone.

The blankets and heavy comforter had been heaped in such a way that I'd paid his bed no mind, but now it bothered me that he had managed to get out of the room without me knowing. It showed how tired I'd been.

I lathered my face and shaved, and put everything carefully away. In the cold light of day I was having second thoughts about Martin Brimstead. A man like him would find trouble a-plenty in these western lands. If there was to be trouble with me, he must bring it on himself. Pa, I thought to myself, would not kill him.

Stud Pelly was a horse of another color. Stud was big and he was rough, but the years had done a few things for me. Besides giving me confidence, they had put some height on me, and some weight. I knew how to treat Stud Pelly, with the only medicine he'd understand.

This morning I slung my rifle from my left shoulder. I'd been experimenting and found I could get it into action a split second faster that way. The left hand would already be well up on the barrel when I swung the rifle forward, and the right hand would come naturally to the trigger.

When I walked into the restaurant, I stopped dead still. For right in front of me was Martin Brimstead, and seated at the table with him was Kitty Dunvegan. Kitty and Priss, her sister.

Brimstead looked up, and it took him a minute to recognize me. "Well," he said loudly, "the horse thief's boy!"

"No." I walked right up to his table. "The son of the man you helped to murder." I leaned on the table. "Let me tell you something, Brimstead. In this country what you just said to me is an invitation to a shooting. The next time you open your mouth about me, or about my pa, you better be wearing a gun."

He reddened with anger, and then as he realized what I'd said, rather than who was saying it, his face paled a little.

Glancing at Kit, I said, "Hello, Kit. Where's your pa?"

She was not the long-legged, freckled girl I had known--she was beautiful.

"Pa's dead, Otis Tom," she said. "He died last year."

"I was figuring on coming back yonder, come spring. I was hoping to see you."

Priss spoke suddenly. "Kit wouldn't want to see you, or anyone like you. I'll have you know she's going to marry Mr. Brimstead." I had never liked Priss, and liked her less now.

Kit's face was white, and she looked stiff and scared. I stared at her. "You don't mean that," I said. "Not him."

"Yes, she is going to marry me," Brimstead said. "And I'll thank you to leave my table.At once !"

I looked at him. "Brimstead, when I heard last night that you were in town, I went to bed with one idea. To get up this morning, hunt you down, and kill you. When I woke up this morning I told myself you were carrion. You weren't worth the trouble. I'd be wasting lead I might use to kill a coyote or a skunk. So don't you make me change my mind. You just set there quiet, and you can stay. Open your fat mouth again, and you'll get the back of my hand."

Coolly, I pulled back a chair and sat down. There were a dozen people in the restaurant, all seeming to ignore us, but I knew they'd heard every word.

"I was coming back for you, Kit. You knew I was coming back, didn't you?"

"I hoped you were."

Then, coolly and with sudden defiant glances at her sister, she explained. "Pa owed Mr. Brimstead money quite a lot. At least, Mr. Brimstead had papers that said pa owed him, although I never saw any of the money and I don't believe that pa did.

"He wanted to marry me after his wife died, and Priss told me it was the only way we could pay him--else he'd take our place. I refused.

"Then there was all this talk about land in Wyoming. We'd had two very dry years, everything was burned up and dried up, and people were planning to move out west. Mr. Brimstead was coming out to buy land. He said we could come with him, and all I could think of was that it was a chance to get away from the valley, and I knew you were somewhere out here. So I came west."

"It isn't every day a girl gets a chance to marry a man like Martin Brimstead," Priss said to me, "and you've got no right to come barging in here making trouble."

"You like him, you marry him," I told her. "Kit is going to marry me."

"I'd like that, Otis Tom," Kit said. "I surely would. I've wanted nothing so much since first I saw you."

Folks around us were grinning. They were liking Kit, and they felt that I was western. Brimstead was from the East, and he had a manner they didn't take to. They were enjoying the show, and I didn't blame them in the least.

"Now, see here!" Brimstead began, but I just looked at him.

"You set down, Brimstead ... or whatever your name is."

That one hit the mark. It got him in the wind, and for the first time I really believed that story I'd heard--that Brimstead wasn't his real name. He sagged back into his chair as if he'd been punched in the belly, and he sat there staring at his hands on the table before him.

"I'm in the cattle business," I said, "with one herd in the Hole-in-the-Wall country, another herd just outside town. I've got a good partner--he's been a cattle buyer for the eastern market. I'll be driving north when I've finished my business here."

Seeing Kit had made me forget where I was, and who was in town, but suddenly I remembered, and I glanced toward the door. There was no one there.