Double Eagle, page 14
Kim Sun was screaming, “You cause much damage to laundry, cowboy!”
“Fact is, all them flappin’ bedsheets an’ such is what spooked my hoss,” Phipps snarled. “So I figure you owe me.” With a wild yell, Phipps bounded into the saddle, unleashed his catch rope, and started to build a loop.
Kim Sun looked surprised and frightened. He tried to dart through the ruined rear wall and reach a weapon. But Phipps, despite his drunkenness, made a perfect throw, catching the hapless laundryman by the calf of the leg.
“Aim to take what you owe me outa your yaller hide!” Phipps howled and rammed in the spurs and began to drag Kim Sun along the alley. All the while Kim Sun tried to reach a sitting position long enough to free his leg. But Phipps urged his roan to a lope. Kim Sun screamed protests, then suddenly was silent.
Phipps spurred for half a block, Kim Sun now only a dead weight behind the loping horse. That was when Tully Dorgan appeared.
“Hold it!” the marshal ordered.
Phipps reined in, grinning. “You mad ’bout somethin’, marshal?” he asked, dropping the rope.
“You’re under arrest. Get off that hoss!”
“Not tonight, marshal.” Phipps punctuated it by putting a bullet through the crown of Dorgan’s cream-colored Stetson. Dorgan flung himself to the ground to escape further damage. But Phipps had already ridden off, sounds of his horse mingling with the fading echoes of the gunshot.
Dorgan picked himself up. He removed his good hat and stared at the bullet hole. He swore and clapped the hat back on his head, then glared icily at the growing crowd as if daring someone to make a wrong move. When all they did was stare, Dorgan finally put his attention on Kim Sun, who lay on his back. Kim Sun was unconscious.
Dorgan snapped an order at his young deputy, Algy Baine, who was coming at a run.
“Get Kim Sun over to Doc Taggart’s! I’m goin’ after that drunk cowhand.”
Phipps finally outmaneuvered the angry marshal and circled back to the rear door of the Palace. He was slightly sober as he slipped into the saloon.
Rufus Cain had been losing steadily and was already in a bad mood. Seeing one of his men, pale and frightened, looking over his shoulder at every step through the crowded saloon didn’t help.
“Well, Sandy, just what the hell’s chasin’ you, anyhow?” Cain demanded.
“The law, Mr. Cain.”
“What’d you do, step on Dorgan’s foot?” Cain laughed. Phipps related what had happened. “Reckon I shouldn’t have drilled his Sunday hat, but …”
“Set down, son. Leave it to me.” Cain hooked a chair around with his boot toe and gestured for Phipps to sit down. Then he pushed a handful of chips to his rider, and Sateen dealt Phipps some cards.
That was when Dorgan barged in, winded, red in the face. He spotted Phipps immediately at one of the crowded tables. Every pair of eyes in the place followed his progress. Aspen’s song ended on a shrill note as a man yelled, “Trouble comin’. I’m clearin’ out!”
Cain rolled the moist end of a dead cigar across his yellowed teeth and said, “Evenin’, marshal. You look mad enough to chew up the floor. Your bet, Sandy.” He gestured at Phipps.
“F … f … five,” Phipps stammered.
“I’m here to arrest that cowhand.” Dorgan wagged a long finger at Phipps.
“Nobody gets arrested in here. That what you say, Mr. Sateen?” Cain said.
“Gentlemen, ah am neutral. Strictly.”
Cain spoke to Dorgan, who loomed above the table. “Phipps rides for me. I take care of my boys. Mebbe they ain’t told you that, you bein’ a newcomer to these parts. Now I’m good for any damages. Tell me what Sandy here owes an’ I’ll pay.”
“Afraid it ain’t that simple, Cain.”
“Anything’s simple if it’s got the right price tag,” Cain stated in a flat voice.
“Your cowhand roped an’ drug Kim Sun. Hurt him bad.”
“So some folks’ll be late gettin’ their laundry.”
“He might even die.” Dorgan clamped a hand to his gun. His cream-colored pride, his new hat, freshly perforated, was pushed back on his bristly hair. “Phipps, you’re under arrest. Get on your feet.”
Jobe Sanders laid down his cards and slid back his chair. He waited to see how far his employer wanted to push this business with the new marshal.
A frightened and sober Sandy Phipps started to stand up as Dorgan had ordered, but Cain pulled him back in his chair. “Reckon you didn’t hear me, Dorgan,” Cain said, and not a man in the big barnlike Palace moved or even seemed to draw breath. “There just ain’t no way you’re gonna arrest one of my riders.”
Dorgan lost color but stood his ground. Sateen, watching with cool detachment, had to give him credit for nerve.
“This is a matter of law, Cain,” Dorgan plunged on. “I’m arrestin’ that cowhand. An’ I’m askin’ you to keep out of it.”
“Sounds more like you’re tellin’, not askin’,” Cain responded. “An’ no, I don’t figure to keep out of it.”
“I’m warnin’ you, Cain …”
Buck Cain spoke up for the first time. “Pa, there’s no need to . .
Cain gave his son such a withering look of scorn that Buck seemed to wilt in his chair.
Cain’s thick neck was beginning to swell and redden. A pulse throbbed at his temple. “Dorgan, get out. .. while you can!”
Dorgan refused to back off. He tried to get Phipps by his shirt collar, but Cain knocked his hand aside.
Then Cain said softly but with a steel sharpness, “All right, Jobe.”
That brought the stone-faced man with the pockmarked cheeks slowly to his feet. Seated, he had seemed about the same height as the others at the deal table. But on his feet the unusually long legs lifted him to within six inches of one of the Palace brass chandeliers. He wore a dark coat and an unblocked hat, held in place by a chin strap.
“You heard the boss,” Sanders rumbled. His coat hung open so that Dorgan had a good view of a holstered .45 with walnut grips.
Sateen’s drawl stirred the silence. “Gentlemen, ah would as soon you take your troubles out into the street …”
The principals in the drama, sweating marshal and cold faced gunman, did not look at him.
“Damnit, Sanders,” Dorgan said, “this ain’t your business. It’s between me an’ that M-Cross rider.”
“I’m paid to mind M-Cross business.” Sanders jerked a thumb at the front doors. “Now get the hell out of this saloon!”
Other customers in the Palace either froze or edged for exits. Most of them were fascinated by the tableau. The town marshal was so rigid that his chest under a calfskin vest seemed barely to stir with his breathing as he faced the gun hand Cain had hired on late last year when homesteaders were starting to give him trouble.
The tableau held for the space of half a dozen heartbeats, then broke apart. Whether it was reflex action on Dorgan’s part or a deliberate attempt to outgun Sanders, witnesses could never agree. But Dorgan’s fingers slammed down to the yellowed ivory grips of his gun. He had it halfway cleared of leather when Jobe Sanders’s weapon was lined and spitting. Shots rattled windows, spilled powder smoke toward the overhead lamps. Dorgan had the look of a barefoot man who has accidentally stepped in fresh manure; a startled, pained look because of all the mess. But in this instance the mess was not his toes but his own upper body beginning to pump out red blood. One bullet had struck an artery. Dorgan plunged to the floor.
Cain’s rumbling voice filled the room. “The marshal drawed first. Everybody seen it!” His eyes darted about, defying anyone to dispute his claim.
At that moment Dorgan’s deputy, Baine, came crashing into the silence. He halted, panting. His face suddenly whitened when he saw the sawdust at the edges of Dorgan’s sprawled body turning the color of spilled wine.
Baine slowly lifted his head to stare at Jobe Sanders a few feet away with drawn gun. A tendril of smoke drifted from the muzzle.
“You … you shot the marshal,” Baine gasped, which was certainly apparent.
“Self-defense,” Sanders said. His thumb pulled back the hammer. “You’re next unless you shuck that gunbelt. Now!”
“But … but … you’ve no right …” Baine looked imploringly at the bank of faces at the bar, the barkeep with heavy forearms folded across his chest to signify that he was staying out of it. Then Baine looked at Rufus Cain, who eyed him as if he were something that mistakenly had slipped into sunlight from a damp place in the earth.
In the silence Cain tilted his head almost imperceptibly in Sanders’s direction. Sanders spoke to Baine. “Drop that gunbelt. I won’t tell you again.”
Baine hung his head. His gun rig struck the floor only a few feet from Dorgan’s body.
Sanders smiled coldly. “Now if you find yourself a good hoss an’ leave Rimfire real fast …” Sanders paused for dramatic effect, the wide face with high cheekbones reflecting faint amusement. “… you just might live to see another sunrise.”
The deputy marshal fled the Palace. And that was the last that Rimfire ever saw of him.
Sandy Phipps seemed shaken, his earlier drunken bravado having drained away in the face of tragedy. Four men were carrying Dorgan’s body out the alley door.
Cain emptied his glass of whiskey and clambered to his feet. “We don’t need a marshal in Rimfire. We handle our own law.” He looked around again. No one spoke. “I tried to talk sense to Dorgan. He wouldn’t listen. Seems that wearin’ a badge sometimes ruins a man’s judgment. Boys, let’s ride home.”
He strode for the door, his son and Sanders trailing along behind him. At the door, Cain turned and grinned through his grayed whiskers back at Sateen, who still lounged in his chair. “See you next Saturday, Duke.”
Sateen nodded. “Ah’ll be here, Cain.”
“You were lucky with the cards. You cost me two hundred an’ forty-six dollars. Seems like I wasn’t so lucky.”
“One thing for sure, neither was Dorgan.”
Cain guffawed and pushed his way through the doors. Only then did Sateen get to his feet and use the toe of a polished boot to kick fresh sawdust over the red wine smear where Dorgan had crashed.
He signaled his brawny barkeep. “Drinks on the house, Bert!” Which was greeted with muted whoops of appreciation from some, somber acceptance by others. Sateen knew that the more responsible citizens, like himself, were concerned with what had happened. Although he never involved himself in town politics, anyone with half a brain could tell that Rimfire was in for some bad times. There would be no holding back Rufus Cain and Jobe Sanders now.
Aspen came woodenly across the floor. “How terrible,” she gasped. She seemed almost in a state of shock.
Sateen got her a brandy. It helped a little. She finally finished the song that had been interrupted by the trouble. She was appalled by what she had witnessed this night. Another senseless killing. Had she traded New Sodom for something even worse? Only time would answer her question.
Chapter Seventeen
COLE ARRIVED BACK at Fort Savage on a warm spring day. As he rode through the main gate some of the troopers doing close-order drill looked surprised to see him. Many of them grinned and nodded their heads in greeting.
Cole was barely in his quarters when Sergeant Muldoon, pistol bobbing at his hip, entered. “Major Fairweather requests your presence, Mr. Cantrell,” he said in his booming brogue. Cole shook hands with him. “Lead the way, sergeant.”
On the parade ground, Muldoon relaxed his stiff military manner for a moment to lean close and whisper, “Welcome back.”
“This major any improvement over Landeau?” Cole asked. Muldoon didn’t break stride and kept his eyes on the flag crackling smartly above headquarters. Cole knew he’d rather not answer.
Major Enos Fairweather looked Cole over from behind a flat-topped desk, hands folded over a soft belly under a blue tunic. “Colonel Timberlake speaks highly of you, Cantrell.”
“Thank you, sir. A fine man, the colonel. I served under him for a time in the war.”
“I suppose you haven’t heard the latest news. Colonel Timberlake will not be returning to the West. He’s been assigned as military attaché to our embassy in London.” Cole tried not to let the news depress him. He continued to stand stiffly as Major Fairweather removed a cigar from a box on the desk without offering one to Cole. He took his time firing it up. An aroma of good Havana was wafted Cole’s way.
“So it means,” Fairweather said, “that we won’t be having Colonel Timberlake to supervise us.” The smile was frosty as he added, “I understand you and Major Landeau failed to see eye to eye on certain matters.”
‘ Only a disagreement on a matter of policy.” Cole made himself relax before the pompous major. From a distance could be heard the bark of a sergeant giving orders.
‘Tm sure you’ll understand from the outset that I determine policy for this post and the territory of my command,” Fairweather said, drawing on his cigar.
“I understand that, but …”
“But what, Cantrell?”
“Who has taken Colonel Timberlake’s place here in the West?”
“No one. Yet. I suspect I’ll oversee the part of the high country served by Fort Savage. Major Caldwell at Cheyenne will take care of his own territory.”
“I see.”
“A little disappointed the colonel is no longer available to hold your hand?”
“I never expected that from anyone.”
“I know, I know.” Fairweather waved his cigar, trailing smoke. “I shouldn’t have said that. But I’m rather done in with the mountains of paperwork shoved off on me since Colonel Timberlake has been back with the War Department. Frankly, I envy him his tour of duty in England. Out here …” Fairweather shrugged plump shoulders. He was about forty, with thick brown hair and a cowlick tamed by generous applications of pomade. “Do draw up a chair, Cantrell. What am I thinking of, not asking you to sit down. Would you care for a cigar?”
Cole shook his head and sat down. He wasn’t fooled now by the attempt to be friendly.
“If you considered me faintly hostile,” Fairweather murmured, leaning back in his chair, “it’s only because I wasn’t consulted about selection of a head scout for this post.” Fairweather’s round chin fluttered as he offered a weak smile. He had a short nose and a petulant mouth. “But I’m sure we’ll get along.”
“Do you have any orders for me?” Cole asked, wanting to terminate the meeting as quickly as possible.
“Any orders will be relayed to you by Sergeant Muldoon.”
“Very good,” Cole said crisply and started to get up. Fairweather waved him back.
“You were a captain during the war, I understand, so you surely are familiar with chain of command.”
“Definitely, major.”
“I understand you served under Sheridan.”
“Yes. A fine general.”
“Phil and I … oh, never mind. It doesn’t pay to discuss a general. But I do like Phil Sheridan. Really I do.”
Back in his quarters, Cole had an urge to terminate the assignment before it had started. But would that be fair to the army, to the Indians he hoped to protect? Or even fair to himself? He tried to make excuses for Fairweather. Perhaps he was one of those uprooted and sent to the West with no preparation for frontier duty and therefore was unsure of himself. Insecurity brought out the martinet in some men.
His first assignment was to settle a dispute between the cavalry and some Cheyennes in pursuit of horse thieves. The Cheyennes had been ordered to halt. They kept riding. Gunfire was exchanged. Fortunately, no one was hit, but the incident threatened to deepen the animosity between white man and red. Meanwhile, the thieves got away. Cole was able to settle the matter peacefully.
Major Fairweather commended him. “A fine job, Cantrell.”
“Thank you, major,” Cole said in surprise. He had just ridden in and was hot and dusty and tired. It had been a long ride from the Cheyenne camp.
That afternoon Fairweather sent Muldoon to fetch him. “What’s he want now?” Cole asked, lifting his dripping face from a washbasin. He had just shaved off a three-day stubble and his cheeks burned. He wiped lather from an earlobe and cased his razor.
“Colonel Fairweather didn’t say,” Muldoon replied stiffly, then a tight smile lightened the broad Irish face. “But I did see a bottle an’ two glasses on his desk. Might be you’re in a bit of luck, me lad. The colonel pours a mighty fine whiskey.”
“It’s probably for some visiting politician … Wait a minute. You called him colonel. Twice you did.”
“True, Cantrell. The orders come in while you was away. He’ll be sharin’ a glass with you likely in a toast to his new rank.”
Cole shrugged into a clean shirt. “Things happen fast around here.”
“That they do. Major Fairweather … excuse me, Colonel Fairweather has friends among the mighty, so they say, lad.” Although Cole didn’t believe that he’d be honored, Muldoon was right. Fairweather greeted Cole effusively, not offering his hand but filling two glasses.
Cole said, “I understand congratulations are in order … Colonel.”
Fairweather’s brows twitched. “And who told you?”
Cole knew he had made an error in judgment. He lifted his glass. “To your health.”
Fairweather grunted, “Muldoon, of course,” and made a notation with a stubby pencil.
“Muldoon didn’t mean anything, colonel.”
“Of course he didn’t. Sit down, Cantrell. I’m forever forgetting you’re a civilian and np longer a captain and therefore not bound by the rules of military courtesy.”
Is a salute so damned important to the man? Cole wondered. The whiskey suddenly tasted sour. Cole sat stiffly, waiting. What was the pompous fool up to now?
Fairweather refilled their glasses, said, “It may come as a surprise that I am quite interested in the wildlife out here.”
“I didn’t think you’d have time for it,” was all Cole could think to say.
