On his way to Crater Creek, Buck Halliday caught up with Tom Pitt and gave him a message to deliver to Cord Dorgan.
On reaching town, Halliday went straight to the law office but he found Jed Lyman drinking alone at the saloon. By the look in his eyes, he’d been there for some time.
When Halliday stepped up beside him, Lyman got such a surprise he knocked over his glass. Halliday pushed some of Lyman’s money forward and told the barkeep to pour two fresh drinks. Then he smiled at the lawman and said;
“Your days are numbered, mister.”
Lyman stared fearfully at him, and Halliday guessed he’d heard about the shooting.
“What right have you got to come in here sayin’ things like that to me?”
“I have every right,” Halliday said. “Let’s drink up and take a walk.”
“I’m goin’ noplace with you, mister.”
“Drink!” Halliday ordered, and hooked down his whiskey. When Lyman hesitated, Halliday reached across him, picked up his drink and downed it. Then he pushed the lawman roughly off his seat.
The barman saw the incident and suddenly snapped to life. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Halliday?”
“Makin’ a citizen’s arrest.”
“You can’t do that,” the barkeep said. “Jed’s the sheriff here! What are you besides a drifter?”
“Well, I’m not a four-flushing saloon man.”
“By the livin’ hell!” the barkeep said, reaching under the counter and bringing out a six-gun.
Before he could level the weapon, he found Halliday’s six-gun staring him in the eye. When the gun fell from Ben Doakes’ fingers, Halliday grasped the barkeep by the shirtfront and heaved him over his counter, dropping him to the sawdust-covered floor.
Unnoticed during the commotion, Lyman backed away toward the batwings while Halliday picked Doakes up and hit him flush on the jaw. As the big man dropped again, his eyes rolling in his head, Halliday called out;
“Not so fast, lawman, ’less you want to be digging lead outta your ass clear into next week.”
With one hand on top of the batwings, Lyman stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly.
“You won’t get away with this, Halliday. I got friends in this town. So has Ben.”
“You’ll need them. Walk.”
Lyman shouldered the batwings apart and stepped hesitantly out onto the boardwalk, the harsh sunlight causing him to squint. Then in full view of several townsmen, Halliday pushed Lyman in the direction of John Ramsey’s office. When they reached the attorney’s door, Halliday shoved Lyman at the door and the lawman hit it hard.
Halliday reached past him, opened the door and shoved him inside. Lyman staggered against Ramsey’s paper-laden desk and bounced off it to fall onto the floor. Standing at a tall cabinet, Ramsey heeled around, his eyes glaring. But when he saw Halliday standing there, all the fire went out of him.
“Sit down, Ramsey,” Halliday ordered. “Lyman can stay where he is for the time being.”
“What is this?” Ramsey demanded to know.
“Cleanup time,” Halliday told him. “First, get out all the papers that gave Cord Dorgan the rights to land in these parts.”
“What right do you have to—”
Halliday pulled out his gun and said, “This gives me the right.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Ramsey said, stepping back a pace.
“Try me.”
Halliday drew up a chair and propped a boot on it. “Get the papers. And I don’t have much time.”
Lyman hesitated, but a warning look from Halliday had Ramsey unlocking a drawer and taking out a thick file.
“It’s too late to try to play hero,” Halliday said.
Dropping the file on his desk, Ramsey said;
“You can’t change anything, Halliday. All these claims have been legally approved.”
“Then we’ll disapprove them.”
“You don’t seem to understand. That gun you’re holding can’t alter legal decisions.” He tapped the top of the file. “The papers in here give Cord Dorgan legal control of all the land he now holds.”
“So burn them,” Halliday said.
“What?”
“Burn them. Dorgan won’t be needin’ them after today. As a matter of fact, after today, you won’t be needin’ this office, either.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m the man who’s sendin’ you away with orders never to return. This town doesn’t need your kind. It doesn’t need Lyman’s kind, either.”
Halliday thumbed a vesta alight and flicked the file open to reveal a number of stamped documents. Ramsey reached for the file but Halliday knocked his hand away with the barrel of his gun. Then he pulled each paper out, screwed it into a ball and dropped it into a basket. When he’d stripped the file bare, he touched the dying flame of the vesta to one of the papers and it instantly caught fire.
“There you are. All Dorgan’s plans goin’ up in smoke. And yours, too, Ramsey.”
Lyman and Ramsey watched the papers burn as though they were hypnotized. When only ashes remained in the basket, Halliday waved his gun at them and said;
“Now saddle up and ride ... both of you.”
“You’ve had your fun but it will get you nowhere,” Ramsey said. “I can easily send to the capital for new copies of those papers.”
“What you’ll do, mister, is sit and write a letter to the authorities in the capital telling them that Cord Dorgan has forfeited his rights to every inch of country in these parts, and that you, as his legal advisor, want his name stricken from the records. But first you’ll put a notice outside this office telling everyone that you’ve resigned your practice and that anybody interested can file claim on any vacant land.”
The color drained from Ramsey’s face and his hands began to shake. “That... that’ll ruin me.”
“Like you’ve ruined the lives of many people in this town,” Halliday said pointedly.
“Halliday, be reasonable. I’ve made a life for myself here.”
“Tim Cantrell thought he made a life for himself here, too,” Halliday said grimly. “That’s all I can see when I look at you pair of weasels. You want to push me further?”
Halliday thumbed back the hammer of his gun, and Ramsey slumped into his chair. He pulled out a sheet of paper from the drawer and began to write. When he’d finished, Halliday read what he’d written and passed it back. “Now date it and sign it.”
When the attorney hesitated, Halliday pressed the gun against Ramsey’s forehead. The legal man licked his lips and hurriedly signed his name and added the date. Halliday took the sheet of paper and tacked it to the front door of the office. Then he pulled Lyman to his feet and threw him against the wall. Ramsey rose shakily from his chair and muttered;
“I’d... like to get some of my personal possessions together.”
“Ride, Ramsey. And if you don’t send that letter to the capital, I’ll be comin’ after you.”
“Everything I own is in this town!”
“A man as smart as you should have some wise investments.”
Halliday pushed the attorney through the doorway and out onto the boardwalk. He looked at Lyman and the man scurried out and stood beside Ramsey. Then he said;
“Dorgan will arrive soon and he’ll have men with him. I want to know who’s likely to back his play when lead starts to fly.”
“There’ll be plenty,” Lyman said. “You’ve got no chance, Halliday.”
“I hope he’s not countin’ on you,” Halliday said. “You and Ramsey are going to be well out of the way. Who else is there?”
Lyman looked anxiously at Ramsey. The attorney’s shoulders slumped like a beaten man.
“I’m waitin’,” Halliday said. “Or do I have to start belting you around again?”
“Joe Beamer,” Lyman said hastily. “Al Doakes. They should be in town soon.”
Halliday forced the pair to march along the boardwalk, and when they reached the jailhouse, he locked them in one of the cells. Then he walked back to the saloon.
His face swollen and bruised, Ben Doakes put a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the counter without a word being spoken. Then he started to move away.
“I want you where I can see you, mister,” Halliday said.
Mumbling under his breath, Doakes leaned on the counter and looked away when the batwings opened and two men entered. One bore a strong resemblance to the saloon man. The expression on the barkeep’s face told Halliday all he needed to know. He drew his gun and said;
“Joe Beamer and Al Doakes ... you’re under arrest.”
“Says who?” Al Doakes sneered. “You ain’t the lawman here.”
“Citizen’s arrest,” Halliday said with a smile. “So let’s go on over to the jailhouse.”
Al Doakes looked at his brother. “Ben ...?”
But Ben Doakes could only shake his head. The beating he’d taken was more than enough.
“Move!” Halliday said.
He led the two men to the jailhouse at gunpoint and put them in the cell with Lyman and Ramsey. The town was quiet as Halliday returned to the saloon, but there were curious faces at windows and men and women stood in the doorways of stores. One man held a rifle in his hand, and Halliday smiled at him.
Ben Doakes was at his usual place behind his counter when Halliday poured himself a drink. Then as customers entered, he told them to go home and stay there. Nobody objected, but one old-timer helped himself to a full bottle before he left.
An hour and several drinks later, Halliday felt tension begin to mount. Then he heard the distant drumming of hoofbeats.
He checked his gun, returned it to its holster and walked out onto the boardwalk. Looking the town over, he wondered what he was doing. Then he remembered the sickening sight of Tim Cantrell’s hanging body, the persecuted and scorned Mary Bland and the badly-wounded Billy Cantrell. The other victims he did not know, but he knew their kind—settlers who slaved behind a plow or an ax, who worked from sunup till sundown, wanting only to survive. But they hadn’t survived. Maybe, when Dorgan was out of the way, they’d come back. And maybe next time they’d fight for what was rightfully theirs.
As the riders entered the town, Halliday walked into the glaring sunlight of the street. He loosened the Colt in its holster and dried his gun hand down his shirtfront.
Cord Dorgan was at the head of his men with Jay Casey on his right side, looking mean. Five others hung back and Halliday was glad they did—he had no reason to kill men like Tom Pitt.
Then Dorgan slowed his horse and turned to Casey, who worked his horse in close.
“What do you think, Jay?”
“It could be a trap,” Casey said.
“Halliday don’t carry any weight in this town.”
“Where’s Lyman then? And Al and Beamer?”
Dorgan looked anxiously around him. Halliday moved toward them, making a clear target of himself. Yet he appeared completely at ease. Then townsmen appeared on the boardwalk, grim-faced men holding rifles. One townsman called out;
“We saw you take Ramsey and Lyman to jail, Halliday. What’s it all about?”
“Ramsey and Lyman work for Dorgan. Ramsey’s cheated a lot of people out of their land.”
“They cheated me out of mine,” one man accused.
“Then come here and take it back,” Halliday told him.
The man looked at his companions, then another said; “That paper on Ramsey’s door, Halliday. Will it stand up in a proper court?”
“It’ll stand up if you do,” Halliday said.
“You know what you’re talkin’ about?” another man said.
“You people have rights—if you’re willin’ to fight for them.”
Four men stepped down into the street, Dorgan watching them, Casey still wary and nervous.
“You rode high for a long time, Casey,” Halliday said. “But your time’s up. You’re finished. It’s either ride out and don’t come back ... or pull that hogleg.”
Dorgan shot a quick glance at Casey and saw the man’s uncertainty.
“Take him, Jay. I pay you enough, don’t I?”
Casey straightened in the saddle and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “I still think it’s a trap. Halliday’s heard of how fast I am. He wouldn’t take me ’less he’s got backing.”
“He’s called you, Jay, and the whole town’s waitin’. You got to win this one or you’re through!”
Casey dropped the reins of his horse and slipped from the saddle. He slapped the horse away and Dorgan backed his horse up, too.
“Back me, Cord,” Casey whispered.
“I’ll back you ... but you can take him.”
Dorgan looked nervously about, the quiet unsettling him. The four men who had finally taken their courage in their hands now stood in the street next to Halliday, who said;
“Don’t buy into this yet. But if Dorgan makes a wrong move, I want you to take him out.”
He moved a few steps away from them, conscious of the deadly quiet in the town.
Jay Casey came slowly toward him, and when they were fifty feet apart, Casey stopped and rested his hand on his gun butt, but made no move to draw it.
“I’m givin’ you a chance to back out of this, Halliday,” he called. “Why die for a town that’s got no guts?”
“I figure on making you die, Casey. Which you’ll be doin’ if you draw that gun.”
Anger burned in Jay Casey’s eyes. He had a score to settle with Halliday, and this was his day. One well-aimed bullet and he’d be bigger than ever before.
His hand dropped for his gun and Halliday went into a crouch.
Casey was fast, but Halliday matched his speed. Their hands were blurs of movement and both guns cleared leather and roared. But Halliday had triggered a split-second faster. Casey’s bullet whispered past the crown of Halliday’s hat, but the slug from Halliday’s gun bored into Casey’s chest.
The impact sent Casey staggering, disbelief in his eyes. He looked up dumbfounded at Dorgan, and the rancher watched a patch of red blossom on the front of the gun handler’s shirt. “You ain’t as fast as you thought, Jay!” Dorgan snarled.
Casey now understood something that had not occurred to him before. Dorgan hired winners, and wanted no part of losers. Suddenly, hatred for Cord Dorgan rose inside the dying gunman. He fell onto his side, but he held on to the gun as the rancher continued to swear at him.
Somehow Casey managed to lift the gun, and marveled at the naked fear that came to Dorgan’s eyes. Then Dorgan’s Colt thundered—just as Casey triggered. Casey’s bullet was the only one to find its mark, blazing a hole in Dorgan’s throat.
Halliday watched blood gushing from Dorgan’s jugular. The rancher thrashed around for a few moments and then lay still, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Then Casey collapsed.
Halliday walked to his horse and stepped up into the saddle, and looked at Dorgan’s men down the street.
“What’ll it be?” Halliday put to them.
“It’s over,” Pitt said, and turned his horse around and kicked it into a run, the others quickly following him.
“What now, Halliday?” a man called from the boardwalk.
Halliday said it loud enough for all to hear. “Send Ramsey, Lyman, Beamer and the Doakes brothers on their way. You’ve got yourselves a decent town here. Keep it that way.”
As Halliday rode away, people stepped into the street. He’d done his part, the rest was up to them ...
Buck Halliday awoke just before dawn after a good night’s sleep in the Cantrell barn. It was time to go. He gathered up his gear and was about to dress when a voice stopped him.
“You weren’t thinking of leaving without saying goodbye, were you, Buck?”
Overhead, rain pelted down on the tin roof. Even the weather was looking favorably down on her. With the rain, the grass would grow, the dams would fill, the creeks would flow. Life would carry on, just as Mary had to keep going.
Halliday went to her and helped her to her feet. An enormous feeling of warmth seemed to engulf them. But Halliday knew he couldn’t go on with it, because he still had things to do, places to visit. What they’d enjoyed last night would stay with him for some time to come. Perhaps he would never forget her.
“I was.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Billy needs you ...”
“Yes, he does.”
He kissed her again, remembering how she’d come to him in the night. She’d blown out the lantern and had slipped down beside him, naked, warm and soft.
“He’s going to be all right.”
“He said he wants me to stay and help him run the place.”
“You should.”
She stood there naked and watched him dress. Finally, he shouldered his gear and walked to the stall holding his sorrel. The rain came down harder now, making a din on the roof.
“Where will you go, Buck?”
“Where the wind takes me.”
He packed his gear behind his saddle and swung up. After the long, hot days in Crater Creek, the rain on his face would be cool and refreshing out on the open prairie. He felt he never wanted to swallow a speck of dust again.
He kicked the sorrel into a run and looked back at Mary in the doorway. He was glad he couldn’t see her clearly. It might make him change his mind about leaving.
Then he was riding hard, leaving the memories behind, hitting a new trail to nowhere in particular ...