Sloan Hewitt did not awake until noon. When he did, he stared up into the face of his partner, into Sid’s bloodshot eyes, his gray, sick face. He stirred and sat up on the side of the bed, remembering now all that had happened the night before. He’d returned to the hotel room to find Sid passed out cold, an empty quart of whiskey beside his bed.
Sid said, “There’s some men outside looking for you. God, what a night! You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
Sloan said, “I was.” He grinned at Sid. “You look like you tried to drink the damned town dry.”
He got up, and Sid fell across the bed, both hands to his head. Sloan felt stiff this morning, and there was pain, but he pulled on his pants and boots, belted his gun around his middle, and, shirtless, went to the door.
Three men stood in the hall, their hats in their hands. Sloan said, “You want to see me?” relaxing immediately as he saw them. All three were unarmed, dressed in respectable business suits. One had mutton-chop whiskers along his jaws, brown and silky, but the other two were clean-shaven.
The one with the mutton-chop whiskers nodded and extended a hand. “I saw you in the Longhorn last night. I … that is, we have a proposition to make you.”
Sloan shrugged. “Come on in.”
He stood aside, and the three filed into the room. Sloan closed the door, went over to the washstand, and poured a pan full of cold water. He washed thoroughly, ignoring the pain soap and water brought to the lacerations on his face. His mouth felt puffy. He dried his face and turned. “What is it?”
The mutton-chopped man said, “I’m Will Dryden. I own the bank. This,” he indicated the man next to him, “is Lucian Lake, and,” indicating the third man, “this is Frank Graham. Frankly, Mister Hewitt, we’re concerned about our town. We’re concerned about our safety and that of our families. It’s time we had some law.”
Sloan said, “Get some, then.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mister Hewitt. We want you to take the job as town marshal. We saw you work last night, and, if anyone can do it, you can.”
Sloan shook his head without hesitation. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m no lawman. Besides that, whoever takes the job will be dead in twenty-four hours.”
“An ordinary man would.”
Sloan rummaged in his war sack and found a clean shirt. He shrugged into it gingerly, saying, “You’re crazy. Why should anyone take on a job like that? There’s not enough money in the world …”
“No. There isn’t. We realize that. A man would have to want something besides money to take the job.”
“Like what?”
Dryden shrugged. “Satisfaction, maybe. You risked your life last night to recover your three thousand dollars, Mister Hewitt. Was it just for the money, or was there something else?”
“The money,” Sloan growled, but he knew it wasn’t true. A man didn’t put a price on his life, even though sometimes he risked it for a price—and for an intangible something else.
Dryden said, “The pay for marshal would be three hundred a month. Three hundred more for expenses and deputies.”
Sloan shook his head. “No.” And now a vague anger touched him.
“Why, man, why? You can do it. And the pay is right.”
Sloan’s anger grew. He said sourly, “Money’s your answer, isn’t it? You’ve stood by and watched this happening to your town and you let it happen because the money was rolling in. When you could have stopped it, you didn’t, because you didn’t want to stop that flood of money. Now you’re scared because you’ve suddenly realized there’s a lion loose in the streets, but you still think in terms of money. You think you can buy safety from the thing you allowed and even encouraged.” He shook his head again. “Go find someone else.”
“Mister Hewitt …”
Sloan said coldly, “The answer is no. Get out of here.”
Dryden opened his mouth to protest further, then closed it abruptly. Hat in hand, he backed to the door, then turned and followed the others out. Sloan went over and kicked the door shut. He looked at Sid. “Hungry?”
Sid groaned. “Hell no.” He rolled and sat up on the bed. His eyes pinched shut as the pain of his throbbing head struck him. “What were they talking about?”
Sloan grinned. “I got robbed last night. When I came to, I went looking for the three that robbed me.”
“Find ’em?” There was quick anxiety in Sid’s tone.
Sloan nodded. “And I got the money back. I’ll go over and put it in the bank right now.”
Sid sighed with relief and lay back on the bed. He closed his eyes and groaned. “I think I’m going to die.”
Sloan picked up his hat. Seeing it reminded him of the girl who had given it to him last night. He didn’t even know her name, he realized. He went out quietly and closed the door, thinking of the girl. She had puzzled him. She had seemed so crisp and efficient, yet she had kissed him and cursed him within the space of a few seconds, and neither had been an act of crispness or self-assurance. He smiled faintly to himself. He’d have to see her again, today, and thank her for helping him.
He walked through the lobby and out into the glaring sun. He crossed the street to the bank, deposited the money, and tucked the receipt carefully into his pocket. He lit a cigar, then went downstreet to the mercantile store, and bought another hat. With the one she had given him wrapped in brown paper, he hunted along the eastern edge of town until he found her house.
In daylight, it was a pleasant place despite the lack of trees. Its lawn was green, and there were beds of flowers on either side of the porch. He knocked and heard her steps coming, and a moment later she faced him through the screen door, dressed in a flowered dress and looking fresh and clean.
He grinned. “I’m returning the hat you gave me. And I want to thank you, too.”
The expression on her face was a puzzling combination of conflicting emotions. But she seemed genuinely glad to see him. She opened the screen door. “Come in. I was getting dinner for myself, but I hate to eat alone.”
He said, “I don’t even know your name. I’m Sloan Hewitt.”
“I’m Merline Morris. Come on. It’s warmed-over chicken and cold dumplings, but if you’re not too fussy …”
“I’m not fussy, ma’am. I’ve eaten nothing but buffalo for several months.”
There was a fresh tablecloth on the kitchen table. He sat down, and she poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. “I hear you recovered your money last night.”
Her voice held a note of disapproval, of censure. He said, “You don’t approve?”
“I’d rather not answer that.”
“Why not?”
She turned, and her eyes touched the gun hanging at his side. “Isn’t there ever any way but that way? Three men are dead.”
He said, “They didn’t want to give the money back. What other way was there?” His eyes mocked her good-naturedly.
“There’s such a thing as law.”
“Not here there isn’t.”
“There could be.” Her back was to him, but he sensed that she knew, not only about the fight last night in which Lane and his two companions had been killed, but also about the offer made to him this morning by the banker and his friends.
He said, “You get around, don’t you?”
She turned. “I get around. I’m a cattle buyer.”
“You think I ought to have taken the job?”
“Someone’s got to. Sometime. Or this town is going to destroy itself.”
“Why should I care? The town could have stopped what was happening any time it wanted to. Now it’s too late.”
“Not if the right man took the job as marshal.”
He peered closely at her. “You’re not very consistent. You don’t like the fact that I killed three thieves last night, but you want me to take on a job that will mean killing more. What kind of reasoning is that?”
She grinned at him unexpectedly. “Woman’s reasoning, I guess.” She put a plate of chicken and dumplings in front of him. “Go ahead and eat.”
She sat down across the table, and, as she began to eat, he looked at her closely. Her skin was tanned, but clear and flawless, the healthy skin of a girl who is out-of-doors most of the time. Her eyelashes were long and delightfully curved, and her mouth was full and red. Her cheeks were slightly hollow beneath high, prominent cheekbones. A lovely girl, without the artfulness and artificiality Sloan had found to varying degrees in other women he had known. When this girl met a man’s eyes, her gaze was disconcertingly direct and forthright.
He ate ravenously and polished off a second helping the same way. He leaned back, fished a cigar from his pocket, and bit off the end. “All right if I smoke?”
She nodded, rose, and began to gather up the dishes. He stared at her thoughtfully, and, while she avoided his glance, her face flushed faintly with awareness of it. Her body was straight and strong, but it was an exciting woman’s body that he knew would be eager and satisfying to the man she chose. He felt the stirring of hunger in him and lowered his glance so that she wouldn’t see it in his eyes.
With her back to him, she asked, “What will you do now?”
He shrugged, savoring the taste of the cigar. “I haven’t decided. I think I’d like a ranch. Where …” and this slipped out, “where there’s no killing and no dying.”
She turned her head, and he felt the impact of her eyes. “That’s a strange statement from a man who …” She stopped suddenly.
He finished it for her, a touch of bitterness in his voice. “From a man who has just killed three of his fellow men? From a man who has slaughtered buffalo by the hundreds for their hides? From a man who has been through four long years of war? Maybe that’s why I want the ranch.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
He changed the subject abruptly. “How did you get to be a cattle buyer? It’s a strange occupation for a woman.”
“My father was a cattle buyer. When he was killed, I just took over where he left off. There aren’t too many ways for a woman to earn a living out here. This seemed preferable to the others.”
He rose. “I’m obliged for the dinner, ma’am.”
“For heaven’s sake, stop calling me ma’am. My name is Merline.”
“All right, Merline. I’m obliged. You’re a good cook.”
He went through the house to the door and stepped out onto the porch. He turned to find her watching him, and now he suddenly remembered the way her lips had felt touching his own last night. Her forthright glance did not conceal her thoughts, and he knew she was remembering that, too.
She said, “Good-bye.”
“That sounds pretty final. Do you want me to leave?”
She frowned. “I think I do. I think if you stay, you’ll take that job, and if you take it, you’ll be killed.”
“Then I’d better leave.”
Walking back toward Texas Street, he frowned faintly, not liking his own conflicting thoughts. He wanted to stay, and admitted to himself that Merline Morris was the reason. Yet he also admitted that what she had predicted was at least a probability. He was at loose ends, and he was not the kind of man to be satisfied with remaining idle long.
He wandered aimlessly along Texas Street, letting the early afternoon sun beat hotly against his back. Even this early there was a crowd of Texas trail drivers in the street, some squatting in the shade talking, some going from saloon to saloon, some already drunk. The barkers had begun their monotonous chant from in front of their respective saloons, shamelessly exaggerating the attractions to be found inside.
Farther up the street, the people of the town went about their business. There seemed to be an invisible dividing line between the lower end of the street and the upper end. A lion was loose in the streets. The lion was drowsy now. But before the day was over he would become hungry again. Sloan shook his head angrily. It was not his problem. He had not helped create it, and this was not his town.
Ahead of him, the batwing doors of a saloon banged open and a man staggered out, to be followed by another. They came together and pounded each other briefly with fists, until one fell back. Then, so quickly that it startled Sloan, the downed man’s gun came out and barked rapidly several times. The other man collapsed and lay quite still. Sloan stopped to avoid the gathering crowd. The noise in the street mounted.
Sloan became aware that a woman was screaming farther up the street. Puzzled, he glanced around. Then, without thinking, he whirled and began to run toward that lost and awful sound.