The room was dark when Street awoke. For a moment he lay still, staring into the blackness, letting his mind renew all the happenings of the past twenty-four hours. Then quickly he swung his legs over, sat up, and stooped to pull on his boots. He found a match in his shirt pocket and thumbed it alight. Locating the lamp in its feeble glow, he crossed the room and lit it. He stared at himself in the mirror beside the lamp. His hair, as tawny as his mustache, was rumpled from sleep. His eyes, pale gray, stared back at him with somber lack of expression. His lips, below the mustache, were long and firm. Absently he scrubbed a hand over his strong jaws, deciding that twice a day was too often to shave.
He poured the basin full and splashed his face. He dampened his hair and dried off vigorously. He ran the broken comb through his hair. He wished he had a clean shirt, but he didn’t. He retied his string tie, pulled at his coat to straighten it, picked up his hat, and went out into the hall.
Ravenous, the smell of frying steak drew him into a restaurant before he had gone half a block. He ordered steak and fried potatoes, ate swiftly and with single-minded concentration. Finished, he called the waitress over, paid his bill, and asked, “Could you tell me where to find Miss Verona Ormsby?”
The girl looked around uneasily, frightened, and Street said, “It’s all right. I’m a friend.”
“Well … she lives in the two-story white house up at the upper end of Main.”
“Thanks.” Street got up and went out, hurrying in spite of himself. A boy who had been staring through the window now transferred his attention to Street. It was the towheaded kid that had run for the doctor this morning. Alf, the stage line agent had called him. Street grinned down. “Hello, Alf.”
The boy ducked his head, not replying. He raised it again almost immediately. His washed-out blue eyes studied Street unblinkingly.
Embarrassed, Street tousled the boy’s hair, then continued walking toward the upper end of Main. There were a few horsemen on the street, a couple of buggies, and half a dozen people on foot.
He stopped before the two-story white house, noting that it was the last one on the street. Next to it was a wire-fenced pasture and beyond that in the distance the ponderous rims of the Cougar Plateau. A breeze came down from the plateau, cool and fresh, reminding Street that the season was yet early and that undoubtedly snow still lingered in the high country. Excitement was high in him as he stared at the lit windows of the house, yet he lingered, trying to down his doubt, trying to kill the fear that had made of his stomach a hard-knotted ball. Then with sudden decision, he reached for the gate.
A voice came softly from the darkness, “Wait a minute, Rawlins.” It was a voice dimly recognized, associating itself with a figure that stepped out of the darkness inside the gate. Street waited, premonition tightening his muscles. There had been menace in that voice, and no attempt to cloak it with pleasantry. The gate swung open and Max Bauer came out. He said, “Miss Ormsby doesn’t want to see you.”
Street said, “I’ll hear her say that, if you don’t mind.”
“You heard me say it.”
In the dim light Street could see that Bauer was grinning with obvious anticipation. He felt suddenly just as he’d felt one night a good many years ago as he stepped into a rigged fight in a little town called Blackhawk over east in the Colorado Rockies, for his eyes caught the shadows of two more men inside the picket fence. Time to back down and move away. Don’t go to Verona with your face beaten to a pulp. Don’t get involved in a fight at her very door or she won’t ever listen to what you have to say. Street swallowed his mounting rage. He made his voice even and soft. “All right. Let it go. I’ll see her some other time.”
He hated himself. He was eating crow. Ever a proud man, it galled and rankled. He started to turn, stopped quickly as he heard the soft laugh of the man called Bauer. The laugh told him more plainly than words could have done that Bauer was not going to let him go. Bauer had set himself for a fight and meant to have it.
Bauer said, “You won’t see her some other time. You won’t see anything at all for a while. But when you can see, send for Hayden and a deed to your outfit.”
Street had expected a little more talk. Or a sneak punch as he turned away. He was surprised, then, at the whistling blow that came directly out of the darkness. He flung his head aside and it grazed across his high cheekbone. The blow had come from Bauer, and Street felt a stir of surprise. He had not believed a man could move so fast. He had no time to dwell on his surprise, however. Hardly had it registered, when a second punch landed flush on his jaw. He felt himself going backward, falling. His legs pedaled frantically for balance, but the edge of the walk dumped him down in the street’s soft dust.
He had waited two years and it came to this. He had dreamed a thousand dreams of Verona, and the dreams were dead. A terrible rage soared through his brain. He could see the other two coming through the gate and he knew at once they meant to be thorough. He couldn’t win, even if he soundly whipped all three. For he would be marked and beaten, and after that what slim chance remained of convincing Verona he had changed would be gone. For a second time in his life he ran, his face hot with the humiliation of it. He scrambled up out of the dust, dodged Bauer’s kick, and sprinted down Main.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Street collided violently with a small figure in the darkness, and sprawled again. He heard a shrill boy’s yelp as he went down, and then they were on him, holding him, raining kicks and blows into his helpless body. That damned kid! Alf. He must have followed all the way from the restaurant. Street had no time to wonder why. He gathered his strength and expended it in a single explosive effort, and broke away.
Running was now out of the question. Marked already, he’d give them what fight he could. He struggled to his feet. Breath heaved gustily in and out of his starving lungs. He caught a roundhouse swing in the belly and it doubled him over. An uppercut straightened him up. Off balance he took a fist in his eye and he knew that one at least would swell shut.
He got his balance and lifted a knee brutally. A man yelled with pain and fell away. Street swung his right and felt it sink into something soft, into Bauer. The man grunted softly, but seemed to be slowed not at all. He was fast as a panther, and just as deadly. Street followed that right with a left, a savage hooking left that slammed into Bauer’s ear. Bauer fell aside from that one, and Street followed him, throwing punches with rhythmic speed. Bauer, hurt, countered in desperation with a punch that landed flush on Street’s nose.
The blow brought tears to his eyes and momentarily blinded him. Something awfully hard crashed down on his head from behind. Light flashed briefly before his eyes. He went to his knees. In this position, he caught the force of Bauer’s knee full in the face. The iron-hard object cracked the back of his head for a second time, and still he would not go down. Bauer stood before him, slugging viciously and each of the man’s blows landed accurately on Street’s unprotected face.
Street heard a scream, a yell, and his eyes caught the light of a swinging lantern. Still fighting, or trying to, he struggled to his feet. Spraddle-legged, tottering, he peered around, seeking Bauer’s hated face. Blood streamed from his nose. His face was numb and pulpy. Something warm trickled down the back of his head. Bauer’s helper had slashed with the pistol barrel instead of delivering a solid blow. Perhaps only this had kept the blows from shattering Street’s skull. Street’s ribs were a solid wall of pain. Hands caught at him, but he flung them aside. He staggered down the street, heading for the hotel.
He heard Coe’s voice, imperatively saying, “Son, you need some help.”
“The hell!” He stopped, fighting the awful nausea and dizziness that threatened to overcome him, and then fell forward, stiff as a tottering pine. He had the brief sensation of falling, and then he wanted only blackness and peace and a cessation of pain.
The scream Street heard came from a girl. She was tall for a girl with a slim boyish figure. She ran forward as Street fell and knelt in the dust beside him. Her smooth face showed nothing but pity as she stared down into his bloody, battered face. Coe stopped at her side, holding the lantern, and she looked up at him with boundless indignation. “What did he do to deserve this? When is this country going to put a stop to Gunhammer’s brutality?”
Coe’s ancient, seamed face flushed. Perhaps to avoid an answer to so direct a question, he spoke to a man at the edge of the gathering crowd. “Carry him to the hotel. Get someone to help you.”
The girl watched him, her face revealing both disappointment and disgust. Coe, still avoiding her eyes, caught young Alf Browder by a thin shoulder and said, “Fetch the doctor, son.”
When he could no longer decently avoid it, he returned his gaze to the girl. Her eyes awaited his answer. He said, “Rose, when the man comes to, if he wants to swear an assault warrant, I’ll serve it. Does that satisfy you?”
She asked with a certain contempt, “Does it satisfy you, Mister Coe?”
She stood up, to be out of the way as the two men lifted Street’s limp body. She faced Coe, a study of indignation, hands on hips, dark eyes flashing. She repeated, “Does it satisfy the sheriff’s office?”
He made a patient, helpless gesture. “Rose, what would you have me do? The man’s beat up. It happens all the time. Am I supposed to charge someone with attempted murder every time there’s a fight?”
“Suppose this one dies?”
“He won’t. If he does, I’ll have Bauer in the lockup within twelve hours.”
Rose Healy snorted in a most unladylike way. “And he’ll be out in another twelve on a self-defense plea.”
Coe shrugged wearily.
Rose stamped a small foot angrily. She studied Coe’s face for an instant, and then her shoulders settled in defeat. Turning, she ran after the two men who were carrying Street.
Catching up, she asked, “What are you going to do, just dump him in his room and leave him?”
The man carrying Street’s head and shoulders answered, “Coe sent the Browder kid after Doc.”
Rose subsided, helplessly angry still. She held the hotel door while they carried Street inside, and followed up the stairs behind them.
Doc came shuffling into the room before they hardly had time to straighten Street out on the bed. Doc was a small, totally bald man. He wore pince-nez glasses that gave him a studious, intellectual look. But Doc was an awful soak, Rose knew. She peered into his eyes now, seeking signs of drunkenness. The reek of his breath was almost overpowering, but his eyes were clear for once.
The two men who had carried Street in now left, breathing heavily. Doc went over to the wash basin and poured it full. While he washed his hands, he studied Rose. Her expression was one of purely unselfish concern for the hurt man on the bed, and Doc made a gently mocking smile. “Another of your strays. Rose?”
Her eyes flashed. She stared at him angrily for an instant. Then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, her smile broke through the somberness of her face. She said ruefully, “I suppose so. But, Doc, it just isn’t fair. This man has done nothing to Gunhammer.”
He replied dryly, “Except inheriting Will Rawlins’ place.” He dried his hands and looked over toward the man on the bed, then back at Rose. He stared at her thoughtfully a moment with some hope in his eyes but finally shook his head. “Hell, no. You haven’t even thought of it yet.”
“What are you talking about? What haven’t I thought about yet?”
“You haven’t even realized that this man stands between you and Gunhammer. You haven’t even thought of using him.”
Rose felt a vast impatience. “Of course I haven’t thought of it. Get over there, Doc, and patch him up. He could die while you stand here gabbing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Doc grinned but he opened his bag and went to work.