Death Rides the Night (4 page)

“Makes a man wonder why you're so anxious to get Pat out of office,” Winters said. “When a man spends money he's generally got a good reason.”

“You're right,” Harlow told him. “I'll save money by getting an energetic sheriff on the job. Maybe some of you have wondered about the new hands I've been hiring lately. I intend to protect my cattle from rustlers if I have to hire a private army of gun-hands to do it. It'd be cheaper for me to pay the entire salary of a sheriff.”

Most of the men in the room glanced aside at the half dozen riders who had entered quietly after the others and stood slouched against the wall. All were armed with guns in open holsters worn low on the hip for a fast draw. They were a hard-bitten bunch. Their leader was a tall thin-faced man with a drooping sandy mustache.

“If yo're losin' cattle yo're the only man in the Valley that is,” said John Boyd harshly. “Me, I kinda doubt it.”

Harlow's features hardened. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Boyd shrugged and spit a stream of tobacco juice at a crack in the floor. “Got anybody to back up yore story?”

Harlow looked at the men along the wall. “How about it, Tex? You tell them about the rustlers.”

“Oh him!” Boyd looked at the sandy-mustached gunman scornfully, “Shore he'd back up yore lie.”

The gunman stepped away from the wall with his eyes fixed on the seamed face of the aged rancher. His thumbs were hooked inside his gun-belts in front and he moved with a stealthy flowing stride like a snake crossing the floor. In a gentle Texas drawl that held unmistakable menace, he asked, “Would you be meanin' me, Mistah?”

Ezra started to get up but Sam Sloan put a hand on the big man's shoulder and forced him back to the bench. He got up instead, and his hand was openly on the butt of his gun. His dark face was distorted as he snarled, “Pick on me if yo're lookin' fer trouble.”

Tex stopped and surveyed him unconcernedly, a grin twitching the thin lips beneath his mustache.

Before he could speak, Eustis Harlow said placatingly, “Let's not have this sort of thing, gentlemen. We can settle this without shooting. The only question before this meeting is whether we shall appoint someone to take Pat Stevens' place as sheriff of Powder Valley. Votes are much better than bullets.”

“He's right,” said a quiet voice from the back of the room. “Sit down an' cool off, Sam.”

It was Pat Stevens. He sauntered forward with lamplight gleaming from the silver star on his shirt.

Sam Sloan glared at Pat and then sat down. Tex surveyed the newcomer carefully, and then moved back to lean against the wall again.

Eustis Harlow's face hardened as Pat came toward him. He said bitterly, “I hoped you wouldn't hear about this meeting in time to attend. I figured it'd be easier on you that way.”

“That,” said Pat, “was right considerate of you, Mister Harlow. I shore appreciate you tryin' tuh spare my feelings.” He nodded to Boyd and the storekeeper, said, “Howdy, John,” and sauntered past them to stand beside Harlow at the table.

“We've decided,” Harlow told him loudly, “to make up a salary and appoint a full-time sheriff for Powder Valley.
I'm
paying half the salary out of my own pocket.”

“In that case,” said Pat reasonably, “I reckon it's likely you'll want the namin' of the new sheriff.” He reached up and unpinned the star from his shirt. “I won't be standin' in yore way none.” He dropped the silver badge on the table in front of Harlow.

“Don't you do it, Pat.” Winters was on his feet instantly, and from behind him came a low murmur of disapproval. But it was a low murmur and came from scattered throats throughout the crowded benches. There were probably thirty men in the room. Pat knew that more than half of them were in Harlow's debt in one way or another, and all those had all their hands with them. He had an idea how the voting would go if it was put to a test.

He shook his head at Winters and said, “You an' me ain't been free enough loanin' our money out. I reckon Harlow's got this game sewed up the way he wants it, an' I don't embarrass my neighbors by making 'em go on record votin' against me. I've done resigned the sheriffin' job, so you-all pin the star on anybody you want.” He turned and strode down the hall and out the door.

Sam Sloan and Ezra followed him out angrily, and Boyd and Winters went after them. Other men got up and went out silently, until less than twenty remained. They sat on the benches silently, not looking at each other nor saying anything.

Harlow waited until the last man had gone, leaning against the table with a grim smile on his lips. When he was sure the defection was complete he said, “It looks as though we could get down to business now without having any more trouble. I suggest we pin this star on Tex and pay him fifty dollars a month. He's a stranger in the Valley and won't play favorites. And if he needs any deputies he can call them off my ranch any time he wants. Anybody got a better idea?”

Nobody offered a better idea. Eustis Harlow pinned the silver badge of office on the Texas gun-hand and the ranchers shambled out awkwardly into the night.

4

Pat Stevens stood alone at the end of the bar in the Gold Eagle Saloon with an uncorked bottle of whisky and a half-full glass in front of him. He grinned wryly as Sam and Ezra hurried in, followed by John Boyd and Mr. Winters. He lifted his glass in mock salute and called to the bartender, “Set out four more glasses. These hombres will be drinkin' out of my bottle.”

Sam Sloan stopped in front of him with his elbows angled out from hairy hands planted on his hips. “Hell of uh way fer a growed man tuh act,” he growled disgustedly. “Turnin' in yore badge without a fight.”

Pat lifted his glass and drank from it as. though he hadn't a care in the world. “I reckon I'll get drunk,” he murmured pensively. “Plumb, dead, skunk drunk. I can do it now I'm not sheriff no more.” His gaze challenged the worried faces of his four friends. “You'll never know what a weight that there badge was to me,” he sighed. “Stayin' sober an' setting an example for the rest of the town. Shore has cramped my style.”

The bartender set out four more glasses and filled them from the bottle of whisky. Each of the men took a glass and didn't say anything. They all knew Pat was talking through his hat. He had never been a drinking man. He was just pretending the sheriff's star had kept him sober, to keep them from knowing how badly he hated to give it up.

Other men began drifting into the saloon. They were the friends of Pat's who had left the meeting immediately after he walked out. They glanced down at the group of five at the end of the bar but remained separated from them out of a feeling of delicacy, not wanting to intrude on the close friends at this moment.

Winters watched them coming in and muttered angrily, “Dang it all, I reckon there's nobody left at the meeting by this time except Harlow and his hands and them that are beholden to him for loans and such. They'll vote in anybody they want for sheriff now.”

“They would have anyway,” Pat argued. “Harlow had the most votes there if it came to a showdown.”

“He wouldn't have,” said Boyd angrily, “if ever'body had knowed about the meetin'. He jest passed the word around amongst the ones he wanted to come, an' not many of the rest of us heard about it in time.”

Pat shrugged and said mildly, “That's what you might call smart politics. Important thing is, he had us outvoted. If I hadn't turned in my badge there'd been a showdown an' those that owe Harlow money would've voted against me. Lots of 'em are my friends an' wouldn't like to do it. Easier for 'em for
us
to get out and let them run it their own way.”

“Why make it easy on them low-down coyotes?” snorted Sam. “I say you shoulda stood up fer yore rights an' made 'em be counted when the votin' came. That way we'd all know who was ag'in yuh an' who wasn't.”

Pat shook his head slowly. “That wouldn't be so good.” He was talking more to himself than to the others. “Can't blame them too much. Less hard feelin's the better.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I got a feelin' we're facin' bad trouble here in Powder Valley. Worst trouble we've ever seen, maybe. The more we get split up into takin' sides, the harder it'll be gettin' back together after it's all over. That's why I didn't cause a rumpus tonight. We got to avoid a showdown if we can … till we get things squared around again.”

“You mean until we get Eustis Harlow kicked out and back on an even keel,” Mr. Winters said harshly.

“Why yes. I reckon that's sorta what I meant.”

Mr. Winters reached for the bottle of whisky. “Meeting's adjourned to the back room,” he announced. “We better get our heads together right now and see what's what.” He led the way back through a rear door and the others followed him with their glasses in their hands.

The other men in the saloon watched them go into the back room hopefully. John Boyd and Winters and Pat Stevens had always been leaders in the community, with Sam and Ezra backing up any play that Pat decided upon. This conclave in the Gold Eagle was an indication to the others that Powder Valley wasn't going to take this thing lying down, and they were heartened by this knowledge.

The back room of the Gold Eagle had a round poker table reserved for the private use of an exclusive clientele when they wished to gamble undisturbed for high stakes. It was deserted tonight.

Mr. Winters set Pat's bottle of whisky on the table, then picked it up after a moment of indecision and poured himself a second drink. This action in itself was a tacit admission that the storekeeper was quite upset. He was an abstemious man and none of the others had ever known him to take two drinks in succession before.

They all pulled chairs up to the card table and sat down. Boyd emptied his second glass and poured himself a third. He stared at Pat and demanded, “What's this stuff Harlow pulled about his stock bein' rustled? Fust I've heard of any sech doin's in the Valley.”

Pat looked surprised.
“What
about it?”

Winters and Boyd both spoke together, explaining the accusation the wealthy Texan had made against the sheriff. “And he ended up,” Winters said bitterly, “by saying as how you didn't draw no salary as sheriff and that's why he reckoned you hadn't done anything to stop his cattle being stole. That's when he offered to pay half a new sheriff's salary out of his own pocket.”

Pat's face tightened. He tipped up his glass and emptied it, stared down into it reflectively. “First I ever heard of … wait a minute. Come to think of it, Harlow did stop me bout two months ago an' said he thought he was losin' some stock. I told him to check up an' let me know if it kept on. When he never said any more I reckoned he was mistaken or the stealing had stopped.”

“An' he made it sound tuhnight like he was bein' stole pore an' you wouldn't do nothin' about it,” Sam ejaculated. “That's a plumb lie an' I aim to make him eat them words tuhnight … without no seasonin' on 'em.” He thumped his glass down and started to push his chair back.

Pat shook his head and said soberly, “Hold it, Sam. That's just what Harlow is itchin' for. Didn't you see those waddies lined up against the wall tonight?”

“Them?” Sam snorted, his seamed face dark with anger. “I ain't scairt of …”

“Don't be a damn' fool,” advised Pat unemotionally. “They're all killers, and that long-mustached one he calls Tex is a plenty bad hombre. Like as not they'll end up givin' him my badge so he'll be able to gun a man down legal. We'd be playing right into their hands by starting any gun-play.”

“Wait a minute, Pat.” Winters spoke carefully. “What is your opinion of Eustis Harlow?”

“I think he aims to end up ownin' Powder Valley.” Pat answered quietly and without emotion. “He's playin' his cards careful. He's got the money an' now he's got his own sheriff. Next thing you know he'll be ownin' the bank, an' then
you'd
better look out. If I was him I'd be planning on putting my own store in here an' raising prices an' giving a heap of credit. That'd put you out of business.”

“He's already trying that,” Winters said dryly. “He offered to buy me out lock stock and barrel last month for half again what my store is really worth. When I told him it wasn't for sale, he just laughed and said maybe I'd be glad to sell for half his price in a few months.”

Pat took another drink. His bronzed face was very grave.

“We're up against the worst danger Powder Valley has ever faced,” he said flatly. “Worse'n Jud Biloff an' his irrigation scheme, an worse even than Judge J. Worthington Prink an' his gang of cutthroats from Denver. Reason Harlow is worse, he's got all the money he needs, and he's plenty smart besides. He'll play it legal, an' he ain't in any hurry. He'll eat up the Valley ranch by ranch, and in the end we'll all be hired hands workin' for him.”

“I'll be eternally damned if we will,” John Boyd said angrily. “Not me. There's some of us got sense enough to stay out of debt to him.”

“There's other ways of getting a man. You owe the bank, don't you?”

“Shore. I borrowed a little two years ago when we had the drought. But shucks, I pay good interest an' Rudd Fleming ain't goin' to press me long's I keep up the payments.”

“That's right enough.
Rudd
won't,” Pat conceded. “But supposin' Rudd didn't have the say no more an' Harlow was running the bank?”

“But he ain't.”

“Not yet. Nor he's not runnin' a store in Dutch Springs yet an' underselling Winters. Give him time. He's playin' it slow and careful. Look how he's already spreadin' out from the VX ranch.”