The bar of the Hangtree Saloon was almost deserted when Clay Nash came in through the batwings. He paused while his eyes adjusted to the gloom and looked around, surprised at the quietness, expecting to see Macklin and his crew still here, drinking.
But there were only a couple of cowboys at the bar who tensed when they saw Nash, but looked sober enough. Cavendish stood in the doorway leading to the rear of the saloon. Nash ignored him, glanced at the busy barkeep as he washed and polished glasses, noticed, two townsmen having a quiet drink at a corner table, then focused his eyes on the lone drinker against the rear wall.
Considine.
Nash walked slowly down the room towards him and stood in front of his table. Considine looked up, holding a half-empty glass of whisky. His eyes looked slightly out of focus but were still deadly.
“How about that drink now?” Nash said quietly.
Considine looked at him steadily for a long minute, then moved a chair out with his boot.
“Why not? Sit.” He raised his voice. “Barkeep! Another glass.”
The barkeep hurried across with a fresh shot glass, then went back behind the bar. Cavendish frowned from his position by the rear door as Considine poured Nash a drink. They saluted each other with their glasses and tossed down the redeye. Nash looked at the gunfighter.
“Hear you’ve been askin’ about me.”
Considine shrugged. “Like to know all I can about any man who’s likely to be goin’ up against me.”
“You figure that?”
“Yeah. Don’t you?”
Nash shrugged. “Depends on you.”
“Come sundown.”
“Yeah. Come sundown. You got the choice.”
“That’s right.”
Nash gestured to the whisky bottle. “You need that?”
Considine’s eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. He glared coldly at Nash, abruptly picked up the part-empty whisky bottle and hurled it against the wall where it shattered. Every eye in the saloon was on them. Breaths were held. Muscles were tensed, ready to send their owners diving for cover should this come to gunplay.
But Nash merely nodded. “Okay. You happen to know where Macklin and his crew have gone?”
Considine grinned crookedly. “To meet Regan.”
Nash arched his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Gonna hit us in a bunch. Well, that makes it just that much more necessary for me to get some backing to stand against ’em.”
Considine was amused. “Don’t tell me the big brave men of this town won’t back you up? Don’t tell me they won’t make a stand to save their properties and families?”
Nash shook his head. “They’re using a crazy kind of logic. Afraid they’ll get hurt and leave their families to have to battle for themselves. Can’t seem to savvy that they’re endangering them more by letting the herders cut loose. They figure it’ll only be for a few hours and then it’ll be over.”
“Don’t you?”
“Mebbe. Even so, a few hours with two drunken trail crews rampagin’ through the town ain’t gonna leave a lot of the town come sunup.”
“You took the badge. You had no need to.”
“Yeah, I know. But, need or not, I’m stuck with it, and I’m the one who’s got to face Macklin and Regan and their men.”
“Again, your choice.”
“That’s right. And, could be, I have to face you first, from what I hear. That right?”
Considine shrugged. “Wait till sundown and see.”
Nash stared back at him soberly. “But there’s one other way we could do this ...”
Considine frowned, then said, “I don’t see it. You called it, Nash, when you put the clock on me.”
“I could take it off.”
Considine smiled slowly, shook his head. “Too late.”
“Not if you backed me against Regan and Macklin.”
Considine stiffened, stared incredulously, saw that Nash was serious. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. The men in the bar watched tensely.
“You got gall, I’ll say that!” the gunfighter said, controlling his laughter with difficulty. “You want me to side you?”
“Against the trail herders,” Nash admitted, nodding. “The two of us could handle ’em. Likely better than a whole slew of townsmen who ain’t used to trouble.”
“Like I said, you sure got gall.”
“I wanted you out of town so there’d be less chance of trouble. Now there’s gonna be more trouble than any of us figured. Seems logical, to me, to have you on my side, Considine.”
“I don’t owe you nothin’, Nash,” the gunfighter growled. “I squared away with you.”
“Sure. I’m not askin’ you to pay off any kind of debt. I’m just askin’ you.”
“You’re backin’ down on the sundown deadline?”
Nash shrugged. “It ain’t my town. I dunno if I have the right to say you can stay on or not, but if you side me in this, you’ll have sure earned the right to stay, I figure.”
“I reckon you won’t beg me.”
“No.”
Considine sat looking at Nash for a long minute, then abruptly stood up, shaking his head slowly as he looked down at the lawman, a crooked smile on his mouth. “The goddamn gall!” he breathed. Then, still shaking his head, he walked slowly down the room and through the batwings.
Nash sighed and rose, staring at the swinging doors. Mouth grim, he walked towards them, not hurrying. He knew there was no point in trying to catch up with the gunfighter.
~*~
Lynn Enderby entered the law office quietly, startling Nash. He looked up swiftly from where he sat at the desk, dropping a hand to his gun butt. He relaxed when he saw the girl but she did not answer his smile of greeting. She looked worried.
“You look very jumpy, Clay.”
“A mite edgy,” he admitted. “The Texans are drifting in, fillin’ the bars, and the sun’s goin’ down. So far, all I’ve got by way of backing is Brewster and Huxley. And I’ll let them off the hook if they want. No sense in gettin’ ’em killed.”
“And what about yourself?” she asked. “You’ll be committing suicide if you go out and try to face those cattlemen alone.”
“I took the badge, Lynn. I made the rules, and now I’m stuck with ’em. No one to blame but myself.”
She sat down in a chair opposite him, leaned forward with her forearms on the desk edge, her face earnest.
“Clay, you don’t owe this town anything. No, wait, let me finish. Lucas was a bully, corrupt, a terrible lawman. Folks here just figured he was better than none at all, for sometimes he did enforce the law and prevent trouble ... usually with trail herders who refused to pay him what he asked for allowing their crews to have a wide-open town during their stay. But folks had long since come to the conclusion that it was a big mistake putting Lucas and Morgan Wheeler in the law office. Mitch was no better; he was a drunken bum, picking fights all the time. Considine certainly wasn’t the only man he’d gone up against with a gun. He just happened to be the only one who was faster. So, far from leaving this town in the lurch, or causing it harm by inadvertently killing Lucas and Wheeler, you really did Socorro a favor. This town knows it; they have sent for a U.S. Marshal, after all. You really had no reason to feel guilty and to take the sheriff’s badge, Clay.”
Nash leaned back and rolled a cigarette, looking at the girl soberly. “You miss the point, Lynn. Don’t much matter whether I needed to take on the law job or not. I felt I had to at the time, but the point is, I did accept that badge, and I took an oath of office. I swore I’d do my best to uphold the law in Socorro until the U.S. Marshal showed up and that’s what I’ve got to do. I can’t back down now, can’t run out, no matter what.”
The girl studied his face as he lit the cigarette. She sat back slowly in her chair and sighed. “Yes,” she said very quietly. “I see that. I knew, deep down, it was your code, Clay. It’s an honorable code, but it can also be a foolish one if you become too stubborn about it.”
“It’s not a matter of being stubborn, Lynn. I took an oath and I have to stick by it. If I started compromising now, to other folks it’d look like I was just plain yellow, no matter how I tried to rationalize it. And I’d rather die than have that happen.”
Her mouth tightened and she rose swiftly. “What a stupid, typical male attitude! You’d rather die foolishly, so some people would see you as a hero, than stay alive and have an equal number of people think you a coward!”
He met her gaze steadily. “That’s right.”
She stamped her foot in frustration. “Oh, you make me mad, your kind, Clay Nash! My father was like that. ‘Code of Men’ he called it, the way he lived. He refused to back down to a bunch of hardcases because he was afraid folks would think he was yellow. He died a hero’s death, but the point is, he died! When he didn’t have to!”
“I’m not askin’ you to understand, Lynn,” Nash told her quietly. “I’m just tellin’ you how it has to be with me. I can’t change the way I am at this stage. I’m not sayin’ I want to take on Macklin and Regan alone, or even face up to Considine, but the way I figure it, I don’t have any choice.”
“You do! You could show some common sense! You could ... Oh, what’s the use! You’ll go out and get yourself killed and you’ll likely die with a smile on your face. A stupid smile!”
She whirled and stormed out of the office. Nash sat in his chair quietly smoking, staring at the doorway. He hadn’t known she cared that much about him.
~*~
Lint Regan’s crew were rougher and tougher than Macklin’s. They were the scum of the trails, some on the dodge from the law or other men who wanted their blood. Regan had picked them up because he could get them cheap. He knew they would quit him at trail’s end but that was okay; his habit was to pay off all his riders, anyway.
It so happened that on this drive he had picked up the worst bunch of hardcases he had ever hazed along the old Coronado Trail. It had suited him at the time and it suited him now as he let them drift into Socorro one by one. He knew this town could never handle men such as these. There was not even a sense of comradeship among them. He had seen that plainly on the trail up from Texas. If a man fell from his horse, no one went back to see if he was hurt, or how badly. They would not queue for grub until the cook kicked up such a fuss about the chuck wagon being mobbed, that Regan had to stand by with a shotgun and make them stand in line. If a man didn’t want to do a chore, he said so. Only once, mind you. Regan saw he didn’t refuse again; or that he wasn’t able to because of a broken jaw.
And that was the secret of handling men like these; you just had to be tougher than the toughest of them. And Regan didn’t figure anyone in Socorro was that good, not even this gunfighter Considine, that Macklin had spoken of. No, he would let his crew take the town apart and Clay Nash along with it.
He would enjoy standing on the sidelines and watching it happen, or maybe he would join in. He had no love for Socorro.
So thought Regan as he rode into town, alone, looking at the sun as it slanted towards the western hills. Sundown in Socorro would be one to remember this day, he figured.
“Regan?”
The trail-boss reined in fast, half-hipping in the saddle, hand sweeping towards his gun butt. But he froze, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the tall man who stepped out of the shadows of the law office awning. There was a Colt in Nash’s hand and the westering sun glinted off the star on his vest.
“I’m Regan. And you’re Nash, I’d guess.”
“You’d be right. You’ve got until sundown to get your men out of town and to keep ’em out.”
Regan’s chimpanzee face stiffened. “Don’t beat about the brush, do you, Nash?”
“Sundown,” Nash repeated, his eyes cold and dangerous. He holstered his Peacemaker but didn’t take his gaze from the trail-boss’ features. “You can move your herd out come morning.”
“Kind of you!”
Nash shook his head. “Nope. Macklin’ll be shiftin’ his beeves tonight. Give him a chance to get a few miles ahead of you before you move.”
A faint smile touched Regan’s thick lips. “Does Mack know?”
“He knows. He figures it won’t happen, but he’s wrong.”
“You got plenty of gall, I’ll say that for you, Nash.”
“Funny ... someone else told me the same thing not long ago. Thing is, Regan, I aim to back it up. Tell your men that.”
“Damn well tell ’em yourself!” Regan growled and wrenched his mount’s head around, heading out across the plaza towards the Hangtree Saloon.
Nash watched him go, then turned and walked along the boards to the entrance of the Buckskin Bar. He paused at the batwings, looking inside. One of the barkeeps was going round lighting the wall lamps; it was getting gloomy inside. The room was getting crowded and he could see the trail men gathering in a tight knot at the far end of the bar. Townsmen sat around nervously drinking or playing cards. Saloon girls draped themselves invitingly near the cowmen. The tinny piano was silent, but a glowing cigar butt rested on the end of the key-board and there was a half-finished glass of beer on the top. Nash knew that the pianist was just taking a short break. Soon the music would start and he could see Albany talking earnestly with his housemen. They were preparing for a wild evening. No one looked as if they intended to move out of town by sundown.
It was as he figured. He would tell Brewster and Huxley to forget about backing him. No point in the two townsmen getting themselves hurt, or maybe killed, going up against the determined trail men. He would have to find some way of handling things himself.
Nash turned away from the batwings and stopped dead as he was confronted by two rangy, bearded and sweat-stained trail men, standing only a couple of feet from him. He looked at them warily.
“You’re the law here, huh?” the tallest said, a black haired man with one mutilated ear.
“I’m the law,” Nash agreed quietly.
“Nah. You’re wrong,” said the second man. He was muscular and blond-haired, with very pale eyes that had the suggestion of a crazy glint in them. “You ain’t the law, mister. You’re the hombre figures he’s gonna stop us havin’ fun tonight. But you ain’t.”
Nash knew he was in trouble and he stepped back, into and through the batwings, cursing, for he knew this was what they wanted, to get him into the big barroom where the rest of the trail men were. He heard the room fall silent, then the shuffle of boots and his hand drove down for his gun butt. The blond man slammed a shoulder into him and sent him staggering. Nash managed to get his gun free of leather, but he was falling across a table. He triggered by reflex action, the bullet blasted into the ceiling and men scattered. But the black-haired man picked up a chair and flung it into Nash’s chest as he started to come upright. The sheriff was knocked to the floor, overturning two more chairs.
The trail men from the bar had surged forward by now and they hurled aside the overturned furniture to get at Nash. A boot stomped on his gun hand and the Peacemaker flew out of his grasp. A second boot took him on the shoulder and another skimmed across the back of his head. Nash rolled, arms coming up to protect his face and head, lashing out with his own boots. Momentarily, the group was driven back, cursing and yelling, and he surged upright, gripping a chair by the back and swinging savagely as they rushed back in.
He drove three men to the floorboards, then the chair splintered and he was left with only part of the back and one leg in his hand. He slugged with this, back-pedaling, seeing, out of the corner of his eye, townsmen running for the doors. The men were driving him deeper into the barroom and he knew they would have him surrounded in a moment.
He spun about, leaping atop a table and continuing the movement to hurl his flying body into the line of men coming in on him from behind. None of them had expected the maneuver and he took down four men in a tangled heap, striking out with fists and elbows, boots and knees as he fought up to his feet again. He was almost upright when a fist slammed down onto his neck and sent him stumbling to hands and knees. A boot drove against his ribs. He rolled, catching the boot and twisting violently, straining to get upright, retaining his hold on the man’s boot and heaving him into his pards as they surged forward. Someone kicked him in the thigh and his leg buckled. He dropped to one knee and they crowded around and hemmed him in.
A knee slammed into his forehead and lights burst in a shower behind his eyes. Fingers twisted in his hair and his head was wrenched back. He tried to dodge the down-driving fist but couldn’t turn his head far enough. The knuckles crunched against his jaw like the kick of a mule. Nash’s senses reeled and he started to sag, but the rough hands wouldn’t let him fall. In fact, he was heaved to his feet and rushed backwards to smash against the rear wall with an impact that jolted the breath from his body. He saw snarling, cursing faces as the men jostled each other in order to get a crack at him. They hated his guts. They wanted to pummel and maim and smash him into the floorboards. Likely they would kill him, but not until they’d had their fun.
He was helpless now, as two men held each arm and spread-eagled him against the wall, others standing on his boots as they hammered at his body.
There was pain and redness and a roaring in his ears. His body jolted with each savage blow. Then there was a thunderous explosion, a few moments when the whole world seemed to stand still, then he was falling forward. He thrust out his arms instinctively, felt his palms hit the floorboards, but he couldn’t support himself. His arms gave way and he sprawled on his bloody face amidst the churned-up sawdust, barely hanging on to the last shred of consciousness.