They were all drunk. And that included Charlie Doo-little. He thought he had never been so drunk in all his life. If the bar hadn’t been there to lean on, they would have all fallen flat on their faces. They were discussing the hanging and Wayne Gaylor was telling them in minute detail just how he was going to carry it out. It would be an impressive ceremony. The gallows had been erected at some public expense at the rear of the livery stable. That was a good spot. There were some trees there and they would provide shade for the onlookers. A sheriff always had to think of his public. Roily Damon thought that was a very good point and it showed the sheriff had a good mind. They started to discuss how they thought Spur would die. Charlie Doolittle, thinking that he was playing his part with great subtlety and cunning reckoned that Spur would die like the yellow coward he was, screaming for mercy. Hank Shultz who had joined them at a late hour and who had been forced to drink hard and fast to catch up with them, didn’t agree. He knew Spur’s kind. He’d smile and make a good speech. That kind always did. They didn’t give a damn whether they lived or died. He’d watched Spur closely during the trial. The man had been resigned to death from the beginning. They all entered into the argument with drunken enthusiasm.
At that very moment, Mangan Carson, with his daughter, was sitting morosely in a vacant lot not far from the saloon with his watch in his hand. He knew that his future in this town depended on how he would play his part this night. He meant to act as he had never acted before.
When the hands of his watch had told him that a sufficiency of time had passed, time that would allow the escaped prisoner to get clear and time enough to prove that his story was true, he rose to his feet.
‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘you will remain here until you hear the hubbub. There will be a whale of a hubbub, count on that. You will watch for an opportunity to slip into the store and go up to your room. You will lock your door and stay there till I call you. Is that understood?’
She nodded. She knew that tone and she knew that she would have to obey.
Her father braced his shoulders and to her utter amazement broke into a rolling run, heading for the street.
Carson, a man made soft of flesh by easy living and short of wind by fat, pounded across the vacant lot like a miniature elephant, reached the street and turned to the left, the sweat starting from him and his breathing sounded like the dying notes of an organ. Which was exactly as he had planned. He had to find the sheriff and give the impression of a man desperate and frightened. This wasn’t too hard, for he was indeed a man both desperate and frightened.
He burst into the smaller saloon and cried out to the three last drinkers there: ‘Where’s the sheriff?’
They gazed at him drunkenly for a long moment. The barman said: ‘I didn’t see him.’
Carson turned and blundered onto the street, yelling.
‘Sheriff, sheriff, Sheriff Gaylor.’
He ran this way and that across the street like a man confused in his desperation. There could not have been a man, woman or child in the place who didn’t hear him.
A fellow outside the larger saloon, called: ‘He’s inside, Mr. Carson.’
The storekeeper headed for the saloon, stumbled on the step and lurched inside just as the sheriff was weaving his way drunkenly through the doorway. They staggered back as they collided, the sheriff shaken by the collision with Carson’s hurtling bulk. He stumbled back into a deputy behind him. The man cursed.
‘Sheriff Gaylor,’ Carson cried breathlessly. ‘Oh, my word, how glad I am to find you.’
Gaylor stood blinking at him. Somehow, his sodden brain connected the storekeeper to the prisoner. The men behind him pushed forward out of the building.
‘What happened?’ Roily Damon demanded.
‘What happened?’ Carson repeated, pressing his hands to the side of his fat face. ‘You may well ask. Oh, my goodness. Why did I ever come to this barbarous country?’
Gaylor said: ‘What happened, man?’
‘I was abducted,’ Carson yelped. ‘That’s what happened.’ Some of his fright was now turning to anger. For a moment he despised the sheriff more than he hated him. ‘I was taken away by force of arms.’
One of the men said: ‘What’s the fat fool babblin’ about?’
Gaylor fought his way through the drink fumes to some sense.
‘Spur,’ he said.
‘They took me,’ Carson told him, ‘me and my daughter. My God, we might have been murdered. While you were here drinking ...’
The sheriff caught him by the front of his clothes and hauled him up on his toes.
‘Tell it,’ he said into the fat little man’s face.
Carson ceased to despise the sheriff and was now plain scared of him.
‘They broke Spur out and they took us with them,’ Carson said, shaking like a jelly.
The sheriff dropped him and he almost fell to the ground. The lawmen looked at each other. The sheriff looked as if he had been struck by the ultimate disaster.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘An’ bring that fat fool with you.’ He turned and hurried toward the store, his men pushing and pulling the unfortunate Carson in his wake.
Windows and doors were open, people appeared, questions were showered down on them as they hurried. The sheriff ignored them.
Charlie Doolittle walked somewhat unsteadily out of the saloon, stood for a moment to light a stogie. Vince Marvin, the owner of the saloon, joined him. Vince was sober – he was teetotal. He chuckled.
‘So Spur got away,’ he said. ‘I had a good bet on it.’
Doolittle nodded. He didn’t know whether he felt triumphant or a little scared. This was the first time he had helped to circumvent the law in a big way.
They looked up and turned as they heard the sound of a horse entering the town from the west. The horseman came down the street and, as he saw the two men standing with the light of the saloon behind them, he turned toward them. They saw that the horse was lathered, sweat and dust caked, and tired. He reined in and said: ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Maybe you’ll tell me if I’m in the town of Sunset.’ They told him that that was so and he dismounted slowly and stiffly. He approached them and informed them that he was John Cornwall, United States Marshal. As the lamplight hit him, they saw that he was tall, mustached and gray-haired. The sight of him impressed them. They introduced themselves and asked what they could do for him.
He said: ‘Tell me where I can find a room and where I can put my horse.’
Doolittle told him: ‘That’s easy, sir. Vince here can offer you a bed and I’ll take your horse over to the livery yonder.’
He thanked them and Doolittle ventured to ask him what his business in this part of the country might be. Just for the sake of appearances in front of the saloon-keeper.
‘I received information,’ Cornwall said, ‘that one of my deputies was arrested for murder.’
Marvin laughed.
‘Too late, Marshal,’ he said. ‘He just busted himself out.’
The information didn’t seem to shake the federal officer. He wagged his head with a little regret and said: ‘I thought he might. The damn fool.’
‘Damn fool?’ Doolittle allowed himself to say. ‘He was due to hang at noon today.’ He told the marshal that the sheriff and his men had just that moment gone to the scene of the breakout. The marshal sighed. His body ached for a bed after his long hard ride and now he could see there might be a night’s work ahead of him.
He said to Marvin: ‘Would you show me the place?’
‘Glad to,’ said Marvin. ‘Come right this way.’
In the meantime, Gaylor had reached the store and found Kruger trussed up behind the counter. The sheriff paid little regard to his suffering, but hurried, now considerably more sober than he had been when he heard the disastrous news, into the rear room, lamp in hand. He stood staring at the loaded shelves for a moment as if he could not believe that Spur was no longer there. At the far end of the room he saw the doorway gaping open. He went on through, heard sounds and found Tabor bound hand and foot groaning from a blow on his head that had raised a lump as big as an egg. Hank Shultz cut him free and the deputy started telling his story of how he had been attacked from behind.
‘While you was asleep,’ the furious Gaylor accused him.
‘Wayne, I swear—’
‘Save it,’ Gaylor told him. He turned back into the store and confronted the terrified Carson. By now the place was filling with the curious. Gaylor bawled: ‘Git these people outa here. Now, Carson, where’d they take you?’
‘Down to the creek.’
They leave you there?’
‘No, they took us some miles south.’
‘An’ you came back on foot with your daughter.’
‘That’s so.’
‘Christ, they could have broke out a couple of hours back.’
The storekeeper said: ‘I would put it even earlier than that.’
‘How many were there with Spur?’
‘Two.’
‘Describe ’em.’
‘One was a young boy and the other was a Negro.’
Shad Morrow said: ‘Cusie Ben an’ the Cimarron Kid. We shoulda known it.’
The lawmen looked at each other. They didn’t like the sound of this at all.
Tabor was bolder than the rest. His head still hurt from the blow the Kid had dealt him. He was in the mood to kill somebody. The others, the professionals, soberly thought of what lay ahead of them if they went after Spur and the other two. They weighed their skills and their chances. They viewed their professional pride, for pride played a large part in the vicious games they played.
Tabor said: ‘What’re we standin’ around here for?’
Gaylor his head thick and starting to ache, glared at him impatiently, some of the rage that was in him showing on his face. A little of the scare he felt peeked from his eyes.
‘We’re thinkin’,’ he said.
‘Thinkin’?’ said Tabor in disgust. We oughta be in the saddle ridin’.’
Golite said witheringly: ‘You goin’ to follow signs in the dark?’
‘They headed south. The old man said they headed south.’
‘You think they’ll stay with that trail? This Spur is a smart operator. He lost more posses than you et hot dinners.’
Footsteps sounded. A man entered.
Tabor snarled: ‘Nobody allowed in here, mister.’
The stranger eyed him gravely.
‘I think I’m allowed in here, deputy,’ he said. ‘I’m Cornwall, United States Marshal.’
That shook them.
The first to recover himself was Wayne Gaylor. The sight of the marshal and the danger his presence could put him in seemed to brace him up. He stepped forward with a serious and responsible look on his face, hand outstretched.
‘Real happy to make your acquaintance, sir,’ he said. The two men shook.
‘I take it you’re Wayne Gaylor, the sheriff here,’ Cornwall said.
‘Yes, sir, that’s me,’ said Gaylor, blinking hard in an effort to clear his uncertain sight. He fought nobly to play the part of the earnest honest sheriff. ‘An’ believe me you couldn’t of come at a better time. We have real trouble on our hands.’
‘I heard about it,’ Cornwall said. ‘You were ready to hang a federal officer today and he escaped.’
Gaylor didn’t miss the tone. He came back quickly.
‘Foulest murder you ever heard of,’ he said. ‘Shot an old man down in cold blood. Tried fair an’ square.’
‘Who was the judge?’
‘Hugh Maiden.’
The marshal grunted.
‘Didn’t it occur to you that it is an unusual occurrence for a deputy United States Marshal to be found guilty of murder in a small county court without the marshal’s office being informed?’
‘You sure was goin’ to be informed, Mr. Cornwall. I was all set to write a letter to you today.’
‘You might also have informed me some time ago that you held one of my officers for murder.’
Gaylor looked nonplussed for a moment.
Shad Morrow stepped in.
‘The man was guilty, marshal,’ he said. ‘You ain’t tellin’ us the marshal’s office would use its influence to save a guilty man.’
Cornwall turned his head and stared at the outlaw in the lamplight.
‘What’re you doing here, Morrow?’ he asked dryly.
Gaylor said: ‘Special deputy to guard Spur.’
‘He didn’t guard him very well, did he? Why Morrow? I see also Damon, Kruger and Shultz. A peculiar choice of deputies, sheriff, if you will permit the liberty.’
Gaylor said, face flushed, ‘I fight fire with fire.’
‘In that case, you shouldn’t be surprised if you get your fingers burned.’
‘Spur’s a dangerous man. A killer. A gunman from way back. You think we have the kind of men in this county to hold a feller like that?’
Cornwall said: ‘May I ask what you aim to do now?’
‘Come daylight I get me the best tracker in the country an’ I go after him.’
The marshal nodded.
‘That sounds like a sensible thing to do. Just one thing – see that Spur is brought back here alive. If he is killed or harshly treated, I shall hold you responsible.’
Gaylor stuck his chin out.
‘Spur’s a killer,’ he said. ‘I don’t aim to beg him to come back to the rope. You think it’s goin’ to be a picnic goin’ after him? We take our lives in our hands when we trail him. An’ don’t forget he has the Kid and that damn nigger with him.’
The marshal raised his eyebrows and might have smiled wanly.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘you should call in the army, sheriff. That might give you a better chance.’ He turned and walked out of the store.
The four outlaws gave a sigh of relief. They had found themselves on the brink of killing a Federal Marshal and that wasn’t an easy crime to live down. In fact, it was impossible.
Morrow voiced their combined opinions.
‘I ain’t too sure I like the set-up now,’ he said.
Gaylor smiled. He seemed to have gained his nerve entirely.
‘There’s more ways of killin’ a bear than catchin’ its foot in a trap,’ he said. ‘Leave that one to me, boys. I have a notion the marshal’ll be ridin’ with us when we hit the trail. He don’t want nothin’ to happen to his precious Spur an’ the only way he can make sure is be with us all the way.’
Shultz said: ‘I still don’t think I like it.’
Morrow said: ‘Nobody asked you, Shultzy.’
Gaylor turned to Carson and said: ‘I ain’t too happy with your story, Carson. Maybe you better think up a better one by the time I’m back in town.’
He led the way out and left a trembling storekeeper behind him.
At the window of her room upstairs, Lydia Carson watched their shadowy forms retreating down the street. In her prayers that night, Samuel P. Spur figured prominently,