Cartridge Creek, page 8
“Dammit,” somebody said thickly out there on the street, “I tell you she’s in there. A good-lookin’ blonde.”
A raucous laugh followed. “Then, what the hell! Let’s go get a sample. Come on, boys, let’s see what the widder woman’s got!”
Will Leatherman’s chair turned over as he sprang up; Brand was on his feet simultaneously and Sullivan was reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall. Bettina came in from the kitchen. “What—?”
“Get down!” Will knocked her sprawling with a backhand. She cried out, fell, and was joined beneath the table by the other boarders. Outside, wood splintered as the whole picket fence was smashed down by heavy bodies. Then footsteps shook the steps. “Hey, widder woman!” a deep voice bawled. “Come out and have some fun!”
Tom Brand’s voice was like the scrape of flint on flint. “Lemme handle this.” Leatherman was just behind him as he strode to the front door, with giant strength shoved the barricade aside. Sullivan was right behind, with the shotgun.
Brand flung the door open, stepped out on the porch. The six men coming up the steps halted at the sight of his massive body towering over them. Their eyes shuttled from him to Leatherman and then to Sullivan with his ten-gauge, and they backed off a step.
“All right,” Brand rasped. “On your way, all of you. This is private property.”
The two men in the lead blinked. One was squat, sporting a bushy black beard; the other was like a weasel, tall, loose-jointed, very slim, restless. He wore a single gun, set for a cross-draw. “Now, feller,” he said, in a high, whining voice, looking at Brand with a ferret’s red eyes, full of mindless killer-lust. “Don’t you go telling us what to do.”
“He don’t need to,” Sullivan said harshly. “This ten-gauge tells you what to do. It’s loaded with nine buck to the barrel, and there ain’t a man of you will see the sun come up if you take one step more.”
In the crowd behind the leaders, somebody said, “Hell, he’s right. Les, we can’t fight no double sawed-off. It ain’t worth it. Not to me, no how; I can wait my turn with Louise.” He backed away, across the ruined fence, into the street.
“That one’s smart,” Brand said. “The rest of you—move out!” His guns were in their holsters, his hands dangling at his sides. He was, thought Leatherman, shifting his eyes only for an instant, like some great range bull on the prod, huge, head down, totally dangerous.
The men down below saw that, too, all except the man with the weasel’s eyes. “Leave it go,” Black-beard said. “Come on, Les.” One by one, they backed across the fence. Only Les remained motionless, staring up at Brand, eyes batting rapidly.
“Brand,” he said. “That’s your name, ain’t it? Who the hell you think you are to tell Les Wallen where he can go and can’t. You think I’m scared of you?”
There was a quality in Brand’s voice Leatherman had not heard before. It was patience stretched beyond its limit, suddenly hard and wholly brutal. “If you ain’t,” Brand said, “you’d damned well better be.” He stepped forward to the porch’s edge, in front of Leatherman and Sullivan. “On your way, friend.”
Les’s face was paler, but he did not budge. Eyes fixed on Brand, he said, “You send me, huh?”
“Tom,” Sullivan rasped.
“No,” Brand said. “No, you watch the others, you and Leatherman.” His voice rose. “I’ve seen enough tonight, Wallen, enough of you and all the rest. You got about two seconds to get out of this yard. You hear me, friend?”
“I hear you,” Wallen said. “But I ain’t in no hurry.” His eyes blinked again and his hand flashed across his body and, drunk or not, he was fast. He had his gun free of leather and coming up when both of Tom Brand’s hands seemed to spout flame and smoke. Before he heard the reports, Leatherman saw the bullets hit, driving cloth into flesh as two black, then bright dots appeared level with each other, centered three inches apart on Wallen’s chest. The impact of both slugs driving in simultaneously lifted Wallen off his feet and literally threw him backwards. He landed sprawling on the ripped-down boards of the picket fence, and he never moved again.
“Jesus H. Christ!” one of Canady’s men said from where he had backed ten yards up the street. But Brand was already coming down the steps, guns thrust forward, smoke curling from their barrels. He was a man caught up in frenzy, mindless of his own safety now. “Out!” he roared. “Out of here, you bastards! Get back in your goddam holes! I’ll kill every sonofabitch that sets foot in this yard, you hear me? You hear me now?” He strode toward them, morning wind ruffling blond hair, and there was so much strength and force in him, so much danger, menace, that they broke before him. They, the gunmen who had faced Rigsby’s men head on, stared at Brand for a second as he marched on, and then they turned and ran. “Get out, goddam you!” Brand yelled again. “Get out!” He waved the six-guns at them, like a man shooing geese.
Then they were gone.
Brand stood there and watched them flee, and Leatherman felt a surge of admiration for him, for the rage that had devoured reason, for the sheer, raw courage of the man. In that instant, he felt a kind of kinship with Tom Brand, the bond of fighting men. You, he thought, could ride the river with a man like that … And there was no greater tribute a former trail boss could pay.
The spell broke. The gunmen disappeared into The Silver Dollar. Brand stood there half a minute longer, the Smith & Wesson almost swallowed in his huge hands. Then a kind of shiver went over him, as if he were emerging from a dream. He holstered the guns, turned, stared down at the dead man lying on the clutter of wooden pickets. He bent, roughly tumbled the limp corpse into the street. He spat into a flower bed and then came up the steps, eyes flaring with a strange, wild light that ebbed only slowly as sanity returned.
Sully’s voice was awed. “Tom, I never knowed you could handle guns like that.”
“I had a cousin taught me,” Brand said harshly, and went on in the house. Sullivan’s gaze met Will’s, and Sully shrugged. They followed, in time to see Bettina run to Tom and Brand embrace her.
“Tom, oh, Tom—”
“It’s all right, honey.” He stroked her hair, holding her tightly. “Nobody’s gonna bother you. Nobody at all.” Leatherman turned away, suddenly feeling the fatigue of the long night crush down on him. He went to a window.
The sun was coming up, and as first light fell on the street, now gripped by a strange hush, a rooster crowed cross town in the Mexican quarter. It was answered by a donkey’s bray. Except for the bodies in the street, it could have been the beginning of the day in any small southwestern town. But, of course, this was not just any town. This was Cartridge Creek.
Brand’s voice brought him around. “Sully, you stay here with that ten-gauge and keep watch for a spell longer. Will, back him up, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back before too long.”
Leatherman stared at him. “Where the hell you going?”
“To see Fate Canady.” Brand’s voice was hard, determined. “He may have rubbed out Rigsby, but that don’t mean he owns this town. There’s others got to live here besides him and his wild bunch, there’s business to be done; life’s got to go on for them, or else they’ll all pull out. I’ll not have that. There’s got to be some rules, an understanding. As representative of the railroad, I’m gonna have one with him now.”
“Tom, don’t be a fool!” Bettina snapped the words in horror. “You can’t face that man alone! Not now!”
“It has to be now. He has to rein in his men and guarantee the safety of the decent people here or by tomorrow they’ll all be gone. Somebody’s got to see to it; this is my town, and, by God, I’m the one.” His voice softened. “I’ll get some others to go with me. Farris, Murdock, a few others, the leading men. We’ll go under a flag of truce. But it’s got to be settled now, before this town dies.”
Bettina opened her mouth in protest; then she closed it, turned to Leatherman. “Will ... go with him, please. I’ll be all right here, with Mr. Sullivan to help. Don’t let him go alone!”
“No,” said Leatherman. “I’m not about to. Tom, I’ll come along, if you don’t mind.”
“You have no stake here,” Brand said. “You’re just passing through. I don’t expect you to buy range here now after what you’ve seen. You’ve done enough.”
“All the same, I’m coming with you.”
Brand looked at him a moment, and then his lopsided grin twisted his mouth. “Suit yourself. I don’t mind saying, I’ll be glad to have you and your guns.” He clapped a hand on Leatherman’s shoulder. “Like we used to say back in Texas, You’re a man to ride the river with.”
Leatherman was almost startled by the echo of his own appraisal of Tom Brand. Then he, too, grinned. “Let’s go ahead and ride it, then. Bett, get us something white to make a flag of truce out of.”
Chapter Six
If he lived to be a hundred and fifty, Leatherman told himself, he would never forget the intensity of the sensation of danger he had felt as he and Brand had walked the streets of Cartridge Creek that morning under their flag of truce—which both of them knew might be used as a target at any time by some drunken pistolero.
With it high, they left the boarding house, entered the deserted street, picked their way through the bodies littering it. Sprawled drunks on the porches of the saloons looked at them in amazement as they passed. Then they turned down a side street, one lined with frame houses that were well kept, their yards bright with spring flowers. Here, Brand said, lived the leading businessmen of Cartridge Creek—or what had been the leading businessmen before the town’s transformation.
They went from door to door like a pair of salesmen, as Brand tried to get together a delegation to side him when he met with Fate Canady. His efforts were wholly fruitless. At some places, no one would even come to the door; at others, the men stared blankly at him as Brand explained what he was about to do. Then they shook their heads, their fear showing in their eyes, hopelessness in every line of their faces. Murdock, who owned the livery, summed it up. “Let it ride, Tom. Forget it. The town’ s past saving. Don’t break your heart over Cartridge Creek. Me, I don’t aim to. As soon as I can find some way to unload my holdings, even for pennies on the dollar, I’m pulling out. My family ain’t gonna live in a hellhole like this any longer.”
“Damn it, Murdock, it won’t be a hellhole if you people will just unite and back me up!”
Murdock snorted. “Why stick our necks out for the goddam railroad that won’t lift a hand to help us?” He gestured. “This ain’t my house, it belongs to them! This ain’t my yard, neither! Even the barn I keep my horses in ain’t my property! You think I’m gonna leave my wife a widow and my kids fatherless to save the Southern Pacific’s investment? Tom, Tom … You’ve done the best you can for us, and we appreciate it. But the game’s over now, and you might as well accept that fact. Fold your hand and go somewhere else and start fresh.”
“No!” Brand flared. “Listen, I aim to lay the law down to Fate Canady! Business has got to go on as usual here! And it will, Murdock, you can count on that! Don’t sell Cartridge Creek short: the game ain’t over yet!”
Murdock looked at him with disbelief and pity. “All right, Tom,” he said quietly. “When you got some new cards, come and show me. But until there’s a different deal, I’m out of the pot.” He closed the door gently in Brand’s face.
Leatherman watched Brand closely; the big man betrayed no discouragement as he turned away. “Well, I reckon you can’t blame ’em. They need to be showed. All right, Will, I can’t ask you to side me by yourself. Go on back to Bettina’s; I’ll see Canady on my own.”
“No,” said Leatherman. “I’ll go along.”
Brand shook his head. “You got no call to.”
That, of course, thought Leatherman, was true. A smart man would leave Brand to work out his own salvation. But Leatherman could not find it within himself to abandon Tom Brand now. It was almost as if he himself were infected with the man’s obsession. Besides, he had already begun to think of Brand as a friend; he felt a great liking and admiration for this indomitable chunk of man. Raw courage and a sense of dedication; Brand had them both. In many ways, thought Leatherman, Tom was like a Texas trail boss. When you moved a herd north, you let nothing stop you—nothing. Always, the herd came first, until it was delivered, sold, and the trust reposed in you by others was justified. In a sense, Cartridge Creek was Tom Brand’s trail herd.
“All the same,” he said, “if you’re so hell-bent to see Canady, I’ll join you.” He summoned a tired grin. “After all, a man gets bored in a strange town and needs a little excitement.”
Brand looked at him, suddenly smiled with warmth, and he punched Leatherman on the arm. “All right, damn you,” he said softly. “Then come along. Maybe with you behind me, I can run a bluff on Fate.”
Canady looked as if he had slept a long night through and awakened leisurely; there was no sign of fatigue on his handsome face, his silver hair was beautifully in place, and he was freshly shaved. His eyes were clear and keen as he looked across the desk in his office in The Cattleman at Will Leatherman and Tom Brand.
It had not been easy to get this far. The drunken gunmen on the saloon’s porch had risen, formed a truculent barricade. There had been a moment when the lives of the two men had hung in the balance, for Canady’s crew had been turned completely into animals by the long night’s fighting, killing, drinking, lovemaking, and the white flag had no meaning for them.
Then, the lynx-eyed Hollister had appeared, at least half sober. “Brand. What the hell!”
“We want to see Fate Canady,” Tom Brand said doggedly. “We come peaceful; this is a flag of truce.”
Hollister had blinked. Then he said, “Come on in. You fellers”—he addressed the gunmen— “leave ’em be. If Fate wants to see ’em, he’ll be mad as hell if you bother ’em. If he don’t want to, then you can do what you damned well please.”
They followed him into the saloon. Its barroom was a shambles of broken glass, bullet-splintered walls, stinking of spilled whiskey and drying blood; and in the ruins men and women still caroused. Under Hollister’s protection, they were led to the rear. Hollister said, “Wait here,” knocked on a door, went in.
And that was the longest, roughest minute. If Canady saw them, they were safe. If he refused to, Leatherman knew, it would mean fighting their way out and back to Bettina’s, and there was, really, no hope of that. Then the door opened, Hollister said, “Come in.”
Now, Canady, with Hollister lounging in the corner, thumbs hooked in gun belts, raked his eyes from Leatherman to Brand. “Tom, you’ve got guts, I’ll say that.”
“Maybe. Anyhow, I’ve got a piece to speak.”
“Say it.” Canady’s voice was smooth.
“You whipped Bob Rigsby. I guess he’s dead.”
“Oh, he’s dead, all right,” Canady said evenly. “We caught him hiding behind his safe in The Silver Dollar.” He smiled coolly. “You should have heard him beg.”
Brand shrugged. “I’m not interested in Rigsby. What I’m interested in is what comes next. Cartridge Creek. Remember, Fate, you may be riding high, but you don’t own this town.”
Canady’s cool smile lingered. “True. But I expect to, in due time. Do you know what tonight has meant to me, Tom Brand? It means that I’m rich. It won’t take long to have the capital I’ve always needed, now. And then, sir, I intend to buy your town.”
Brand stiffened. “Buy it?”
“Exactly. Before I’m through, the railroad will be glad to unload it. And I don’t see anybody else fool enough to try to outbid me for it. In due time, I’ll buy it from them, lock, stock, and barrel, Tom. And run it to suit myself. That means, wide open.”
Leatherman tried to keep a poker face, but he was startled. Then he touched himself with caution; Canady was right; he would not be fool enough to outbid anybody for Cartridge Creek. His eyes went from Canady to Brand.
“Fate,” said Tom, words seemingly forced up from his throat. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t I? It makes sense to me. When I see an opportunity, my friend, I grab it. And there’s nothing like this one anywhere else in New Mexico, maybe in the West, that I know of. The owner of Cartridge Creek can make his own rules, play his own game, and who’s to say him nay? There’s a need for a town like this, controlled by a man like me.” His voice was suddenly harsh. “The bastards are closing in everywhere. They bring their tin badges and their temperance societies and the like into one place after the other. Their petty little rules and their shoddy little hypocritical morals and all the other crap that cuts no ice with a man like me. Or men like those out yonder, hard men, tough men, that don’t fit in anywhere that there’s rules.” His eyes glinted, like a light flashing on gunmetal. “There’s a lot of men like that left, my friend, and they’re running out of places to go. I intend to give them a place: Cartridge Creek. A no-man’s-land, where they can live the way they please and the law can’t touch them, because it’s private property. Like an Indian reservation, only this is a reservation for the Wild Bunch. Because, you know, Brand, the Wild Bunch always has money to spend—and that’s more than you can say for Indians.” He leaned back in his chair. “There’s my plans. I’ll be frank and say I can use you in carrying them out. A town like this needs an administrator, somebody to handle the business end, put up a respectable front, if you please. You could do that for me, Brand. That’s why I let you in here without giving you any trouble. I don’t expect an answer from you now; I’m only giving you a glimpse of the future. But I’m impressed with you, and likely you could help me deal with the railroad. Throw in with me and you just might get rich.”
