The Smoking Iron (6 page)

They went to the bar and were joined by a general movement of men in that direction. The sheriff and Rosa disappeared between a pair of curtains into an inner room.

Dusty Morgan came up to them at the bar while they were drinking. His eyes were cold and slaty, and his lean young face was bitter and hard.

“Hereafter,” he told Pat grimly, “I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my business.”

Pat said, “Sure,” but Ezra muttered angrily, “You danged young whelp. He saved you from bein' murdered.”

Dusty's eyes blazed savagely. He took a backward step and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelts. “Empty yore holster, One-eye. No man can talk to me that-away.”

Ezra snorted contemptuously and turned his back on young fire-eater.

Pat said mildly, “A man'd think you were just honin' to eat lead.”

A man standing beside him interjected, “An' he's plenty liable to eat a big hunk of it if he's still in Marfa by midnight. Sheriff Davis shore means to kill you, fellah.”

“If I don't kill him first.” Dusty Morgan's voice was like a whiplash. He turned to look around the saloon for the sheriff.

At the rear of the bar, a voice snickered. “Rosa took him off with some sweet talk but don't worry none about him bein' back. He'll back up his talk with lead.”

The muscles in Dusty's jaw tightened. His eyes were sultry as he turned back to the bar and ordered a drink.

Pat took Ezra's arm and drew him toward the front door, saying quietly, “Time we was gettin' a little shut-eye.”

5

The proprietor of the Lone Star Hotel was a portly man with a bald head and glossy black mustaches. He was dozing in the otherwise empty lobby when the two men from Powder Valley walked in. He sat up and yawned and blinked at them, mechanically brushing spilled cigar ashes from the front of his broadcloth vest.

“Come right on in, gents.” The heartiness of his greeting was marred by another yawn. He got up an waddled to the desk, shoved a register around toward them. “Sign right there if you want a room.”

“Have we got to sign out right names?” Pat asked, taking a stubby pen and dipping it in the inkwell.

The proprietor stroked his mustaches, looking them over carefully. Then he sighed and admitted, “Not many do, I'm afraid. But it isn't any of my business.”

“That bein' the case,” said Pat gravely, “I'll just sign her … u-m-m … how does Pat Stevens sound?” he asked Ezra with a weighty frown.

“Sounds right familiar. I don't see …”

“Yeh. It's a good soundin' name,” Pat interrupted quickly. “I'll just put down from Dutch Springs, Colorado, to round it off, sorta.” He boldly signed his correct name and residence and asked the proprietor, “You got a double room somewheres around number seventeen?”

“How long will you be here?”

“Just for tonight. We'll have to be ridin' south in the mornin'.”

The proprietor nodded his bald head sadly. “Most fellows are heading south when they stop by in Marfa.

I'll give you gents number nineteen … right across from seventeen upstairs. That'll be ten dollars for the two of you. Cash.”

Pat said, “It don't seem like nobody don't trust nobody in Marfa.” He put three silver dollars on the counter. “There's my price for the room, Mister.”

The fat man looked down at the three dollars. “I said ten.”

“An three's what yo're gettin.”

He shook his head. “I don't believe you'd want word to get around that you're just stoppin overnight on your way to the border. Sheriff might be interested.”

“Are you,” Pat asked harshly, “another brother-in-law of the sheriff?”

“Now that's a funny question. We're not related, but …”

Pat said, “We'll go up to the room.” He turned away, leaving the three silver dollars lying on the desk. Ezra followed him to the back of the lobby and up a narrow stairway which made an abrupt turn at a landing halfway up.

The upper hallway was lighted with one lantern hanging from the ceiling by a piece of baling wire. Number nineteen was halfway down the hall. The door was unlocked.

Pat struck a match as he went in, found a lamp sitting on the washstand and lit it. There was a double bed and one chair in the room. A single window looked out on the main street of Marfa. Pat got the window open while Ezra cautiously let his weight down on the bed. The ancient springs creaked but held up under him. “Mattress is sorta lumpy,” he announced cheerfully, but she'll sleep better'n the ground under a saddle blanket. Three dollars is plenty high for jest one night.” He sighed and leaned forward to pull off one boot.

Pat said, “I figured that'd be a fair price. Better not pull off more'n yore boots, Ezra.”

The red-headed man squinted his one eye up at Pat. “You know I don't sleep good on a mattress with my clothes on.”

“Sleep on the floor then.”

Bewildered, Ezra tried to argue.

“Aw, Pat. You know danged well …”

“I know that neither one of us is goin' to sleep much till midnight … or till Dusty Morgan comes into the room across the hall.”

Ezra kicked off his other boot and stretched out with a sigh of contentment. “You lookin' fer trouble tonight?”

“I'm not lookin' for it. But you heard what the sheriff told Dusty. An' what Dusty said about it.”

Ezra looked interested. “You figger Dusty'll take a runout before midnight ridin' his own hawses an ruining the swap we had all fixed with him?”

Pat grunted, “I'm afraid he'll get in worse trouble by buckin' the sheriff.”

“Why you worryin' so much about Dusty?” Ezra demanded. “The way he jumped us fer helpin' him tonight plumb digusted me. Let 'im chaw his own tough meat from now on.”

Pat Stevens was rolling a cigarette. He shook his head slowly. “We're hooked up with him whether we like it or not. He put in his oar for us at the livery stable.”

“But that don't mean we got to coddle him from here on out. Particular after he jumped you for stoppin' the sheriff from killin' him.”

Pat licked his cigarette and lit it with a frown of concentration. “Can't blame him so much for feelin' that way. He was mad and 'shamed in front of the whole gang. He ain't old enough to know it's smart to be careful.”

“He won't never get old enough to larn any sense if he keeps on like he's started,” Ezra muttered with disgust.

Pat shrugged his shoulders. “I recollect times when you jumped a gun when you hadn't ought to of.”

“You gonna set up waitin' fer him to come in?”

“I'll wait a little while anyhow.”

“Yo're a damn fool.” Ezra rolled over and buried his face in the thin hotel pillow. “It'll make him boilin' mad to find out yo're watchin' over him like a papa.”

Pat said, “Maybe,” and he took a long drag on his cigarette. Ezra began to snore a few minutes later.

Pat finished his cigarette and got up restlessly. He went to the window and leaned forward with his palms on the sill, looking down on Marfa's Main Street.

It looked like any other cowtown main street. The same lighted saloons with saddled horses waiting patiently at the hitching rails outside. The same occasional cowboy weaving his way out of a saloon and across the boardwalk to his mount. There was enough moonglow to light the scene with some distinctness.

Pat stayed there at the window a long time, looking downward, but he wasn't thinking about what he was looking at. He was remembering a hundred other western cowtowns at night, the adventures that had come to him in those towns; other nights of long ago when he had been young and wringy like Dusty Morgan.

And he knew what Dusty was thinking about right now. Dusty was too hotheaded to take the sensible course. He didn't care anything about Rosa. Pat knew that. Rosa was just a symbol of youth. The sort of girl a man thinks he wants when he is very young and the red blood runs hot in full veins.

Rosa wouldn't hold Dusty here in Marfa until past midnight. She had ceased to be important when she flung herself in the sheriff's arms. But Dusty would stay. Pat Stevens knew that. And he knew he was powerless to prevent whatever was destined to happen. Ezra was right. They couldn't protect Dusty from his destiny. Dusty didn't want protection.

Pat sighed deeply and withdrew from the window. He sat down in the chair and pulled off his boots, then padded over to the washstand in his socks and turned the lampwick very low. He left the door of the room wide open, went around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside Ezra. In a few moments, the big man's rhythmic snoring lulled him to sleep.

He came awake suddenly, in full and complete command of his senses. A single shot had wakened him. A second blast followed the first as he sat upright in bed and listened. Both shots had come from a short distance away.

Ezra kept on snoring.

Pat got up and went silently to the window. The moon was higher, shedding more light on Main Street. Most of the saloon lights were out and most of the saddled horses had disappeared.

Silence followed the two shots. The saloon doors remained closed and no one appeared on the street.

Then Pat's ears caught the faint thud of running feet coming from the left. Hard bootheels resounded on the boardwalk below his window, and a loud shout came echoing through the night from the direction of the previous shots.

The running feet pounded into the hotel lobby. Men were beginning to emerge from saloons, gather in little groups on the street.

The running man was coming up the stairs, three at a leap.

Pat turned from the window and saw Dusty Morgan slither to a stop in front of number seventeen, jerk the door open and fling himself inside the room.

Another man was running toward the hotel, shouting hoarse words which Pat could not distinguish. Men trotted across the street toward him, toward the hotel.

Pat shook the bed and Ezra sat up with a grunt. Before he could ask any questions, Pat directed quietly, “Go to the head of the stairs an' keep everybody down below. Anybody starts up, throw some lead at the landing where they turn. That way, you can keep 'em where they can't get a bead on you.”

Ezra had taken queer orders from Pat too often before to question this one. Though not more than half awake, he obediently trotted out of the room and stationed himself at the head of the stairway with drawn six-gun.

Pat followed him out, but stepped across the hall to the open door of Dusty Morgan's room. The young gunman had lighted a lamp and was leaning over a bulging valise on the bed, desperately trying to buckle the straps.

He whirled about with his hand on his gun when he heard Pat on the threshold. He stared for a moment, then said, “Oh, it's you.” In the yellow lamplight, his face looked yellow. He seemed older, not a reckless youngster any more but a grimly determined man.

Pat said, “Yeh. It's me.” He added casually, “I heard a couple of shots. Then you came running.”

“That's right.” Dusty bent over the valise again. He said soberly, “The sheriff is dead.”

Pat nodded and said, “I was afraid you'd kill him.”

“But I didn't.” Dusty's fingers trembled on the straps. He drew in a long breath and stared at Pat. “I swear I didn't. Somebody beat me to it. I follered him down an alley an' heard a shot up ahead. I ran an' stumbled over him. I throwed one shot up the alley but whoever'd done it was gone by that time.”

Ezra's .45 thundered loudly down the hall.

Dusty jumped and stared in that direction, his hand on his gun. “What was that?”

“Ezra. He's holdin' everybody downstairs,” Pat told him quietly. “So, the sheriff's dead?”

“Yeh. With a bullet through his back. And his gun is still unloaded,” Dusty went on bitterly. “Just like you gave it back to him.”

“Anybody know you were in the alley?”

“Not more'n half the town. Oh, I'd made my brags. When it was midnight, I went out to look for him. No one'll ever believe I didn't do it. I got to get out of town.”

“I believe you.”

The young man flinched. “Why?”

“Because he's shot in the back.”

Ezra fired again from the head of the stairs. His bellow sounded through the echoes of the shot: “Stay down there, you damn fools. I'll kill any man that shows hisself on the landing.”

“You're the only one that will believe me,” Dusty Morgan stated fiercely.

Pat nodded agreement. “You got yoreself right behind the eight ball, looks like.”

“No use you an' yore pardner mixin' up in it. It's too late to get away now.” Dusty dropped the valise decisively. “I'll go out an' go downstairs.”

Pat stayed in the doorway. “They'll lynch you without askin' questions.”

“Not me. I'll make 'em kill me first.” Dusty stopped a foot in front of him. “You're blockin' the door.”

Pat stayed there. “Other men'll get killed too,” he reminded the youth. “They're doin' what they think is right.”

“I can't help it. It's done now.” Dusty's voice rose fiercely. “Get outta my way.”

“Why no,” said Pat, “maybe we can think of somethin'.” He held up his hand, turned to listen to the sounds coming up from the street through the open window of his room.

There were loud voices and some angry shouting mingled with the scuffing of boots on the boardwalk outside the hotel. Above that noise came the loud clatter of galloping horses down the street, the jingle of chains and the creak of wheels.

“What time is it?” Pat asked swiftly.

“A little past midnight. What's it matter? It's too late to matter what time it is.”

“Maybe not,” muttered Pat. “That's the El Paso stage pullin' in. If you could get out the window …”

“What good would it do? Even if I did get out the window an' could get on the stage? I'm branded as a murderer. They'd send word ahead to stop the stage.”