It was the hour after high noon and the heat head had reached its maximum. The sun was a blazing white disc in a cloudless sky, beating down upon the narrow trail which angled around the base of the hills.
It was the bad time of the day for a man to ride but it held little significance for Frank Kelsey. Somehow, the arid country and the tall hills, their sloping sides almost bare of vegetation, had little effect on him. All of his thoughts were concentrated on the events of the past few days.
For five years he had been Marshal of Dodge City, his reputation as a man fast with a gun keeping an uneasy peace in that frontier town. There had been very little real trouble there until the Dexter gang had ridden in; three of them, intent on robbing the bank. They had laid their plans well and it was possible they might have succeeded had not he, and his two deputies, received prior warning that they were on their way.
The resulting gunfight had been short, but sharp and deadly. No sooner had the three men emerged from the bank, ready to make a run for their mounts, than he had called on them to drop their weapons. Perhaps he should have known that killers like the Dexters never surrendered. Whirling, they had opened fire on him and the two men with him where they were under cover along the opposite boardwalk.
Jed Dexter had gone down in the middle of the street with a bullet in his chest, the bank notes he had been carrying scattering in the dust. His two brothers had dived for cover behind the horse trough on the far side.
Frank remembered the few minutes that had followed as if they were a fire raging inside his brain. He recalled the slugs from the two killers that had smashed into the woodwork just behind him; saw one of his deputies fall back with a bullet in his shoulder. Then Cal and Verge Dexter had suddenly decided to make a run for it. It had been an act of desperation on their part.
Everything that followed had happened so quickly; it was over almost before it had begun. Thrusting himself forward onto his knees, balancing himself with one hand on the wooden post, he had fired instinctively, almost without taking conscious aim. Then, seemingly from nowhere, the small girl had darted across the road, swerving around the waiting mounts.
When he was finally able to think coherently again, both Dexter brothers lay dead in the dust of the street. Beside them lay the body of the girl. There had been blood on the front of her yellow dress and he had known, with a sickening certainty, that she was almost certainly dead.
For a long time after that, everything had been just a blur. He had carried the child into Doc Hanson’s surgery with the hysterical mother screaming and yelling abuse and accusations at him. There had been nothing Hanson could do for the girl. Apparently, she had died instantly, not knowing what had hit her.
His deputy had been brought in and while Hanson had worked on him, he had returned to his office, seeing the accusing looks on the faces of several of the townsfolk. Mayor Tollerton had come in a few moments later and tried to assure him that none of what had happened had been his fault.
Frank had listened dully to what the mayor was saying, but the words seemed to go over his head, none of them registering on his numbed mind. Before Tollerton could protest further, he had taken off his star and laid it on the desk. Unshucking his gunbelt, he had placed it beside the badge. Most of his life he had lived by the gun and now that weapon had killed an innocent child.
The voice of reason argued that what had happened had been nothing more than a tragic accident, that there had been nothing else he could have done. But the voice of guilt argued that he should never carry a weapon again, that the job of upholding the law in this lawless land should never again be his.
Now he was here, riding this dusty trail west, a bitter man whose conscience would give him no rest. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he peered into the heat-shimmering distance. For three days he had wrestled with the thoughts pounding through his mind, struggling to decide what to do.
He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get as far away from Dodge City as possible. He could ride these trails clear across the country, continuing west, until he reached the California border. There, perhaps, he might find peace of a sort and try to forget what had happened.
As a lawman he had killed several men in his time; men who had tried to buck the law; hired killers and outlaw bands, who tried to impose their own brand of violence upon these frontier towns. Then, it had been either his life or theirs.
But a little child barely eight years old. That was something he wasn’t sure he could live with. It would take a long time to remove that stain on his reputation.
Ahead of him, the glaring sunlight picked out the group of wheeling black dots in the sky. He recognized them instantly. Buzzards! Something lay up ahead which had attracted the attention of those creatures. Almost without thinking, he touched spurs to the stallion’s flanks, urging it forward at a faster pace.
The trail dipped downward, ran along the bed of a dried-up creek, and then around the out-thrusting shoulder of a hill. In every other direction there was only the white alkali that stretched clear to the western horizon.
As he rode along the creek he noticed the deep ruts in the hard-baked ground where wagon wheels had passed over it. Some of the marks looked recent and that observation stirred vague apprehensions in his mind.
At the far end of the creek, he climbed the low bank and rounded the side of the hill. Not more than fifty yards away, he saw the reason for the buzzards, now circling lower in the sky. The stage lay on its side, both of the nearside wheels splintered and lying off their axles.
Riding up swiftly, he dismounted and moved forward cautiously, first scanning the area in every direction. Nothing moved and he guessed that whoever had been behind this hold-up had gone, taking with them any gold and personal valuables from the passengers.
There was no sign of the horses. One of the shafts had ploughed deep into the ground. The other pointed into the air. Across them, arms and legs dangling limply, lay the body of the driver. One glance was sufficient to tell Frank that he was dead. There were at least five slugs in his body.
With an effort, he pulled himself up onto the side of the stage, grasped the door handle and pulled with all of his strength. It opened with a squeal of twisted hinges. Three men lay in a sprawled heap against the far door.
The nearest was a man in his late fifties with a trim beard and moustache. His eyes were open and from the vacant stare in them, Frank knew he was dead. There was a rip in his fancy waistcoat. Doubtless there had been a gold watch and chain there which had evidently been torn away.
The second passenger was a much younger man and there was a pistol in his right hand. Evidently he had died trying to defend himself against the attackers. The third was almost buried beneath the other two. He too had a Colt in his hand and, as Frank moved his arm, he uttered a low groan and tried to push himself from beneath the two bodies.
With an effort, Frank managed to roll the dead men off him. Gasping air into his lungs, the man tried to bring up the gun, levelling it on Frank.
‘Easy there, friend,’ Frank said quietly. ‘Whoever did this is long gone. I just happened on it. Do you reckon you can stand?’
Relaxing visibly, the man caught hold of the tilted seat with one hand as Frank hooked his arm beneath his left shoulder. Grimacing with pain, he muttered thickly, ‘I’ve got a bullet in my right leg. I don’t reckon I can stand on it. I—’
He broke off suddenly and stared about him. ‘My daughter? She was here with me. Is she with you?’
Frank shook his head slowly. ‘There were only the three of you in here when I rode up – and the driver outside. He’s dead too, I’m afraid. There’s no sign of anyone else.’
‘Then those killers must have taken her.’ There was a note of growing frenzy and desperation in the man’s voice. Clawing with his arms, he grasped the sides of the door and attempted to pull himself out.
Sliding off the side of the stage, Frank planted his feet firmly in the alkali, grabbed the other’s arms and pulled him through the opening. Lowering him to the ground, Frank straightened. ‘What’s your name, friend?’ he asked evenly.
‘Jim Everley. But my daughter – you’re sure she wasn’t in the stage?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Everley. There were only the three of you inside. Let me take a look at that leg.’
While he lay back, Frank took out his knife and slit the fabric, exposing the wound. The slug had gone in a couple of inches above the ankle. Luckily, it had glanced off the bone, leaving an ugly gash torn through the flesh It was clear the man had lost a lot of blood and the sooner he was able to get him to a doctor, the better.
Going back to his mount, he returned with his canteen. Taking out his kerchief, he washed most of the blood away and then bound it up tightly. ‘That’s the best I can do until I can get you to a doctor,’ he said tautly, offering the canteen.
Tilting it to his lips, Everley took a long swallow, then handed the canteen back. Letting his breath go in a long sigh, he grasped Frank’s arm. ‘Why in God’s name would those killers take Anne?’
Frank shrugged. ‘They might try to hold her to ransom if you’ve got plenty o’ money. Or for some reason they’ve got a grudge against you. You got any idea who did this?’
Everley shook his head, grimacing as pain jarred through his leg. ‘I never saw any of ’em in my life. There were four of ’em. Just came ridin’ from the hills back there.’
‘You mean you saw their faces?’
‘I saw them all right. I’d recognize ’em all if I ever saw ’em again. And if they’ve got Anne, I’ll….’
His voice trailed away into silence, leaving the threat hanging in the air.
Getting to his feet, Frank stared intently into the distance. There was nothing but white alkali blazing beneath the scorching heat of the sun. It was not going to be easy taking Everley to the nearest town and—
He jerked his head round swiftly as a sudden sound reached him from somewhere close by. Everley had heard it too. Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to pull himself upright.
‘Just lie there,’ Frank said harshly. ‘I’ll check this out.’
Moving cautiously around the overturned stage, he threw a swift glance all around him. Some three feet from the edge of the trail, the ground fell away in a steep slope covered with dense mesquite. Going forward warily, he looked down and immediately picked out the prone figure lying at the bottom of the slope.
Digging his spurs deeply into the treacherous, shifting alkali, he slid down in a miniature avalanche of small rocks and dust, and reached the girl a few seconds later. She had pushed herself up into a sitting position. There was a nasty bruise on the side of her head, just above her right eye, but apart from that she seemed unhurt.
‘Do you think you can stand?’ he asked concernedly.
‘I’ll try.’
Placing his arm around her waist, he lifted her to her feet. For a moment, she swayed, then pressed her lips tightly together and straightened. There was a frightened expression in her eyes and he guessed she was still unsure of him.
For a moment, she stood quite still and then gave a slight nod. There was a look of mute enquiry on her face, but it was a few moments before she put what was in her mind into words.
‘My father was on the stage. He’s dead, isn’t he? I was somehow thrown clear and fell down this slope but I heard the gunfire.’
‘If your father is Jim Everley, he’s still alive,’ Frank told her. ‘Although he’s got a bullet wound in the leg which I’ve managed to bandage up.’
For several seconds, the girl stared at him, scarcely able to believe what he had just said.
‘He’s alive? But I thought those men had killed them all.’
‘Guess you were both lucky. From what your father’s just told me, none o’ those critters covered their faces. That can only mean they meant to kill everyone on that stage.’
Taking her hand, he helped her up the unstable slope, finally helping her over the edge. Everley was where he had left him. Going down onto her knees, Anne hugged him, then rose unsteadily to her feet, looking round at Frank. ‘What are we going to do now, Mister…?’
‘Kelsey, Frank Kelsey,’ he said. ‘Somehow, we have to get your father to a doctor. He’s lost quite a lot o’ blood and that wound could become infected if any o’ this alkali gets into it.’
‘But there are no horses.’ The look of desperation on her features deepened.
Pursing his lips, Frank asked, ‘Guess you know more o’ this territory than I do. How far is it to the nearest town?’
‘It’s the best part o’ ten miles to Condor,’ her father put in. ‘Somehow, I don’t reckon we’re goin’ to make it across that territory out there.’
‘We’ll make it.’ Frank spoke grimly, forcing more conviction into his voice than he felt.
‘With only one horse and my father unable to walk?’ Anne shook her head. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘She’s right.’ Her father grimaced as he straightened his injured leg. ‘Ten miles across that alkali with no shade from this blisterin’ sun.’
‘We wait here until nightfall,’ Frank replied. ‘This is the only shade there is. Once the sun sets it’ll get a whole lot cooler. You’ll both have to ride my stallion. I’ll walk.’
‘Now I know you’re plain loco,’ Everley muttered. ‘And what if those hellions should come back, just to make sure none of us are still alive?’
‘That ain’t likely. They’ve got what they wanted. Besides, they know they spooked the horses. Even if they did only wound one o’ the passengers, a man with a bullet in him would stand no chance at all in that wilderness.’
He motioned to the girl. ‘You’d better sit down, miss. Stay as much in the shade o’ the stage as you can. We’ve several hours o’ daylight left before we can leave.’
Anne Everley did as she was told, sinking down beside her father.
Building himself a smoke, Frank lit it and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. Around them, the oppressive silence was broken only by the movements of his stallion a few yards away and the thin keening of the wind that occasionally lifted small clouds of white dust, sending them swirling around the wreckage of the coach.
Finally, he asked, ‘You know this town, Everley?’
Everley nodded. ‘Lived there for the past fifteen years since comin’ West. I’ve got a small spread a couple o’ miles outside o’ Condor – just a couple o’ hundred head and some hired hands who work it for me.’
‘I’ve been out East for three years,’ Anne said. ‘We were on our way back when those gunmen came.’ There was still a haunted look in her eyes at the memory. She paused as a fresh thought struck her. ‘Are you sure those other two men are dead?’
‘They’re dead all right,’ Frank told her.
Everley’s gaze roved over Frank, appraising him closely. ‘Just what do you do, Kelsey? Somehow, you’ve got the look of a gunman to me but I see you ain’t carryin’ any guns and from that empty scabbard on your mount, you’ve got no rifle either. Ridin’ this territory without any weapons, you’re either a fool, or you’ve got some good reason for not carryin’ any weapons.’
Choosing his words carefully, Frank said, ‘I’ve got a good enough reason. I had a job back in Dodge but somethin’ happened there that made it impossible for me to stay.’
Everley made to say something more, but his daughter flashed him a warning look and he said nothing.
The afternoon wore on with an agonizing slowness. All around them the landscape shimmered until it hurt their eyes to look at it. Over their heads, the waiting buzzards still circled in lazy, swooping spirals. While the three of them remained there, however, the birds would venture no closer. Like all of the predators in this arid wasteland they possessed infinite patience.
Anne dozed fitfully, occasionally stirring in her sleep. At times, Frank checked the rough bandage on Everley’s leg. The bleeding seemed to have stopped but it was possible that slug had cracked, or broken, the bone.
Slowly, the punishing heat diminished. They drank sparingly from the water in the canteens but their dry mouths absorbed much of it before it went down. Frank woke the girl just as the sun was setting. For a moment, she seemed unaware of where she was. Then she pushed herself up on her arms, shaking her head a little.
‘Guess it’s time to be moving,’ Frank said. ‘We’ve a long way to go and it won’t be easy, I’m afraid.’
‘I understand. Just so long as we can get my father to a doctor.’
Making his way around the tangled wreckage, Frank found two more canteens of water strapped to the seat beside the driver. Then, whistling to his mount, he bent and helped Everley to his feet. There was a pale look to his features but the pain in his leg seemed to have subsided a little. His lips tightened into a grimace as Frank helped him into the saddle.
‘Now you, miss.’ He turned to the girl standing at his side.
‘I can walk,’ she said, with a touch of defiance in her voice.
‘Not all the way to Condor across that alkali.’ Frank retorted firmly. ‘After a couple o’ miles, your feet would be in the same condition as your father’s leg. Now just do as I ask.’
Reluctantly, she pulled herself onto the stallion’s back, hands held tightly around her father’s waist. Taking the reins, Frank led the way onto the hard-packed trail. Already, the heavens were darkening and the first sky-sentinels were beginning to show.
Once the last of the reds of sunset faded, the temperature began to drop. For a little while, it made a pleasant change from the heat of the day. Then a cold wind came gusting from the north, hurling the irritating white grains into their faces. The temperature fell still further, congealing the sweat on their bodies.
The hot smell of the sparse vegetation soon gave way to that of bitter sage and dust. His head down, Frank struggled to keep the alkali out of his mouth. His lips were cracked and caked with it and his mouth was so dry that it was difficult to swallow.
Everley was swaying precariously in the saddle now in spite of all his daughter’s efforts to keep him upright. At times, he seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness, his head dropping towards his chest, barely aware of his surroundings and what was happening. By the time they had progressed a couple of miles, Frank had to reach up and keep a tight grip on the man’s arm to prevent him falling from the saddle.
There was also an added danger. Even though the brilliant starlight gave them ample light by which to see, and the moon, round and full, had just risen in the east, the scurrying wind obliterated the trail in many places. The distant horizon still seemed completely featureless.
‘Are we lost?’ Anne’s voice reached him as if from a distance.
‘Not lost,’ he assured her. ‘But it’s difficult to pick out this trail in places. How is your father holding out?’
There was a pause, then her voice came back again. ‘I think he’s really bad. Do you reckon we should stop and take another look at his leg?’
Frank pondered that for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I don’t think that would be wise. So long as he can stay in the saddle, he ain’t doin’ much more damage to it. Getting him on and off the bronc could make it far worse.’
Two hours later, with still no sign of anything resembling a town on the distant horizon, Frank felt his earlier optimism begin to evaporate. The endless shuffling through the dust had turned his legs into leaden weights. Everley was still conscious but it was only sheer grit and determination that was keeping him going.
At his back, Anne stared straight ahead over her father’s shoulder, anxiously seeking some end to this nightmare trek through the wilderness. Somehow, she had managed to pull her coat more tightly around her shoulders without releasing her hold on her father.
Frank watched her anxiously. How much longer she could take this bitter cold, he couldn’t tell. Her face, limned in the yellow moonlight, was etched into contours of strain. Yet the set of her jaw belied the deep weariness.
The thick white dust, kicked up by the stallion’s feet, clung like a leech around them, clogging their nostrils and throats. There was only a little water left in the canteens and he knew that his mount was also tiring.
Then Anne uttered a low cry. With an effort, she lifted her arm and pointed. ‘There.’ Her voice was little more than a rasping croak.
Jerking up his head, Frank peered through red-rimmed eyes into the distance. At first, he made out nothing but the moon-washed alkali. Then, a little to the left, he spotted the lights. He judged they were at least a mile away but the sight brought a little of the feeling back into his limbs.
Drawing back his lips, he grated hoarsely, ‘I reckon we’re goin’ to make it, after all.’ He slapped the horse on the rump with the flat of his hand, urging more speed out of it.
Slowly, the lights drew nearer and soon he was able to make out the sprawling mass of the town, nestling in a low valley with hills on two sides.
As they made their way into the narrow street, a man stepped down from the boardwalk. The sign over the door behind him proclaimed it to be the Sheriff’s Office. Pulling hard on the reins, Frank hauled the stallion to a halt as the man came right up to them.
He was an old man, grey-haired, with a lined, worried face and Frank immediately noticed the star on his shirt.
‘Somethin’ happened along the trail, Jim?’ he enquired.
With an effort that sent a spasm of pain across his face, Everley gave a quick nod. ‘The stage was held up, Sheriff. Back there about ten miles. If it weren’t for this man, I reckon we’d all be dead by now.’
The lawman swung to face Frank, peering closely at him in the moonlight. ‘Seems Jim and his daughter owe you a vote o’ thanks, mister. Lucky for them you came along.’
‘Guess I did what any man would’ve done,’ Frank replied. ‘But right now, I figure we’d better get Everley to a doctor. He’s got a bullet wound in the leg.’
‘Sure. Doc Penrose will soon have him fixed up. Once that’s done, there are some questions I’d like to ask of the three o’ you. We ain’t had anythin’ like this happenin’ around Condor for quite a while.’
Studying the sheriff’s face, Frank had the impression he was not telling the full truth. There was something at the back of the lawman’s eyes which he couldn’t quite analyse.
Then the sheriff’s face changed slightly as Everley’s words sank in. ‘Ten miles back along the trail, you say? Did you walk all o’ that way across that wilderness?’
Frank thinned his lips back across his teeth. ‘Weren’t any other way o’ getting’ here, Sheriff.’
Taking up the reins again, he led his mount along the street, stopping outside the building which Anne indicated. Helping her down, he waited as she went to the door and knocked loudly. The door swung open, sending a swathe of light across the street.
She said something and then the doctor came forward. A short man in his early sixties, Penrose took one look at Everley, then said crisply, ‘Help me get him down and into the surgery.’
Inside the small room, they laid Everley on the low couch against one wall, his injured leg thrust out straight in front of him. Straightening, Penrose said, ‘You know where the kitchen is, Anne. Get me a basin of boiling water.’
When she had gone, the doctor said in a low voice, ‘You know who did this to him, Mister—?’
‘Frank Kelsey.’ Shaking his head, he went on, ‘I came across the stage ten miles back. It was obvious what had happened. At first, I thought they’d all been killed, but he was still alive. Somehow, his daughter was thrown clear and I found her at the bottom of a slope.’
‘And the others on the stage?’
‘Two passengers had been shot, together with the driver. Weren’t anythin’ I could do for them.’
Penrose’s brows came together in a straight line. ‘Does Sheriff McDonald know?’
‘He met us just as we came in.’
Penrose pursed his lips. ‘Reckon he’ll just send a couple o’ men to bring the bodies in. Ain’t much more he can do.’
Anne came back with a basin of boiling water. Reaching into a drawer, the doctor took out a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Everley. ‘Better take a few swallows o’ this, Jim.’ He glanced down at the leg. ‘At least I won’t have to dig for the slug although it’s made a mess o’ the bone.’
Ten minutes later, the doctor had cleaned the wound and put a tight bandage around it. ‘I wouldn’t put too much weight on it for a week or so,’ he warned, as Everley hobbled towards the door. ‘I hear you’ve got some men workin’ for you. Let them do the chores until that leg is fully healed. Otherwise, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’
‘All right, Doc. I’ll do that,’ conceded Everley grudgingly. ‘But it ain’t goin’ to be easy.’
‘I’m here now, Father,’ Anne put in. ‘It’s time I did my bit on the spread.’
Outside, on the boardwalk, Frank said, ‘I guess I’d better stable my mount and then get a room for the night.’
‘You’ll find the livery stables at the far end o’ the street.’ Everley pointed. ‘The hotel is yonder, opposite the sheriff’s office. Guess we’ll have to spend the night there, too, and ride out for the spread in the mornin’. The sheriff will want to ask some questions before we leave.’
Everley thrust out his hand as Frank moved towards the stallion waiting patiently by the rail. ‘I ain’t thanked you properly for all you’ve done for us, Kelsey. I guess we both owe our lives to you.’ He shook Frank’s hand warmly.
As he turned to make his way towards the hotel, he said, ‘If you’re here lookin’ for a job, you’ve got one any time on my ranch. After what happened today, I’m afraid the lawless bunch might be movin’ in on Condor.’
Frank gave a quick nod. ‘Just before you go, I’d advise you not to say anythin’ to anyone about recognizin’ those four killers. If they ever get word you’re still alive, my guess is they’ll come after both o’ you.’
‘If they do, they’ll get more than they bargained for,’ Everley said through his teeth. ‘I’d like nothin’ better than to get them all at the end of a gun.’
‘Don’t be too confident. I’ve had dealings with such men before.’
Frank watched as they made their way across the street, Everley leaning on his daughter’s shoulder. Then he made his way along the street towards the stables, finding them still open. An old-timer was seated on a rickety rocking chair just outside the door. He glanced up quickly as Frank approached.
‘You got a place for my mount?’ Frank asked, as the hostler eyed him with open curiosity. ‘He’ll need feed and water too.’
‘Sure thing, mister. We don’t get many strangers in Condor.’ He led the stallion away, placed it in one of the empty stalls and then came back. ‘My name’s Ben Sheldon, but most folk just call me Old Ben. You stayin’ long in town?’
‘Guess that depends on how things work out. You had any other strangers here lately?’
The other man pondered the question for a few moments, then shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve seen any around town. You got some reason for askin’ that?’
‘I came across the stage just after midday, back along the trail a piece. It’d been held up and the horses spooked. Two o’ the passengers and the driver were dead, all shot. Weren’t no sign of any o’ the critters who did it.’
‘You told the sheriff?’
‘I told him as soon as I rode in.’
‘It ain’t likely McDonald will do anythin’.’ Taking out a wad of tobacco, the oldster bit off a piece and chewed it methodically. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he went on, ‘McDonald is a good man but he’s too old for the job. As for that deputy of his, Clive Hawkins, I’d watch him if I were you.’
There was a shrewd gleam in the groom’s eyes which Frank noticed at once. ‘You know somethin’ about him?’ he asked.
After a moment’s silence, Sheldon said in a low voice, ‘Hawkins is well in with Curt Bellamy, the banker. There’s been talk that some outlaw band have their hideout somewhere in the hills. Could have been them who held up that stage.’
Puzzled, Frank enquired, ‘So what’s the connection, Ben?’
Sheldon gave a knowing grin. ‘Mebbe you think I’m just an old fool, like all the rest, talkin’ about things like this. Sure, I’m old, but my eyes and ears are just as good as they ever were. These gunhawks seem to know whenever the stage is bringin’ in gold and money for the bank and that’s when they make their move.’
Frank nodded. ‘So someone in town is passin’ along this information?’
The old man held Frank’s glance levelly. ‘And who knows just when a gold shipment is comin’ into Condor? Only the sheriff, that deputy of his – and Bellamy.’
The old man spat the tobacco wad into the straw beside him. His grin had vanished to be replaced by a serious expression. ‘I know the sheriff and he’d have no part o’ this. But my guess is that Bellamy is behind it all. Somehow, he gets word to these outlaws in return for a share o’ the gold.’
Frank moved towards the door. Pausing, he turned. ‘Why are you tellin’ me all this?’
Sheldon walked up to him. Lowering his voice still further, he said, ‘Maybe I’m the only man in town who knows who you are. You’re Frank Kelsey. Last I heard, you were marshal o’ Dodge, a straight-shooter if there ever was one. I don’t know why you’re here and why you’re carryin’ no guns, but that’s your business.’
Tightening, his lips, Frank said softly, ‘Better keep this to yourself, old-timer. If anyone else should know who I am, it could be dangerous.’
Nodding, the hostler moved back into the shadows of the stalls.
After signing the register and booking a room for the night, Frank went through into the small dining-room. Everley and his daughter were seated at one of the tables. Going over, he pulled out a chair and sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Everley was the first to speak. ‘Have you thought about my offer, Frank?’ he asked.
‘I’ll think it over,’ he replied, ‘although it wasn’t what I had in mind when I rode out this way. Guess I intended to keep on ridin’ until I hit the California border and then try to make a life there.’
From across the table, Anne eyed him closely. She seemed to have something on her mind, but was unsure how to put her thoughts into words.
Finally, she said, ‘There’s something worrying you, Frank. Mind telling us what it is?’
At that moment, the proprietor came in with a plate of beans, bacon and potatoes, together with more coffee.
Between mouthfuls, he related all he had been told by the hostler. Everley listened in silence until he had finished.
Then, leaning forward, the older man said, ‘From what little I know of Bellamy, I figure that old man was tellin’ the truth. But the way things are in Condor, it won’t be easy to prove. Bellamy is a big man in this territory and you can be sure he’ll cover his tracks well.’
Pushing the empty plate away, Frank poured out more coffee, then built himself a smoke. Lighting it, he leaned back, aware that the girl’s gaze was still on him.
After a moment, she said quietly, ‘Even if all of this is true, stay out of it.’
Frank gave a grim smile. ‘I intend to. It’s no concern o’ mine. Sheriff McDonald is the law in Condor. It’s up to him to do whatever he thinks is right.’
Ten minutes later, Frank left the hotel and made his way along the boardwalk to the nearest saloon. As he had expected, almost all of the tables were occupied. Most of the men there he took to be either ordinary townsfolk, or riders for the various small spreads around the town.
Three men were standing at the bar as he walked up to it. None of them glanced at him but he knew they had seen him in the back mirror and were appraising him closely. He recognized their type instantly having come up against such men in the past.
All three carried their guns low on their hips. Renegade riders, he decided, ready to sell their guns to the highest bidder if any trouble should break out. One was much taller than his companions, broad and coarse-featured with a mop of unruly black hair showing just beneath his hat.
Allowing his glance to pass on to the man in the middle of the trio, Frank’s instincts told him that this was the most dangerous of the three. He was thin, almost to the point of gauntness and his eyes were a pale grey, flat and empty. A pencil moustache, drooping a little at the sides, rested above a tight-lipped mouth. The third was undoubtedly a Mexican half-breed, his gaudy sombrero tilted on the back of his head, held by a thin strap under his chin.
The barkeep sidled over. ‘What’ll it be, mister?’ He seemed unduly nervous and his glance kept flicking towards the three men standing just a few feet away.
‘Whiskey,’ Frank replied. He waited until the ’keep brought a bottle and glass, setting them down in front of him.
‘You just ridden into Condor?’ The bartender spoke in a low voice as if afraid of being overheard.
Pouring whiskey into the glass, Frank nodded. ‘Got in less than an hour ago,’ he said evenly. Watching the three men from the corner of his eye, he went on, ‘I ran into a spot o’ trouble along the trail.’
‘What sort o’ trouble, mister?’ It was the thin man who spoke, easing himself a little way from the counter, one arm resting negligently on the bar.
‘Stage hold-up,’ Frank replied, not turning his head to look at the other. ‘I reckon you got some trouble with outlaws in these parts.’
‘We ain’t heard anythin’ about it,’ put in the barkeep hastily, ‘have we, boys? Far as I know, that stage ain’t due here until tomorrow.’ He turned to the three men. ‘That’s right, ain’t it, Jeth?’
The tall man gave a ponderous nod. Now he turned and stared directly at Frank. ‘Somehow, I don’t like the way you’re talking, friend. You got some idea we had somethin’ to do with that hold-up?’
His glance dropped towards Frank’s waist. ‘I see you ain’t carryin’ any guns. What did you do – leave ’em behind somewhere so nobody would tie you in with the robbery?’
Frank held his anger under tight control as he said, ‘Nope. I don’t have any guns. Matter o’ fact, I brought two survivors back with me into town less than a couple of hours ago.’
Inwardly, he wasn’t sure whether these three had hit the stage, or whether they didn’t like strangers riding into town. Either way, it was clear they were hellbent on making trouble.
The half-breed uttered a harsh laugh, his lips twisted back across his teeth. ‘You know what I think, Jeth? I reckon this hombre is some marshal figurin’ on cleanin’ up the town.’
The tall man nodded. ‘Then maybe we ought to teach him that we’ve already got a sheriff in town and we don’t like anyone from outside pokin’ their noses into our affairs.’ He stepped well away from the bar, his right hand hovering close to his gunbelt.
Straightening a little, Frank said harshly, ‘This how you’ve earned your reputation as a gunman, shootin’ unarmed men?’
The man muttered something in Spanish to the half-breed. A moment later, the latter pulled out a Colt and slid it along the bar top in Frank’s direction. His teeth showed whitely in a snarling grin. ‘There, señor. Now you have a gun. Let’s see if you have the guts to use it.’
For a moment, Frank hesitated. All of the old instincts came back in a flood, urging him to pick up the weapon. Then he thrust the Colt back. ‘Like I said, I don’t use guns.’
For a moment a look of disappointment showed on the big man’s face. Then it was replaced by an expression of malicious satisfaction. ‘Maybe you reckon you’re better with your fists.’
Reaching down, he unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it on the counter. He came forward, his hands bunched into hard fists.
‘Just teach him it ain’t wise to ride into this territory without guns,’ the Mexican said thinly. ‘Right now, we don’t want any trouble with the sheriff.’
Squaring up, Frank stepped well away from the bar. He knew the man would be a dirty fighter, one who knew all of the tricks of bar-room brawls. Moving with a swiftness that belied his bulk, he attempted to crowd Frank against the bar.
Side-stepping quickly, he let the blow slide across his left shoulder, bringing up his right fist hard against the side of the man’s face. It connected solidly and the man swayed to one side. For a moment, he seemed on the point of going down but with a savage effort, remained on his feet.
As he fought to keep his balance, Frank grabbed his arm and swung him round, slamming him hard against the bar. For a moment, he hung there, drawing in rasping breaths. Then he lurched forward, his head lowered.
The top of his skull struck Frank full in the chest, sending him back against one of the tables. It splintered under their combined weight and Frank fell to the floor with the heavier man on top of him. Grinning wolfishly, the man jabbed for his eyes.
Somehow, Frank caught his wrist, twisting savagely. Getting his right leg under him, he thrust upward with all his strength. For a moment, it seemed it wouldn’t be enough. Then, with a wild yell, his opponent fell to one side.
Pushing himself up onto one elbow, Frank brought the edge of his hand down across the man’s exposed throat. The gunhawk’s eyes rolled whitely in his head as he struggled for breath. Swaying slightly, Frank got to his feet. He knew the man wasn’t finished and he had to end it quickly.
Bringing back his foot, he kicked hard at his adversary’s head. His boot struck the right temple. The man’s head went back, hitting the floor hard. Sucking air into his lungs, Frank made to aim another blow but it was not needed.
Turning back to the bar, he glimpsed the thin man’s hand dropping towards his gun. It was almost clear of leather when a voice rasped, ‘Don’t try it! I don’t aim to have any men shot down in cold blood in my town.’
Twisting his head around, Frank saw McDonald standing just inside the doorway, both of his guns levelled on the trio. The look in the thin man’s eyes suggested he meant to make his play in spite of the guns levelled on him. A sudden movement at his back put the idea from his mind as the bartender thrust the shotgun hard between his shoulder blades. ‘Reckon you’d better do like the sheriff says,’ he said harshly.
The gunman moved his hand well away from his side. Grabbing the gunbelt from the counter, he slung it over his shoulder. ‘Now the two of you get your friend off the floor and ride out o’ town before I decide to throw all of you in jail.’
Keeping the Colts rock-steady in his hands, McDonald moved away from the door as the men advanced, carrying their unconscious companion between them. A few minutes later, there came the sound of horses moving away into the distance.
Pouching his guns, McDonald stepped across to Frank. ‘You sure know how to get into trouble, mister,’ he said mildly. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stick around in town too long. Those gunslicks don’t like bein’ taken down like that. If you are intent on stayin’, I suggest you get yourself a pair o’ guns pronto.’
‘I’ll think about it, Sheriff.’ Frank replied. ‘And thanks for steppin’ in when you did.’
‘Just stay out o’ trouble while you’re in my town. If it weren’t for what you did for Everley and his daughter, I’d send you after those hombres.’