Frank Tyler came into Vermijo with the storm following him. Dark clouds spread across the sky and rain fell. It increased quickly, heavy drops pounding his back through the long weatherproof coat he was wearing. Bouncing off his sodden hat. By the time he was skirting the edge of town the downpour was full on, sheeting rain bouncing off rooftops. It cleared the streets, sending the townsfolk scurrying for cover.
Frank spotted a livery close by and edged his horse across to it. The big doors stood partway open. When Frank dismounted and led his mule inside he saw straight off the place was deserted. Rain was already leaking in through a roof that needed repair.
‘Hell, son, looks like we picked the worst stable in town.’
At any other time Frank might have abandoned the place and gone looking for something that would suit him better. That would have been if he’d had the strength. Right now the old, abandoned stable would have to do.
‘Mule, I promise next time I’ll do better.’
He led the mule to one of the stalls and settled it. There was some straw in the stall and when Frank searched around he found a half-bag of oats that might not have been the freshest but would serve for now. His mule dipped its muzzle in the trough when he tipped in the oats.
‘Okay for some,’ Frank grumbled. His own stomach was grumbling through a lack of food.
About to go and search for water Frank heard a sound from the far end of the stable. He slid his rifle from the scabbard before he moved along the dirt floor, looking to locate the sound.
A figure materialized from the shadows at the far end of the building, plainly searching for whoever had come into the stable. When he saw Frank he paused, moving into a patch of light.
Frank Tyler recognized him straight off.
Ed Deville, one of Jim Lockhart’s posse men. A part-time deputy from the badge pinned to his wrinkled shirt. The man had a part-used bottle of liquor in one hand and a quirley in the other. It seemed he was taking a break from his duties. Hiding away in the deserted stable while having a drink with his smoke. He stared at Frank, a frown creasing his unshaven face as he studied him, not certain who he was looking at…until recognition set in after a few moments. He knew who Frank was then and it came to him as a shock.
‘You. We left you for dead.’
‘Next time make sure, boy, ’cause when you don’t it’s liable to come back and bite you in the ass.’
‘Damn you,’ Deville said angrily. ‘Hellfire, old man, I won’t make the same mistake a second time.’
‘You didn’t manage it with your buddies around you. What makes you figure you can do it on your ownsome? Where are they anyhow?’
‘Bastards are over to Benito’s cantina, holding a wake for Ace. I got the losin’ card and have to do the patrols tonight.’
The admission plainly didn’t sit well with Deville.
‘So you’re going to put me down, huh?’ Frank said.
‘I can oblige iffen you want.’
Tyler walked slowly but surely towards him saying, ‘Mighty big talk coming from a feller on his own…with no grown-ups to help him out.’
‘I’m warnin’ you, you cantankerous old coot!’
‘Son you had better watch that mouth of yours. You have no idea who you are talkin’ to. Now just back away and let me go about my business.’
Deville threw his bottle aside. There was a nervous bravado in his voice when he responded said, ‘I’m putting you under arrest.’
The very idea brought a smile from Frank. ‘You? Arresting me? Why? For bein’ alive?’
Deville’s mind was whirling. What could he actually arrest the man for? He hadn’t broken any law. But he was determined to make a stand now that he had opened his mouth. He moved his right hand to his hip, and hooked a thumb in his belt. That left his hand closer to the Colt strapped to his thigh. He wasn’t a fast-draw gunman so he needed every advantage he could get.
Although Frank was trying to keep things light, he hadn’t failed to notice Deville’s movement and he became tense. He had no reason to believe the man would draw down on him but he wasn’t about to be so casual about it.
‘Cat got your tongue, son?’ Frank prompted. ‘What’re the charges?’
Deville did not move. He remained stock still and kept his hand away from the pistol. He spent a minute in silence, thinking of how to respond. Frank Tyler simply waited and said nothing. Deville’s mouth was dry, like he had not had anything to drink for a day, and when he finally got some spittle going, he found he couldn’t speak.
It was right at that moment when Frank instinctively knew it was all going to Hell in a handcart.
Deville reached for his sidearm. In a swift move, and without thinking, Frank reversed the Winchester and drove it into Deville’s midsection. Winded, the deputy dropped his gun and fell to his knees. He looked up at Frank in surprise.
‘Goddamn it. You sneaky sonofabitch,’ he yelled.
Then he was suddenly back on his feet, throwing a straight punch to Frank’s jaw. The older man hadn’t expected the maneuver and took the full force of the blow that rocked his head. He staggered back, lost his hat and dropped his rifle. Although it was a fierce punch, had Deville delivered a right hook instead of a jab, Frank knew his jaw would have been broken by now. Feller is strong, he thought.
Both men were disarmed and Deville was confident that he could take the older and bigger man so advanced towards him. Frank shook his head to clear it. When Deville swung a haymaker, Frank easily avoided it, then another which he simply ducked away from.
Frustrated, Deville said, ‘Stand still and fight.’
‘Then best improve your aim, feller.’
Frank moved in and punched Deville in the midriff, then moved out of reach and waited. It wasn’t a particularly heavy blow but forceful enough to stop him in his tracks. Deville let out a kind of woof noise but quickly gathered himself, then charged Frank – head down. It was a foolish move. Anyone who knew anything about fist fighting would never leave themselves so exposed. A fighter who puts his head down can’t see where he’s going or what was coming his way. So for Frank it was an easy option and he sent a solid uppercut that came in low that caught Deville full in the mouth. It split his skin open and he tasted blood on his damaged lips.
‘You’re gonna pay for that, old man,’ Deville said and spat a glob of blood on the ground. ‘Nobody does that to Ed Deville and gets away with it.’
‘Son, if you could fight as well as you talk you might be half a man.’
That was like waving a red rag to a bull and Deville pulled up his fist and closed in. His sour-looking face was now scrunched up in anger. Frank was ready for him now and stepped to one side and punched the deputy behind the left ear as he moved by. Deville spun on his heels and followed Frank. He threw a couple of wild punches and the last one finally connected with Frank’s lower ribcage. It unbalanced Frank, and Deville followed it through with a clubbing right hook that hit Tyler’s shoulder and spun him around and sent him sprawling onto his back. The fall sent a shockwave of pain through his body. He was very conscious of the fact that a direct blow to his gunshot wound would open it up again, he knew that he had to bring the fight to a swift end or he’d be done for.
But Deville thought otherwise. Seeing the old man on the ground, he sensed victory and rushed in. In that instant Frank knew he couldn’t get to his feet in time, so he threw himself at Deville’s knees shoulder first. The heavier weight of the older man spilt Deville on his back and before he could do anything about it, Frank was on top of him, savagely punching him about the face.
Frank’s face was awash with sweat. With each blow he could feel the strength draining from him. Age was a telling factor and his breathing became ragged.
Deville soaked up the blows and he was mad and hurt. He felt the punches become weaker and weaker as Frank ponderously struck out. He knew that he had to do something, and quick. He took a final blow to his face and with all the strength left in him suddenly bucked his whole body like a wild bronc and threw Frank off him.
They rolled away from each other. Both men were hurt. Frank’s battered ribs made it hard from him to breath and Deville’s right eye begun to swell so that soon it would be difficult to see out of. They both staggered wearily to their feet at the same time and stood their ground. Both waited for the other to strike out.
Deville had never been in a drawn-out fight like this before. Hell, he had never been in a real fight since he was just a kid. He thought the old man would go down easy after a couple of slaps. He would arrest him and then drag his ass into jail and he would be congratulated. That was how he thought it should have gone down. But the old man was tough as seasoned leather and was putting up one hell of fight. Deville knew how he might bring this to an end. He reached down to his belt and pulled out the Bowie knife.
Frank’s eyes widened when he saw him draw out the big blade – at least nine inches long.
‘Now hold it there, son. Don’t go pullin’ no Arkansas Toothpick – especially if you don’t intend to use it.’
‘It ain’t for show, mister. I’ll use all right.’
For all his wind and piss, Deville was no knife fighter. Frank Tyler had seen some very good fighters in South Texas one time, and they had perfected their techniques. Deville had simply drawn out the Bowie and was waving it around like a sheet flapping in the wind on a washing line. Despite its size and weight, the man looked at ease with the Bowie. And that gave Frank a problem. There was no way he was going to be able to second-guess what Deville was going to do.
Ed Deville looked across at his opponent, expecting him to show some signs of fear. But the old man was standing there, eyes hard as flint and drilling deep into Deville’s as though he was trying to read his mind. There were only five or six feet between them. He wanted to take charge of the situation.
‘This here is a Bowie knife,’ he warned. ‘My grandpa used it back in the fifties and passed it down to my pa who passed it to me. I sharpen it every night. It’s got a real keen edge. You come close and I’ll split you open. Unless you come peaceful like.’
Frank thought of all the years he had been a lawman. All the lickered up trail hands he’d faced. All the banditos he’d come across and there was one thing Frank Tyler never did, and never would…back down.
So he simply said, ‘Why don’t you shove it up your ass, boy?’
Deville took the insult like a blow and closed the gap between them in a couple of strides. The first strike was telling. There was no ducking nor dodging like those Texas fellers. Deville slashed low, the tip of the blade seeking Tyler’s stomach. Tyler pivoted on his heels and moved with Deville, then took a big backward step out of reach. Deville stumbled past but quickly recovered and turned back to face his opponent. His face was contorted with rage.
Again, with no sense of skill, he jumped forward and thrust out the knife in front of him. Frank kept his eye on the blade and as it traveled towards his chest, waited until the right moment, then struck down with the edge of his right hand against Deville’s wrist and at the same time used his left hand to punch his bicep. Frank had used that combination of blows before to disarm a man. But he was taken by surprise when all it did was to force Deville to reel away and somehow still manage to hold onto the Bowie. He let out a yell and attacked Frank again. The knife slashed across his forehead and blood streamed into his eyes. Stunned, he staggered back and wiped it but all that did was to paint his face with his own blood and made him look like a savage Indian.
‘You son of a bitch,’ Frank yelled.
‘Yeah, ain’t I, and I’m just getting’ started on you.’
Frank moved back a couple of steps to put some distance between them. ‘Son, you ain’t no killer. You’re not like any of them Lockharts.’
Deville spat on the ground. ‘Why does everyone think the Lockharts are the toughest ’round here?’ He moved in closer, waving the knife for effect. ‘I’ll show ’em.’
‘You know how childish you sound?’
That made Deville stop in his tracks. He cocked his head to one side and said, ‘What?’
But he didn’t wait for an answer. That was the final time he would allow the old man to insult him. He hurled himself, knife hand extended, at Frank’s chest. But even as weary and exhausted as he was, Frank took a step backwards. Deville’s inertia carried him beyond the man who stuck out a boot to trip him. He stumbled and then fell flat on his face and let out a yelp of surprise.
Frank stood by and fought for breath. He kept a watchful eye on the deputy. A minute ticked by and Deville hadn’t moved. Frank sucked in a deep breath.
‘C’mon, get up. Get on your feet.’
Ed Deville remained still.
Frank’s shoulders slumped and as he walked forward he had an idea of what might have just happened.
He didn’t really want to but he went over to the fallen man. Frank dropped to his knees and with his remaining strength, rolled Deville over, and saw that the blade had buried itself right up to the hilt in his chest. He’d seen many a dead body before but he was never prepared for the blank eyes and the opened mouth that he now looked at.
Slightly dazed, he shook his head from side to side. ‘Why didn’t you just let it go, boy? Why?’
He didn’t know if the words were meant to comfort him. They certainly weren’t for Ed Deville. He was dead and not able to hear a word said. With a weary sigh, Tyler grabbed the man’s wrists and began to drag him towards one of the empty stalls.
His arrival in Vermijo wasn’t exactly moving in the direction he had expected. Even so he needed to stay on top of it. He picked up his Winchester and made for the door. Stood and stared at the rain sluicing across the street and saw the burial party starting to appear, trudging through the downpour, coming from the church. They began to break up, separately heading to their own homes and businesses.
Frank let the procession move on by, as he turned his chin to the downpour and let it wash the blood from his face, then stood watching the crowd for a while before he eased out of the stable and made his way, unseen, through the gloom.
~*~
Bob Miller stepped across the threshold of his saloon and back-heeled the door closed behind him. He felt exhausted after such a long day. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat and his long coat and puddled on the floor at his feet. He took off his hat and banged it against his right leg and dry-wiped his face with his free hand. He took two steps before he sensed something was wrong. He paused and looked about him. In the shadows he could make out someone at the back of the saloon.
‘Damnit, I told everyone I was closed for the funeral.’
He turned up the wick on an oil-lamp he’d left burning. At the far end of the room he saw a man occupying a seat, his hands resting across his stomach as though he were asleep. But it was clear that he wasn’t.
‘Jesus, mister. You gave me one hell of a fright. We ain’t open today. Been a burying don’t you know. And how the hell you get in?’
‘Wasn’t hard. Didn’t come for a drink.’
Miller noticed the rifle across the man’s lap. ‘I ain’t got no money here.’
The large man looked down at the weapon, then back at the bartender and said quietly, ‘Didn’t come to rob you, either.’
There was something in the man’s demeanor that made Miller believe him. Though he hadn’t survived this long in accepting the first impression he received. He was unarmed and the nearest weapon was behind the bar. He tried to read the man’s expression in the faint light. The face was haggard and unshaven, a fresh cut across his forehead still oozing blood, but his expression betrayed nothing.
‘Well, whichever way. We’re closed,’ he replied, his eyes lingering on the Winchester. ‘It’s late and I gotta get me some sleep.’
Frank Tyler sat where he was as though he was waiting for something to happen and said, ‘You Miller?’
The bartender frowned and said, ‘What’s it to you, mister?’
‘Are you Miller?’ Tyler repeated.
He tried not to look evasive when he responded, ‘Yeah, what of it?’
‘Heard of you before. You’re the feller I need to speak to.’
‘Not this time of day, mister. Been a long one. Come back tomorrow.’
Frank Tyler shook his head.
Miller snapped, ‘You break into my saloon—’
‘Not the way it sounds.’
‘The hell it doesn’t.’
‘Didn’t touch any of your liquor. Just sat here patient like, waiting for you to come back from that meeting in the church.’
Miller looked like he’d been stung by a bee, said, ‘How in God’s green earth did you know about that?’
‘I watched y’all put someone in the ground.’
‘You were watchin’?’
Tyler had skirted the town and found some high ground where he wouldn’t be seen and watched the whole ceremony from afar. He knew these hills and used that knowledge for getting close. The rain and the dark skies made for a good combination to hide him while he studied the faces of the crowd around the grave. He recognized Jim Lockhart and the still dandily-dressed Carl Lockhart straight off. Well, it was easy enough as no one stood anywhere near them.
‘Yep, from way up in the hills. Watched some folk make their way to the church. Don’t have to be a genius to see some clandestine meetin’ was takin’ place.’
Miller shook his head in disbelief. If this stranger had seen them, then who else?
Frank’s stomach churned at the very thought of how his next question was going to be answered because he already knew the who had been laid to rest. ‘Who did you bury?’
Miller took in a deep breath and held it for a second or two. He weighed up whether or not to cooperate with the stranger. He was mindful of the Winchester, and of how the man’s right hand now rested near the trigger. He pretended not to hear him and nodded towards the bar and said, ‘Mind if I step behind the counter?’
‘You got a Greener under it?’
Miller nodded.
‘You inclined to use it?’
‘Hell no. I think I need me a drink, is all.’
‘Go ahead. But be warned…you make any stupid move I’ll kill you. Understand?’
There was something in Tyler’s voice that made Miller realize the man would make good on his promise.
‘Sure…sure, mister. I ain’t no fool.’
Frank watched Miller walk across to his bar, drop his soaked hat on the counter and throw off his coat. He noted that the bartender wasn’t armed and looked around for a sign telling people to hand in their weapons. There wasn’t one. He said, ‘You was goin’ to tell me who got buried.’
Miller’s face clouded over. ‘That was Deputy Ace Lockhart.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Some drifter killed him a few days back.’
Frank got to his feet with a slight grimace. With the Winchester pointed to the floor he walked over to the bar and said, ‘Pour me a drink while you’re at it.’
Miller seemed to have recovered some of his composure, reached for a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured two measures of Old Overholt – some in the glasses, some on the counter and pushed one glass towards Frank.
Frank picked up his shot of rye and said, ‘You see it happen?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, mister.’
‘That’s because I want some answers, Miller.’ Frank picked up the drink and drained half of it in one swallow. ‘An’ you have them. So, I get the impression that you are a man to value his life. Am I right? No, don’t answer that. An’ you are afeared of the Lockharts. The problem, as I see it, is you’re weighin’ up the odds, figurin’ out what way the cards are goin’ to fall. Am I right? You can answer that.’
‘You answer me one question first.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Just who are you and what’s your interest in all this?’
‘That’s two questions. But I’ll tell you. My name is Frank Tyler and my grandson is that so-called drifter.’
Miller slapped his hand down on the counter-top. ‘Oh, my…’
‘Luke Tyler is his name. Now tell me where have they got him?’
The bartender pulled in a breath, then said, ‘Across the ways, in the jail.’
‘So he’s still alive?’
Miller nodded.
If asked, Frank wouldn’t have been able to put into words the relief he was feeling now. If Luke had already been hanged, he would have burned the town to the ground to get to these so-called lawmen. Instead he felt a calmness wash over him and found himself nodding. He said, ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad was it?’
‘What’re you goin’ to do?’
‘Ain’t no concern of yourn.’
Miller threw back the rest of his drink and swallowed loudly. ‘It ain’t wise to cross the Lockharts.’
Frank glanced over the rim of his glass and said, ‘Oh, believe me, I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Nobody goes up agin them.’
Now Frank had a little smile. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘They are stone cold killers. Nary a one who’s gone agin’ them has come out on top.’
Frank shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps they haven’t come across the right person.’
Miller said, ‘You’re just one man. They’ve taken on bandits, Apaches and anyone who’s been fool enough to cut across their path. I heard all the tales about what they got up. What makes you so different?’
For a second or two in the silence between them Miller looked into Frank’s eyes. He saw a coldness that he didn’t like. It made him feel uncomfortable. His eyes flicked to the doors, as if he expected Jim or Carl Lockhart to be standing there, listening to their conversation. He snapped out of it and poured out another shot for himself. Frank put a hand over his to stop Miller serving him.
Frank walked to the door and cracked it open slightly and looked through the gap, his head cocked to one side to listen. The street was still deserted, the storm keeping everyone indoors. Lamps were lit behind windows to combat the gloom. When he was satisfied he made sure the door was secured. He crossed back to the bar and said, ‘Now that you know no one but just us are here, we got some talkin’ to do. Well…you have.’
Miller looked like a cornered man. ‘You can’t imagine what they’d do to me if they think I’ve spoken out about what they’ve got goin’ here.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble.’
‘You won’t.’
‘God, mister, they find out I’m tied in with you, my life won’t be worth livin’.’
‘I’m only asking for information, we ain’t about to go walkin’ in the moonlight holding hands.’
Miller wrung his hands. ‘No, no. I can’t handle that kinda trouble. I ain’t sure on this.’
‘Trust me. I am. Me and trouble are old friends. We kinda get on well together.’ He reached out, patted Miller on the shoulder as if to reassure him, lowered his voice and said, ‘Now let’s take a seat and you can tell me everythin’. Could be we have a long night ahead of us.’
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Nothing I can do tonight. Looks like I’m goin’ to stay here. You mind?’
‘I have a choice?’
‘Feller, I got nothing against you. Just need a place to bed down. Come daybreak I’ll step out and make my play. Whatever the Lockhart’s have in mind I need to be there to stop ’em. If they figure they have the best hand I’m going to be there to turn the winning card. Now, how’s about some strong, hot coffee, Mr. Miller. I could sure use some.’