At midnight Jeremy Six left the office to make his last rounds of the night. Gutierrez sat dozing on the porch. Still stiff and raw in places from his fistfight with Drake Ivy, Six moved slowly to protect his battered limbs.
It was a quiet night in Spanish Flat. Only a small subdued group rattled around in the Drover’s Rest. Hal Craycroft, tending bar, nodded to him when he looked in. Six went back along the street, checking doors to see that they were properly locked up; presently he turned into the back streets along his route to Cat Town. He never used precisely the same route two nights in a row; if he were to establish that kind of schedule, it would only make it easier for an enemy to set up an ambush. Tonight his first stop in Cat Town was the Longshot Dance Hall. All was quiet. He went on, looking in on the Tres Candelas, where he had arrested Ivy, and then turning off into an alley to check the peace in that row of independent cribs. A few red lamps gleamed; two or three girls sat listlessly on porch rails, dangling bare legs. He went back to the street and walked up to Clarissa’s place, the Glad Hand. The orchestra wasn’t playing—there were not enough customers to merit its effort—and the only sound was Buchler’s strange, melancholy chording on the piano. Buchler looked up and gave him a dim smile, coughed, and returned his attention to the keyboard. Six looked around the place and was turning to go out when he noticed the back office door open. Clarissa came into the doorway and beckoned to him; he went back.
She closed the door behind him. She was a very pretty sight, he thought, in brown crinoline.
She said, “Avoiding me tonight, Jeremy?”
“Maybe I was,” he confessed, seeing no benefit in lying to her.
Her smile was more tender than usual. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I thought I might be able to think better.”
“If I wasn’t around,” she finished for him. “Why? What is it you need to think about?”
He considered it. “When a man reaches my age he doesn’t go jumping into things unless he’s got a pretty good idea of where he’s headed.”
“And you don’t have a good idea of where you’re headed,” she said. “Perhaps that’s my fault. I haven’t given you much help, have I?” When he made no answer, she said, “I wish I could, Jeremy. But I don’t even know where my own heart is. How can I tell you where to put yours?”
“Yeah,” he said. All the while they had been standing close together, Clarissa looking up into his face. He reached out and put his hand on the door latch. He said, “I’ve been thinking of moving on. This isn’t the only town that needs a policeman.”
“Running away won’t solve anything.”
“At least it might take me away from temptation.”
She laughed. “You make me sound like Lucifer.”
His answering smile was a little wry. “A man builds up a big pile of pride in a lifetime. It’s hard to unbend, sometimes.”
“Do you want to?”
“If I thought it would do me any good,” he admitted, “I’d lay myself out at your feet, Clarissa. But I’m too proud to do it unless I know it will get results. I’m too old to enjoy making a fool out of myself.”
“You and Ben Sarasen,” she complained, “always telling each other how damned old you are. Why, you’re only a few years older than I am, and Ben’s my own age. A couple of doddering old codgers.” The image made her laugh.
It only darkened Six’s spirits. “Why does his name always have to come up?” he demanded. He depressed the latch and began to open the door. As he went out he heard her soft, “I’m sorry, Jeremy,” but he did not hesitate; he went on. When he reached the front of the saloon he looked back and saw her standing in the office door, arms crossed under her breasts, a bittersweet and faraway look in her dark eyes. He felt betrayed; he felt a vast inarticulate anger against the absent Ben Sarasen, who seemed so cavalierly able to lock all Clarissa’s love away from him.
The resentment was all the more aggravating because there was nothing he could strike back at. He felt imprisoned within the shell of his own wants, his jealousies, even his love; for at last he had admitted to himself that he was deeply, dangerously in love with the dark-haired girl.
He stopped in at Fat Annie’s; she must have recognized his mood, for she did not irritate him with her usual banter. He went on, coming presently along to the Tin Bucket. Its thick musty unpleasant smell came out to strike him. He intended only to give the place a cursory inspection, but then the strained attitude of the players around a poker table stayed him and, suspicious, he went inside, ignoring the offensive odors of the sleazy saloon.
As soon as he approached the card game, the source of strain became evident. Wherever you found the Holliday boys, Chris and Luke, you were likely to find trouble. Tonight was no exception. The brothers—Six suspected that Holliday was not their real surname, but a nom-de-guerre they had adopted—were sitting next to each other at a table. Cards were spread across its top; four other men held hands in the game. Evidently one or the other of the hot-headed brothers had accused one of the three Mexicans of cheating. The sixth member of the game was an inoffensive fat drummer who was busily backing his chair away from the table, prepared either to run for it or dive under cover.
The Mexicans were all sheepherders; Six knew them vaguely. Their reputations were unsavory; they had been accused of petty thievery of every kind, but nothing had ever been proven against them. On the other hand, Chris and Luke Holliday wore the records of their prison terms like badges of honor. They were both big and square, both black-bearded, both coarse and vulgar and brash. It was assumed, but not proved, that they often associated, themselves with Oakley Madden’s bunch on its moonlight raids into Mexican cattle country. That would be one way of explaining their source of every-ready cash.
Chris, the bigger of the brothers, was sitting back with a shrewd smile, looking very much like a cat about to pounce ravenously on a helpless cornered mouse. Luke, younger and quicker and more irascible, was leaning forward, braced, one elbow back high so that his hand was near his gun, in an attitude of threat. The three Mexicans, unarmed except for sheath knives, sat in stiff pride, not moving, all of them trying at once to stare Luke down. Imminent violence was so strong a suggestion in the air that Six could practically smell the aura of powdersmoke.
As he stepped in the doorway, the stillness was shattered. Luke let out a roar of rage and lurched to his feet, clawing his gun up; the chair overturned and skittered away behind him.
The Mexicans moved as one, tossing their cards down and diving for the floor, getting tangled up in one another.
Chris Holliday was rising unhurriedly with an expression of cruel amusement to back his brother’s play. Luke’s Colt was leveling. Six, unnoticed by either of them until this moment, palmed his gun and said harshly, “Stand fast, boys.”
He had the frightening feeling that he was not only willing but actually anxious to pull the trigger. It was a reaction against the frustrated aggravations that had been scraping his nerves. He had to fight it down.
Luke’s head had shot around sharply, in response to Six’s warning; for a moment Six almost thought with grim satisfaction, that Luke was going to take a shot at him, but then Chris Holliday’s cooler head took charge of the errant brother. Chris’ hand swept out, batting the gun down in Luke’s fist, and Chris hissed, “You want to get killed? Put it away.”
“Good advice,” Six said, walking forward. The Mexicans were scrambling to their feet. Six said, “Put it away, Luke.” Calmly, almost slowly, Six lifted his gun and slammed the barrel down on Luke’s head. Luke folded up and collapsed, and lay on the floor mumbling softly, half-conscious, gingerly holding his head in both hands.
Chris said petulantly, “What’d you have to go and do that for?”
“Brawling’s not in my line,” Six murmured, remembering last night’s fight and still feeling the painful effects of it. “What happened here?”
Chris jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the three sheepherders. “These boys tried to run a cold deck against us.”
“All three of them?”
“Sure. Why not? Damned greasers are all card-cheats. They ain’t got brains enough to play fair.”
One of the Mexicans moved angrily forward. Six held up a hand and turned to the three. One of them, Huerta, was the spokesman. Six said, “Attempted assault with a deadly weapon. You want to press charges against these boys?”
Huerta said, “You damn right we want to make a complaint, Marshal. These ladrónes been walkin’ on us long enough.”
“Come down in the morning, then, and sign the papers,” Six said, and turned back to Chris Holliday, whose eyes had widened with disbelief and rage.
Holliday said, “What? You mean to tell me—”
“Shut up,” Six said wearily. He waved his gun toward Luke. “Get him on his feet and come along.”
Chris began to bluster, but then saw the uselessness of it and contented himself with a bright deadly glance toward Huerta. He went forward and stooped to help Luke get up. Six reached out and plucked the gun from Chris’ holster, and took Luke’s as well. With the two captured revolvers in his belt, he waved them forward out of the saloon. Huerta called after him, “Gracias, Marshal. Damn lucky thing you happen to come by.”
“Yeah,” Six muttered, and went out behind Chris, who was half-supporting the buffaloed Luke. Luke acted like a doped man; he mumbled unintelligibly. Following the two men up toward the street, Six observed that this was the second time in twenty-four hours he had chanced on trouble in a Cat Town saloon and made arrests. This time, however, he did not walk so close to his captives as he had last night.
He put the two prisoners in the cell next to Ivy’s, and sent out for the doctor to have a look at Luke’s head. It always paid to be careful. Then he went outside; his nostrils were still full of the Tin Bucket’s stench and he felt the need of fresh air.
On the porch Gutierrez stood up and yawned. “Ivy and both Hollidays locked up,” he said. “That takes care of the trouble in town. Maybe it’ll be peaceful tomorrow. What you think?”
“I think Oakley Madden’s still got a grudge against this town.”
“Yeah,” Gutierrez said, and grinned. “You always spoil the good things, don’t you? Hell, I reckon I’ll turn in.” With no further talk, he turned upstreet, headed home.
Coming down the street from the north, passing the livery stable, was a tall, lean hatless rider whom Six had thought he’d seen the last of. He felt his hackles rise. That was Ben Sarasen, coming his way, and what the devil was Sarasen doing back here after promising to clear out?
Compounding his suspicions were the resentments and jealousies Six had nourished against the gunfighter because of Clarissa. And so it was that he stood, more than willing to meet Sarasen halfway in a fight, when Sarasen dismounted ten feet away and came forward with a very grim set to his features.
Six couldn’t keep anger out of his voice. “I thought you promised to stay away from this town.”
“I thought so too,” Sarasen said. “Something came up.”
“Did it now?” Six asked, with wicked sarcasm.
Sarasen made a point of ignoring his jibes. “Mind if I come inside? I need to talk to you.”
“Make yourself at home,” Six muttered petulantly, and immediately chided himself for behaving like a small boy. Still chastising himself, and still resenting Sarasen with a monumental rage, he followed the gunfighter into the office. Sarasen sat down slowly in a chair, and for the first time Six saw the signs of strain and fatigue on the man. Six said, “You run into some grief?”
“By the name of Madden,” Sarasen admitted. He took out a pack of his tailor-mades, tapped one against the back of his right hand, and leaned forward to accept flame from Six’s offered match. Then Sarasen sat back, exhaling smoke, allowing his whole body to go slack. His eyes were sleepy but at the same time their pale surfaces were lighted by his never fading alert vigilance. Standing there, regarding the man, Six found it impossible to sustain his hatred of Sarasen. There was too much in Sarasen to be respected and admired; you could not hold a grudge against him for long, unless you were the kind of man who allowed anger to blind him. Six was not that kind of man.
He backed up and half-sat with a hip cocked against the edge of the desk. He said, “A long ride out and a long ride back. What happened?”
Sarasen told his story with customary terseness. “Jed Bolton caught up with me on the trail and told me I might be interested in a proposition Madden had for me. I went back to Madden’s camp with him. Madden told me he’s got it set up to stop the silver wagon from the Silver Dollar, day after tomorrow. He wanted me to throw in with him. I turned him down. He didn’t want me to get loose with the news, so he set his dogs on my trail. I shook them off but I had to kill a gent named Hench to do it.” Sarasen looked up and added, in a dull tone, “It may sound strange, but even I don’t like to kill people.”
Six considered what Sarasen had told him. It was hard to know what to believe. He said, “Madden got you riled up by sicking the pack on you, so you brought the word to me.”
“Something like that. I figured I owed you a favor. At least, by sending a crowd of guns after me, Madden lost any chance he might have had that I’d keep my mouth shut. You don’t do favors for a man who’s trying to kill you.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t take the fight right back to him and cut him down.”
“It would have been a messy business,” Sarasen said. “I’ve got no great interest in killing men, not even that pack of jackals. Revenge never mattered that much to me.”
Six nodded. “Well, I’m obliged to you for bringing me word. Do you think Madden will still go through with the hold-up?”
“No way to tell. I dropped the suggestion to him that he might change the date. If he’s shrewd he might go ahead with it, day after tomorrow, assuming we’ll expect him to hold back until the next shipment.”
“He’s shrewd enough,” Six said. “Maybe even shrewd enough to figure on us outguessing him that way.”
“Exactly,” Sarasen agreed. “So your judgment’s as good as mine.”
Six spent a while thinking about it. He wondered whether to trust Sarasen. Then he said, “My jurisdiction ends at the town limits, technically. But the county seat’s fifty miles away and I’m the only law around here. Sometimes it pays to stretch a technicality.”
“Sometimes,” Sarasen agreed. He looked at his half-smoked cigarette and grimaced. “These things are as stale as last year’s bread.” He got up and went to the door and flung the butt out into the street. When he came back to sit down he said, “It wouldn’t hurt to ride along half a mile behind the wagon, just in case. If Madden doesn’t jump it, we haven’t lost anything but a little time and energy.”
“We?”
“I’ve paid for my ticket,” Sarasen murmured. “I’d kind of like to see the show.”
Six didn’t know whether to feel grateful or resentful. He shrugged and said noncommittally, “Play it however you see it. I’ve got no power to stop you coming along.”
A slow grin crossed Sarasen’s cheeks. “Thanks for the invitation.”
Six was still considering the main problem. Finally he said, “All right. The wagon usually leaves the Silver Dollar shafts at about seven in the morning. We’ll have to get up early; it’s a three hour ride. I’ll meet you there.”
Sarasen budged out of the chair again. At the door he stopped. “I’ll camp out of town,” he said.
“That would be best,” Six agreed, remembering the effect Sarasen’s stay in Spanish Flat had had on the town’s temper.
At the same time he felt guilty about enforcing such loneliness on Sarasen. But he said nothing.
Sarasen hesitated where he was; after a moment he said, “You’re worried about me and Clarissa. Don’t let it sour you. I don’t intend to stand in your way.”
“You stand in my way whether you intend to or not,” Six snapped, and immediately regretted the childish display of bad temper.
Sarasen turned his palms up, Indian fashion. “Believe me, if I knew a way to help I’d take it. Whatever was between Clarissa and me was a long time ago. She just hasn’t realized it’s dead, that’s all. Time ought to take care of it.”
“Not as long as you hang around here.”
“I’ll stay out of the way,” Sarasen said gently, and left the office, leaving his own gallantry behind to sting Six’s galling feelings of guilt. It was surprising what a woman could do to a man’s sensibility. He felt confused, as though his insides were all mixed up. And he did not trust Ben Sarasen. What if Sarasen’s whole story was a lie?
On the following night Six came into the office from his rounds at ten o’clock. Gutierrez was waiting to take his shift, and Six said, “I’m going to bed early tonight. Take over for me. I’ll be gone until noon tomorrow; you’ll have to keep an eye on the town till I get back.”
“Shouldn’t be much trouble, with those three locked up,” Gutierrez said, jerking a thumb toward the cell corridor door, behind which were the cubicles that imprisoned Drake Ivy and the Holliday brothers.
Six went to the gun rack, selected a Hawken over-and-under model with a ten-gauge shotgun bore on top of a 38-56 rifle barrel. He put half a dozen shells for each barrel in his pockets, noticed Gutierrez’ curious glance, and inspected the gun to be sure it was clean and loaded. Gutierrez said, “Looks like you ain’t sure whether you’re hunting grouse or bear.”
“If I get close enough, the buckshot will come in handy,” Six said. “Otherwise I’ll need the rifle.”
“Maybe you won’t need anything. Most likely all you’re going to get will be saddle sores. Madden’s too smart a cookie to go ahead with that raid after he advertised it.”
“Maybe that’s what he’s hoping we’ll think,” Six pointed out. He took the double-barreled weapon out with him and went down to the livery stable to make sure his horse was in good condition for tomorrow’s journey. Then he came out and walked toward home.
He was passing the Drover’s Rest, intending to go by the place, when Hal Craycroft came out, wiping his hands on his bar apron. Craycroft said, “Blood on the moon tonight.”
“Maybe it will rain.”
“I’ve got a funny feeling,” Craycroft said. “Like as if there was a crippled mountain lion out there, waitin’ to jump on somebody.”
“You’re just spooky,” Six said, but at the same time he was made a little uneasy; Craycroft’s intuitions had proved uncannily accurate in the past.
“Been a long time’s peace in these parts.” Craycroft said, “until that gun-hung hairpin drifted into town. Ever since then, the wind’s been blowing.”
“What’s it smell like to you?”
“Carrion,” Craycroft answered. His eyes gave Six a strange look. Then, with a smile, Craycroft broke the spell and turned back inside the saloon.
Working his arms to loosen up, Six went on along the walk, troubled by Craycroft’s predictions, vague as they might have been. He reached back and rubbed the hairs on the back of his neck. They scratched his hand, unfamiliarly short-cut after this morning’s barbering at Chin Lee’s Tonsorial Parlor. With a stiffness in his joints, carrying the heavy rifle-shotgun, he ascended the stairs to his room in Mrs. Duffy’s boarding house, and went to bed. It was a while before he got to sleep, troubled by the complications of his relationship with Clarissa, the enigmatic presence of Ben Sarasen in the valley, the threat of tomorrow’s possible battle with the Madden crew, and now Craycroft’s veiled instinctive warnings.