Marshal Jeremy Six #6 Page 8

  It was now, for the first time, that it occurred to Danziger—even in the dismal, whisky-fuzzed state of his mind just now—that it might be worthwhile to learn how much Marianne Holbrook was really worth. Alive.

  And when he thought of that, he put the gun away in the holster and walked away from the hotel. He still had three days to go. He could use a good part of that time to find out what was really going on here.

  He knew he was stalling, fooling himself, making excuses. It didn’t really matter whether or not he found out what was behind the plot against the girl’s life. It didn’t matter at all, because nothing would change. He’d still have to carry out the murder and he’d still have to grab his seven thousand dollars and run hell-for-leather over the border. He didn’t have any choice. If he didn’t do it, Hanratty would sic Steve Boat on him.

  He thought briefly of killing Hanratty, but that wouldn’t help. Whoever had set this up knew about Steve Boat. Killing Hanratty wouldn’t do any good—it would just insure that Steve Boat would be brought after him.

  But he still had three days. Maybe something would happen. Maybe the sky would fall in.

  He knew what the real trouble was. He’d known as soon as he’d seen the girl through the window and heard her voice talking to Six.

  It was simple. He just didn’t want to kill this girl.

  Seven

  On his first rounds of the day, Six stepped up onto Fat Annie’s porch. This was where the girls usually sat and sunned themselves, waggling their fleshy legs at passersby. With the continuing, never-ending drizzle, they had retreated indoors. A red railroad lantern hung underneath the porch eaves.

  Fat Annie opened the door with a sleepy grunt; her enormous nose thrust toward him inquisitively and when she recognized the marshal, her loose chins shook. “The minions of the law,” she announced loudly—it was her stock opening line with him. Six stepped into the deeply carpeted room and glanced without interest at the soft, plush furniture—all of it empty at this hour. The smell of the place was stale, mingled of the dregs of tobacco smoke and beer and whisky and cheap perfume.

  Six said, “How does it tote up, Annie?”

  “Can’t speak for all of them. I got five of Cruze’s hands upstairs, sleeping it off. Ain’t it funny how like a little kid, a big tough man can look when he falls asleep?”

  “They have a good time last night?”

  “Either that or they did a powerful good job of pretending. I had a little trouble keeping the roof on the place.”

  “Nobody hurt?”

  “You know better, Jeremy. My girls know how to take care of themselves.”

  He tipped his hat back. A runnel of water drained down the back of his slicker. He looked down and said, “Didn’t mean to track up your rug. Sorry.”

  “It’s suffered worse,” Annie commented. Her belly jiggled with laughter over some silently remembered deviltry. She scraped the back of a fat wrist across her mouth and snorted to clear her nose, and said, “You aim to sit heavy on them tonight?”

  “Today’s Thursday. Tomorrow night. Think you can put up with them until then?”

  “Don’t worry none about that,” Fat Annie said. She glanced conspiratorially toward the banister of the upward-winding staircase. “I got a new redhead girl in this week. You seen her yet?”

  He gave her a grin to match her own, tugged his hat down, and went outside, still smiling over Annie’s veiled invitation to partake of the delights of her miniature Gomorrah. She always invited him, and he never accepted, but she would never quit trying.

  He continued his rounds, taking in the various establishments throughout the scrawly streets of Cat Town.

  During the night the rain had quit for five or six hours, enough to turn the streets to caked mud; now it was drizzling again and the streets were awash with loose clots of clay. If and when this dismal rain ever ended, there would be one hell of a chore scraping the streets flat again. They were beginning to look like the washed-out cutbank beds of flooded arroyos. The weather had brought all wheeled traffic to a virtual standstill; not even the lightest buggy could negotiate the boggy ruts. The night mail coach hadn’t reached town last night, and Six was surprised.

  Larry Keene met him outside the Drover’s Rest and held up a hand in signal. Six stopped and the lanky rancher said, “I didn’t want to talk to you inside where Cruze could hear us.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No more’n before. I told you I’d sent a rider out to keep tabs on Travis Canaday and that Warbonnet outfit of his.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My rider came in this morning and reported to me. I sent him home to the ranch and sent a new man out on the trail to take his place.”

  “What’d you find out?”

  “They’re still on the same schedule. It looks like they’ll hit town day after tomorrow—Saturday. Afternoon or maybe after dark, if this rain keeps up. There’re two Terrapin boys out there huddling in the rain, keeping watch on them too. My rider didn’t let them spot him. Canaday’s got a sizable crew, about the same size as Cruze’s. Billy told me he thought at least one of Canaday’s men looked like a hired gunfighter—two fancy six-guns and all that—but it was hard to tell from long distance and he couldn’t swear to it.”

  Six nodded. “I’m much obliged, Larry.”

  “Better keep an eye on the sky,” Keene advised. “If it quits raining today, Canaday may be able to get in earlier than we figure. That herd’s plowing through the mud at a crawl right now. And you can pretty much figure out what kind of a mood Canaday’s cowboys’ll be in by the time they hit town. All het up by all this rain and mad as hell from a week of muscling steers out of bogged mud.”

  “I know,” Six said, and watched him move away up the street. One of the greatest gratifications of the marshal’s job in this town was the way the town and the ranchers from the outlying areas banded together in time of trouble. Spanish Flat wasn’t the kind of town to shrink behind the marshal’s skirts. This wasn’t the first time Larry Keene and others had pitched in to help.

  He stepped inside the Drover’s Rest and paused at the bar for a cup of coffee. Wade Cruze was at the same table—he’d been there just about all the time since he’d arrived in town. This morning he had an added bit of company. His foreman, Sid Arklin, wasn’t there, but somebody else was: the cattle buyer McQuarter, who was Marianne Holbrook’s guardian. Six had talked with the girl last night. She was a likable girl; he glanced at McQuarter over the rim of his coffee cup, and thought again that she might have had better luck when it came to a guardian. He didn’t like McQuarter. Maybe it was just simple prejudice—McQuarter had never done anything that you could pin down. But you could never get the man to meet your glance.

  Six took his coffee over to that table and made a brief, reserved smile of exact courtesy. “’Morning, gents.”

  Cruze nodded brusquely. McQuarter glanced quickly at Six, and quickly away. Cruze grinned up at the marshal and said, “We were just haggling over the price of that herd of mine. Always trust a government cattle buyer to try to shave every nickel off the ante.”

  “I’ve got my orders, damn it,” McQuarter muttered. “I’m not bargaining with my own money, you know. It’s the Army that’s paying for that beef.”

  Six said, “Seems a little premature, doesn’t it?”

  Cruze said, “What’s that mean?”

  “First you’ve got to establish your claim to that herd.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Marshal. It’s my herd and Canaday’s not going to get far arguing about it. Don’t forget I got this here gambler’s confession in my pocket.”

  McQuarter said dryly, “Suppose Canaday can’t read?”

  “In that case,” Cruze said, “he’s likely to find out that the gun is mightier than the word, McQuarter. Don’t you fret none. You neither, Marshal.”

  Six didn’t reply. He went back to the bar, left his coffee cup, and went out, unconsciously hunching his shoulders agains
t the rain that he knew was going to be there. It was as certain as death and taxes—and Cruze’s brewing fight with Canaday, unless he could pull Cruze’s sting.

  Candy Briscoe was feeling very low. He had not slept all night. He had sat in a dark, candle-lit corner of the Tres Candelas cantina with a bottle of raw whisky—“Six months old, mister, that’s aged whiskey”—going over and over in his mind what had happened to his partner. It didn’t make any sense at all. Sure, a man might get shot up on a job, working as a hired gun for some big mogul or other, but that was part of the game. A man didn’t just walk down a street and get killed by some baby-faced town gunsmith. It just didn’t happen.

  But it did. It happened to Fred Hook. And Fred had been Candy’s partner. At times, Fred hadn’t been too all-fired good to him; he insulted him and ragged him about this sweet tooth and all. But Fred was a good man. Fred had pulled Candy’s iron out of the fire a time or two when the fire got too hot for him to handle all by himself. Hell, there was that time just last July over in the White Mountain country when Fred had unloaded two barrels of double-ought buckshot into that bounty hunter who’d got the drop on Candy and had him dead to rights. A man could hardly forget that kind of friendship.

  It wasn’t to say that Candy always thought he understood Fred Hook. There were times he didn’t understand the man at all. Like the way Fred liked to beat up on women. Always women, with Fred. He couldn’t get them out of his mind for an instant. Candy couldn’t figure that out. Women are trouble, he always used to tell Fred. You got to look out for them, women, you never know where they’re at. Can’t trust no woman ever born, Fred—you leave one behind like a good hat, and if you come back looking for her she’s likely to be gone. And hell, the way Fred used to beat the living daylights out of every woman he ever had, it was no wonder they never stuck with him for long. Pretty soon they’d be bound to run out of places to bruise. Candy remembered that cat house in Denver where Fred had come roaring down the stairs yanking his pants up, with a big floppy girl after him full tilt, not a stitch of clothes on. She had big red welts all over. Fred had been laughing like mad. The girl had reached for a poker from the fireplace and threw it right at Fred’s head. Fred ducked and yelled at Candy and ran out of the place, still laughing his head off.

  Fred wasn’t laughing any more. Candy reached out, almost upsetting the whisky bottle when he made a grab for it. He cursed and upended the bottle to his mouth. The damn thing was empty. He hurled it away with a huge heave of his brawny arm. The bottle crashed against the edge of the bar and shattered all over the floor.

  “Hey,” the bartender said. “Cut that out, damn it.” He reached down behind the bar and lifted a bung-starter threateningly—the sawed-off heavy end of a pool cue.

  Candy snarled at him. Fred was dead and Candy wasn’t in any mood to take any lip from the barkeep.

  The bartender came around the end of the bar and lifted the bung-starter. “Mister, I think you better get on out of here.”

  A growl formed low in Candy’s throat and worked its way out his mouth. It grew into a roar and suddenly with all the night’s rage in him, he launched himself out of his chair, straight at the barkeep’s belly. He butted the barkeep with his head before the barkeep could bring the pool cue down. The barkeep let out a painful whoosh of air and stumbled back into the edge of the bar; it caught him across the kidney and he rolled aside, trying to keep his grip on the bung-starter.

  Candy felt the haze of alcoholic fumes slowing him down, but he was too mad to worry about that. He batted the bung-starter contemptuously aside and grabbed the barkeep by the scruff of the neck. He yelled something—he didn’t know what he was yelling at the time, and never remembered afterward. He jerked the bung-starter out of the barkeep’s fist and started beating him about the head with it.

  The cantina was empty and there was nobody else around to stop the fight ... if that was the right word for it. The barkeep crossed his arms desperately over his head and tried to retreat down the length of the bar. Candy’s anger swelled up to a thundering crescendo. All he could think about was Fred Hook. Fred was dead. “God damn you, you’ll pay for it!” That was what he was shouting, only he didn’t hear himself. He brought the bung-starter smashing down cruelly; he heard the sharp pop of the bones of the barkeep’s arm. That arm fell away and Candy smashed the other arm and then he kept smashing at the barkeep’s head until it turned to pulp. The barkeep fell all over the floor and lay there with no top on his head, but not dead. He was groaning terribly. A great roar welled in Candy’s chest but died there aborning. He cursed wildly and flung the bung-starter away from him and lurched out of the cantina.

  Candy was sick, violently, in an alley a block away from the cantina. Afterward, with the sick taste of thrown-up whisky in his mouth, he staggered out to the street and tried to haul himself together. They’d find the barkeep. Maybe dead by now, maybe still alive. If he wasn’t dead, he’d tell them who’d done it.

  Better get out of here. Out of town. Get a horse and clear out. Candy peered through bleary eyes up and down the winding Cat Town street, but there wasn’t a horse in sight at any of the hitch rails. Not in this rain; all the horses would be stabled. He’d have to find a livery stable.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. Where in hell was that livery stable? Might as well get his own horse. At least that way they wouldn’t be able to hang him as a horse thief. Not that that mattered much now. He giggled slightly and almost lost his balance on a wet plank in the boardwalk. Looking down at his feet, he saw a rain puddle beside the curb. When he leaned over it his shoulders blocked the rain and the surface of the puddle smoothed out. He had a glimpse of his reflection in the pool. He looked awful. He got down on his knees on the edge of the boardwalk and reached down with both hands to scoop up water and splash it in his face. He scrubbed his face with the muddy water and lurched back from the curb, and got to his feet with the aid of the building wall there.

  The cold rainwater revived him slightly. He looked both ways along the street. There was no uproar from the direction of the cantina—yet. No telling how much time he might have, but it wasn’t likely to be too long. He tried to compose himself and look casual when he walked around the corner into something that looked a little more like a major street. He remembered the street—a row of dance halls and cat houses. He remembered it because there was a candy store up at the end of the street where it intersected with the main street of the town.

  The stable was up there, maybe a block beyond the candy store. Now that he had his bearings, he set off up the street, trying to look as if he wasn’t hurrying.

  At the first corner there was an overhanging cupola-roof over the boardwalk, and under this porch-like shelter a knot of men were gathered, deep in conversation. Candy began to inch his way around them but then his ears picked up something one of the men said:

  “No, that ain’t the way it was neither. I heard it from Will Cox and he was there, he ought to know. He saw it happen. That Hook feller had his gun clear first and had his trigger pulled first. His gun misfired. Maybe a dud cartridge, maybe something wrong with the gun. But it didn’t go off, and that’s the only reason Lanphier killed him.”

  “That ain’t so,” somebody else said. “I heard it altogether different. Lanphier beat him to the draw so fast Hook never had a chance to get his gun clear of leather. I’m telling you, boys, we’ve got a top gun right here in town and never even knew it before. Why, I’ll bet Lanphier could outdraw Jeremy Six himself.”

  But Candy wasn’t listening to the last part of it. He’d heard enough to send him hurrying on up the street. Cold hate, the imitation-calm of vengeance, filled his big chest and made it hard to breathe He should’ve known it had to be like that. No damn-fool gunsmith was likely to beat Fred Hook to the draw, not in any fair fight. No. It must’ve been a cheat. But just to make sure, he’d find out. He’d find out right now.

  He turned into the main street, walking as fast as his thick legs would
carry him. There still hadn’t been any outcry from the direction of the cantina. Nobody had found the barkeep yet. He still had a little time. He reached the Marshal’s Office and banged on the door.

  The marshal wasn’t inside. Nobody was there. But the door was unlocked, and Candy wheeled inside. His bloodshot eyes swept the office quickly. Over on the far wall was a gun rack, all the guns locked up with chains and padlocks. Those would be the marshal’s own guns. That wasn’t what he was looking for; he had a gun of his own. He tramped across to the scarred-up desk and pawed through the litter of papers on top, but there wasn’t anything there but a big stone ash tray that bruised his hand when he batted papers away. He cursed and began wrenching drawers open.

  He found Fred Hook’s gun and gunbelt in the bottom right-hand drawer. It was Fred’s, all right. He recognized the gunbelt and the worn-down grips of the six-gun.

  He glanced at the door, still ajar. Nobody was in sight. He picked up Fred’s gun and snapped open the loading-gate, half-cocked the hammer to let the cylinder spin free, and emptied all six chambers into the palm of his hand. All six were loaded—Fred always kept his gun fully loaded and left the firing pin down between two cartridges. It gave a man just that much more of a chance, if he got in a shooting spree, than a man had if he only kept five chambers loaded.

  All six cartridges looked brand-new. None of the primers were dented, as one should be if the firing pin had been snapped on it. But that didn’t prove anything. Maybe Six reloaded it.

  Candy frowned, reloaded all six cartridges into the gun, and cocked it several times. It cocked solid and neat, the cylinder lining up just the way it was supposed to. Everything seemed to be working perfectly. The sharp point of the firing pin was bright and silvery, the way a firing pin gets when it’s been fired often enough to knock all the surface bluing off the steel.