Clay Nash sat in the law office and began sorting through the papers on the cluttered desk. Most of them he consigned to the rubbish bin, but there were some reasonably recent Wanted dodgers that he tacked up on the front of the building.
It was apparent that Lucas Enderby had been far more interested in his buffalo hunting than administering the law in Socorro. There were many papers dealing with orders for hides, payments, commissions, complaints about quality and grades. Most of them appeared to have been attended to—except the complaints. There had not been an entry in the law log book for more than six months. Either Enderby and Wheeler had not made any arrests during that time, or they simply hadn’t bothered recording them.
The whole thing smelled, as far as Nash was concerned. Enderby obviously hadn’t done his job and that meant that he had ‘arrangements’, likely with every trailhead that passed through and, probably, with the saloon men too. Just after lunch, he was sure about the latter probability when the owner of the Hangtree, a man named Cavendish, and the owner of the Buckskin Bar, Lew Albany, came to see him. They both wore smiles and closed the door after them as they entered the tiny office. Red and Buck, the trail men, were yelling abuse from the cells in back and Cavendish crossed the room to close the door leading to the cells. Nash looked at them quizzically.
They introduced themselves and Cavendish decided to be the spokesman.
“Fine way you busted up that trouble outside my saloon earlier sheriff,” he said, smiling, running a thumb along his hairline moustache. “Could’ve been nasty for Miss Enderby. Those cowpokes can get a mite mean.”
Nash said nothing, waiting.
“But they don’t mean any harm,” Cavendish continued. “You likely know what it’s like yourself after weeks, months even, on the trail. They just want to cut loose a little, whoop it up, get drunk, have some fun.”
“They can do all them things,” Nash said. “Long as they don’t hurt innocent folk. I don’t care if they crack their own thick skulls or their pards’, but once they start bothering townsfolk, then I step in.”
“Sure, sure, that’s the way it should be,” Albany agreed swiftly. “But ... well, this is a trail town, sheriff. Folks here are pretty tough. They’re used to a mite of roustin’ by these curly wolves. They bitch about it, sure, but no one comes to any real harm.”
Nash looked at him coldly and the man’s voice trailed away. He looked towards Cavendish.
“What Lew’s saying, sheriff, is that it’s been goin’ on for a long time here now and folks are kind of used to it. They know if cowpokes are in town, the best thing they can do is stay off the streets, until they move out. If they go where the cowmen are whoopin’ it up, they got to expect to be rousted some.”
“No,” Nash said flatly. “This is their town. Why should they cower indoors just because a few wild hombres want to ride roughshod over everyone in sight? It’s the cowpokes who have to obey the laws if they want to keep comin’ to this town. If they don’t, I’ll toss ’em in jail.”
Cavendish and Albany exchanged glances, unhappy now, no longer smiling.
“Yeah, well, that’s what we come to see you about, Nash,” Cavendish said, more businesslike than wheedling now. “We had a kind of—arrangement—with Lucas Enderby and Morg Wheeler. They found business to attend to out of town for a few days when the cowmen came in. Or, if they did stay in town, they sort of looked the other way while the trail men had their fun.”
Nash nodded. “I guessed it was something like that.” Albany leaned on the desk top. “We’re willing to give you the same deal, Nash. We stand to make a lot of cash while the trail herds are here and there’s at least one more headin’ in now. We make more in the couple of days the herds lay over here than in a month of normal trading. Can’t afford to pass that up, just because a couple of citizens get their feathers a mite ruffled.” He winked. “A few free drinks afterwards and they soon forget their complaints. What do you say, man?”
Nash stared from one to the other, then he stood up slowly. Red and Buck started a fresh tirade, their voices muffled through the door. Nash gestured towards the cell-block.
“Would you want me to turn them loose, too?”
“Up to you. But it could save some trouble with Macklin and his crew,” Cavendish said, smiling again as he reached for his wallet.
“Hold it,” Nash said quietly, lifting a hand. “You take out that wallet, I’ll stuff it down your throat, Cavendish, then throw you in with the cowpokes and charge you with trying to bribe a duly-sworn officer of the law.”
Cavendish froze, the color suddenly draining from his face. Albany swallowed and ran a tongue across dry lips. Nash nailed them both with his deadly glare.
“Out!”
“Now, listen, Nash!” Cavendish began to bluster. “We’ve got to make a livin’, too!”
“Sure. Within the law.”
“It can bend a little, surely!” Albany said.
“It can bend some, but it can’t be bought. Leastways, I can’t. You know, I felt kind of guilty about leaving this town without any law because I’d killed Enderby. That’s the main reason I took this here badge. But now I’m beginning to think what I really did was do this town a favor.”
Cavendish and Albany both flushed.
“He wasn’t so bad,” Albany muttered.
“Not when he let you have a wide-open town for a few days every time a trailhead hit. Well, not this time, mister. And not when the U.S. Marshal gets here, either. Now vamoose!”
Nash walked to the street door. He held it open and the saloonkeepers, tight-lipped, moved out. Cavendish paused to give him a cold stare.
“We really don’t need you, Nash!” he growled.
“Mebbe you don’t. But the town does. Ask anyone on the street.”
Cavendish started to swing away with a curse, then checked and slowly turned back to Nash. A cold, crooked grin twisted up his mouth.
“Ask anyone, mister? Anyone? Sure. You try askin’ these fellers.” He jerked his head at a group of riders coming across the plaza. “I aim to stick around to hear their answers!”
He laughed shortly as he took Albany’s arm and they stepped outside and moved a little along the boardwalk to lean back against the wall of the Buckskin Bar, staring at the riders.
Nash recognized Macklin and his trail crew. Eight men he counted, all gun-hung and grim-faced. They could be here for only one reason. He stepped back swiftly into the office and went to the gun rack. He took down the big Greener and loaded it with two twelve-gauge shells, packed with buckshot. By the time he went back onto the porch, Macklin and the others had reined in and were spread out in an arc around the front of the law office. They all looked mean as they leaned on their saddlehorns.
“Was just about to call you out, Nash,” Macklin said. He gestured to the shotgun. “You won’t need that. We just want to palaver.”
He started to make a move towards dismounting, but froze when Nash gestured with the Greener and notched the hammers back to full cock.
“Stay there. We can hold our powwow right here, Macklin.”
Macklin didn’t like it, but he forced a shrug and settled back into leather. Nash watched the others carefully but they all kept their hands folded on their saddlehorns where he could see them. It looked like they had been instructed not to cause any trouble.
“Okay,” Macklin breathed. “Let’s get right down to it, Nash. You got two of my men locked away and you’ve killed another. Can’t do anythin’ about that last, except to see him laid away peaceful on Boothill, but I’d sure like to see Red and Buck turned loose.”
“No,” Nash told him flatly.
“Hell, what’ve they done when you get right down to it? Rousted some local girl a little; knocked her parcels out of her hands. Could’ve even been an accident.”
“Wasn’t. Red threw his whisky jug in front of her so she’d trip.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, it could’ve been an accident. If you wanted to think that way. I mean, we’re only here a day or two. Seems kinda mean to spoil the boys’ fun over somethin’ like that.”
“They were actin’ kind of mean,” Nash told him.
“They were drunk!” Macklin snapped, anger in his voice now. “Hell, man! You reckon you’ve been a trail herder. You know what it’s like after weeks on the trail! We been three months! We gotta cut loose or go loco!”
“There’s cuttin’ loose and cuttin’ loose. I told you and your boys, Macklin. Have your fun as long as it don’t hurt anyone else. Red and Buck and his pard wouldn’t listen. They had to go overboard and they’re stayin’ in the cells till you pull out; mebbe longer if Miss Enderby decides to press charges. In which case they’ll stay there till the U.S. Marshal arrives.”
The trail men growled and stirred and Macklin held up a placating hand without taking his eyes off Nash.
“You’re a hard man, Nash.” He sighed heavily. “Well, we tried to do it peaceable ...”
Nash tensed at the words, alert for some sort of signal from Macklin that would have his men reaching for their guns. But the trail-boss did nothing but sit there, hands folded on the saddlehorn, just like the others, a kind of smirk on his face.
Nash whirled as he heard a faint sound behind him but he was too slow. An axe handle struck, whipping past his face and smashing down onto the twin barrels of the Greener as he started to bring it up. The gun exploded with a thunderous roar and the buckshot smashed a jagged hole in the porch floorboards. The axe handle swung back in a short arc and caught Nash across the chest. He staggered back and a second man hit him across the kidneys with a clubbed fist. As Nash’s legs buckled, the shotgun was torn from his hands and tossed aside. Instinctively, he reached for his six-gun but by that time Macklin was leading his riders up onto the porch and they all crowded around, hammering at him, with fists and boots. He felt his gun torn from his hand. A boot jolted into his belly. Knuckles smashed into his face; an elbow point hit him in the side of the head; a knee caught his forehead. He staggered into the office wall. Someone twisted fingers in his hair and slammed his head against the boards. Boots hacked at his thighs and shins. His legs were swept out from beneath him and he hit the floor. Boots started thudding into him and he felt his consciousness slipping away. There was yelling and cussing, pain and whirling lights.
Then it all stopped and he was yanked to his feet so fast that the world tilted and swayed dizzily. Rough hands pinned him against the wall and he blinked in an effort to focus his eyes. He looked down the muzzle of a six-gun held in a gnarled hand. Beyond the hand, he saw the rocky face of Macklin. The trail-boss shook him, rapped him on the mouth with the end of the gun barrel.
“You didn’t really figure I was just gonna powwow with you, did you, Nash? While two of my boys cooled their heels in the cells?” Macklin spat. “Like hell! I look after my boys and no stinkin’ interferin’ hick town lawman is gonna stop ’em havin’ fun. Just to make sure you don’t try to get froggy again we’re gonna give Red and Buck the pleasure of makin’ you feel a mite poorly before they toss you into your own cells.”
The others yelled approvingly and Macklin looked around. “Anyone got Red and Buck out yet?”
“Yeah, here they come, Mack! And rarin’ to go!”
Red and Buck, looking wild-eyed, still retaining some of the liquor that had set them off earlier, pushed through the press of men, grinning tightly in anticipation. Red rubbed at the purpling weal on his face. He bared his teeth as he suddenly stepped forward and drove his fist full-force into Nash’s midriff. The Wells Fargo man doubled up with a gagging grunt, but Macklin and another man held him, preventing him from falling. Buck tried to jostle Red aside so he could get a swing at Nash, too, but Red landed a heavy blow to Nash’s face and blood spurted from his nose. Buck swore and shoved his way in, snapping up a knee. Nash had enough presence of mind to turn side on and he took the blow on the outside of his thigh, but the leg went numb with the impact. Buck snarled and stepped back to get room for a big, swinging kick. Then he froze.
“Hold it, you hombres!”
The trail men had all been concentrating on Nash and the beating he was taking. They whirled, startled, at the snapped command behind them. Macklin frowned as he looked at the tall man standing a few feet out into the plaza, thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.
“What was that, mister?” Macklin asked dangerously.
T said to hold it,” Considine told him. “Leave Nash be.”
“Dunno who you are, mister,” Macklin said, “but you’ll do well not to buy into this.”
“Already bought in. Turn Nash loose.”
“Like hell!”
“Do it!”
Macklin snorted and nodded to his men, some of whom still held guns in their hands. The guns started to come up. Next instant, there were three swift shots, so fast that they almost blended into one prolonged sound, and three cowpokes dropped, writhing, to the sidewalk. Macklin and the others stared in disbelief at the smoking gun in Considine’s right hand. They hadn’t even seen him draw, it had been that fast.
Those who still held guns dropped them and thrust their hands high swiftly. The others edged away from Nash and the sheriff staggered forward a couple of steps, grabbing at the awning post and hanging there, blood dripping from his nostrils. The trail men looked at Considine apprehensively. The gunfighter turned his icy gaze onto Nash.
“How you doin’?” he asked.
Nash looked at him, blinking, dabbing at his mouth and nostrils. He nodded jerkily, then heaved back off the awning post, straightening painfully, swaying unsteadily on wide-spread legs as he raked his gaze around the trail men. The three wounded men had all been shot in the leg and were sitting up now, groaning in agony as they bound up the wounds with their grubby kerchiefs. The Wells Fargo man set his gaze on Macklin and the trail-boss edged away slightly as Nash took an unsteady step forward.
The sheriff pointed to his six-gun on the floorboards and snapped his fingers, indicating that Macklin should pick it up. The trail-boss flushed and his jaw set determinedly. He shook his head and Nash snapped his fingers again.
“Pick it up. Nice and easy,” commanded Considine.
Muttering to himself, Macklin stooped to pick up the six-gun by the barrel. Nash stepped forward and drove a kick against the side of the man’s head. Macklin went sprawling, knocking several men stumbling before rolling to the floorboards. He lay there, blinking, dazed, hurt. Nash shoved Red aside angrily and stooped to pick up his Colt himself. As he straightened Red and Buck pressed back against the office wall. Nash stood in front of them, glaring, gun in hand, for a long time, then he motioned to the law office door with the gun-barrel.
They edged along the wall and into the office, stepping over Macklin who was trying to sit up. Nash shoved Macklin back full length on the floor as he moved in after Red and Buck and herded them back to the cell-block. The keys were in the cell door. Apparently the men who had crept in the back way, while Macklin kept him talking out front, had taken them from the nail over the desk, then gone back and released the prisoners. Nash shoved them roughly back into the cell, slammed the door and locked it, taking out the keys.
“Hey! How long we gonna be here?” shouted Red as Nash moved away down the passage.
He didn’t answer as he closed the door behind him, hung up the keys and went back onto the porch where Macklin was now back on his feet, standing with his subdued men, under Considine’s gun. A large group of townsfolk were lined up in the background. Nash stood in front of Macklin whose head was swollen on one side.
“I could throw you in the cells, too, Macklin. And I could keep you there till the U.S. Marshal arrives, lay charges, then imprison you again until a circuit judge found time to head out this way. Then we could fuss around with a trial, get you a stiff sentence in the Territorial Prison or a fine that’d break you. You like the sound of all that?”
Macklin glared, said nothing. He jumped as Nash prodded him roughly in the midriff with his gun barrel.
“I asked you a question, Macklin!”
“No. I don’t like the sound of it.”
“That’s what I could do ... destroy you as a trail herder for a long time. Instead, I’m tellin’ you and your boys to be out of Socorro by sundown.”
The others started to murmur protests and Macklin frowned at Nash. “Herd won’t be rested by then. We won’t have time to sell what the agents want here. We always stay at least two days.”
“Sundown,” Nash told him, unbending.
Muscles leapt along Macklin’s jaw. “What about Red and Buck?”
“They can go with you. Till then, they cool their heels in the cells.”
“You can’t do this to us, Nash!”
“You figure I can’t, you still be around town when the sun goes down behind yonder line of hills. Now get! If you stay in town this afternoon, you walk mighty easy, Macklin. Mighty easy.”
Macklin swallowed another curse, snatched his hat from the hands of the cowpoke who held it, then stepped down into the street. He paused by Considine.
“I’ll remember, you, too, mister!”
“I reckon,” the gunfighter said easily and stepped back onto the porch to stand beside Nash. They watched as the trail men mounted and rode across the plaza. At first it looked like they were heading back to the holding grounds, but then Macklin swerved and led them towards the livery. Considine gestured. “Reckon they’re aimin’ to spend the afternoon in the saloons after all.”
Nash nodded, turning to look towards the Buckskin Bar. Cavendish and Albany were parting, both looking in his direction, faces set and hard. They glanced away under his stare and went their separate ways.
“Thanks for steppin’ in when you did,” Nash said quietly, turning to face Considine.
The gunfighter met and held his gaze, shrugging. “I always square my debts, Nash.”
The Wells Fargo man nodded slowly. “I see. That’s us squared away then, huh?”
“Way I see it.”
“Fair enough,” Nash agreed. “We saved each other’s lives. The slate’s clean; no one owes anyone anything.”
Considine rubbed gently at some of the marks of battle on his face. Nash nodded slowly. So that was the way it was going to be.
“You reckon Macklin’ll move on by sundown?” Considine asked.
“I reckon.”
Considine made a dubious face. “Be interestin’ to see.”
“You won’t see it ... unless it’s on your way out.”
Considine stiffened, frowned. “Which means?”
“I’m tellin’ you to be out of Socorro by sundown, too.”
The gunfighter’s face went carefully blank but there was deadly danger lurking in his eyes. “Or ... ?”
“Just be gone by sundown.”
“Takin’ this sheriff’s job kind of serious, ain’t you?”
“Mebbe. I take all my jobs serious, if I give my word about anythin’, whether it’s meetin’ a debt, upholdin’ the law, or tellin’ someone to move on by a certain time, I stick to it.”
Considine nodded very gently, still looking at Nash with those gun barrel eyes.
“Any particular reason you’re putting the clock on me?”
“There is. Folks around here tell me you get kind of mean when you’re likkered-up. Well, there’s gonna be a lot of drunken, mean cowpokes in town, too. Got all the makin’s of a major slaughterhouse if you start pickin’ fights. And that means a lot of innocent folks’ll get hurt.”
Considine held his gaze a moment longer, then stepped down into the plaza and walked away, thrusting through the gathered townsfolk. Nash watched him go. Then Lynn Enderby came out of the crowd and stepped up onto the porch. Taking his arm she turned him towards the law office door.
“Come inside and let me get some of those gashes tended to,” she ordered.
Nash allowed himself to be led in and sat down at his desk while the girl moved about, getting a bowl of water, some clean gauze and a bottle of iodine.
“What’re you still doin’ in town?” Nash asked.
“Forgot some preserving jar seals. Halfway home when I remembered. I arrived just in time to see—and hear—the confrontation between you and Considine.”
“Hardly that. Ouch! Take it easy, will you! He stepped in and saved my neck from those trail herders. Now we’re all squared away, he reckons.”
She frowned puzzledly as she continued to work on him. “And you told him to get out of town by sundown.”
Nash sighed. “Better then than later. If he stays on, we’d only have to square-off, sooner or later.”
Lynn was startled. “You and Considine?”
“Yeah. He saw me down that cowpoke earlier. Told me I was mighty fast. There was somethin’ kind of strange in his voice, like he was wonderin’ if I was as fast as him. I can recognize the signs, Lynn. Gunfighters like Considine have got a queer kind of code. They don’t like to feel obligated, but I saved his life. First chance he got, he stepped in to square his debt. Now, if he wants, he can call me out and he don’t have to feel bad about it.”
“Like you said, a queer kind of code. But couldn’t he call you out before sundown?”
“He won’t. Oh, he might decide he don’t want to move on at sundown, then I’ll have to try to make him. But he won’t do anythin’ before then. His code wouldn’t allow that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Told you. I’ve met his kind before. Look, he’s had a time limit put on his stay here. If he braces me before that limit’s up, folks might get the idea that he couldn’t take the pressure of waiting and had to try to get it over with pronto. A man like him can’t afford to have folks think things like that about him. He’s got to stand ten feet tall, able to walk up to a grizzly and spit in its eye, then turn his back and casually walk away. If he doesn’t, he’s finished. If folks once get the idea he’s only another man, a mortal being, he’s lost a lot of his advantage. It’s the magic of the fast gun that works in his favor when it comes to a fast-draw contest. It rattles the other hombre, makes him uncertain. Considine has to depend on keeping that much advantage or he’s finished.”
She studied his battered face as she dabbed at the cuts with iodine and he winced and jerked his head back. “You’re taking a very big risk, Clay, for a town that owes you nothing.” Nash shrugged. What could he say that he hadn’t already said? He was the man behind the badge; only temporarily, maybe, but the badge-toter nonetheless. It was as simple as that.
“But I’m sure you’ll be able to depend on the town to back you up, should you need them, Clay,” the girl told him. “They’re grateful for the stand you’ve taken with the trail men so far. If you have difficulty at sundown, I’m sure the townsfolk will rally behind you.”
“Well, let’s hope they don’t have to,” Nash said. “But Albany did say there was another trail herd due in. Know anything about it?”
The girl frowned and slowly shook her head. “Not unless it’s Regan’s.”
“Who?”
“Lint Regan, another Texan. His and Macklin’s men have been in town together before. They seem to virtually race each other up the trail to railhead. Whoever arrives first sells his beef for top prices.”
“Enemies?”
“More like rivals, I think. There have been fights, but nothing too serious. I mean, it was fists, not guns, though several men were badly hurt.”
Nash grunted. “Men can get badly hurt even when a cowboy’s only joshin’. Trail men’ve got a weird sense of humor. Well, with any luck, we’ll have one lot out of town before the others arrive. Might get a bit ticklish trying to handle both crews at once.”
“Don’t hesitate to call on the town, Clay,” the girl told him. “You’ve risked plenty for them so far. Let them contribute something.”
“We’ll see,” Nash said quietly.