Shoot-Out!, page 10
Chapter Ten
BLASS TOOK HIS time riding over to Garrison. He wanted a rested horse under him in case he needed to run, and there wasn’t any way McLain could get word of his approach. If anyone did come across the bodies back at the staging post it didn’t seem too likely they’d associate the killings with him, and they’d have to pass him on the trail, anyway.
So Blass took the journey at an easy pace and came in sight of the town a little before midnight. The moon was closer to its halfway mark now, but a heavy drift of cloud was blowing in from the coast to dim out the increased light. There were lanterns glowing in the watchtowers of the Army post, and a few more among the buildings running in a double line down from the earthworks. Blass circled around, getting the lay of the place. The Army post marked one end of town, the livery stable the other. Beyond, and between Main Street and the river, there were wagons and tents and makeshift cabins, but to the east the land was clear. Blass reined in and climbed to the ground. It looked like there were only two places still showing any sign of activity, one a single-story building that he guessed was the saloon, the other a newly painted two-level structure built close to the garrison post. Blass put a hobble around the gray’s fetlocks and moved in on foot.
This late at night in a hick town it didn’t seem likely there’d be much else still open except the saloon or a cathouse, so he decided the white building had to be the Maison Belle. He moved up close enough he could hear music, and stood silently, studying the place. There were rooms built out from the back of the original structure, windows showing blank under the cloud-dulled light of the moon. Blass stepped warily up to the closest pane and peered in. There were curtains drawn behind the glass, but the gap between afforded the gunman a narrowed-down view of a white-painted bedroom with a big, brass-headed bed facing the window. He grinned wolfishly as he thought that this must be where McLain shacked up with his whore and moved on to the next window. The curtains were pulled on this room, giving him a clear view of a homely-looking parlor. He thought about jimmying a window and climbing inside to wait, then decided it was too chancy. Yet, at least.
He drifted quietly down the alley running alongside the building and risked a glance along the street. As his original circuit of the town had suggested, Garrison consisted of a single street with buildings either side. The saloon was located farther down on the river side. There was light spilling golden from the open door, but no sign of activity on the sidewalk. Two red lanterns glowed beside the cathouse door, which was closed, and Blass could hear the pianola louder now, and the murmur of voices. On the facing side of the street, about halfway between the Maison Belle and the saloon, there was a solitary lantern hung outside a squat, square adobe building with bars over the two windows and the door closed. Blass could just make out the words on the sign there:
Jail. Marshal —John T. McLain.
He looked down to where the livery bulked tall at the far end of the street and got an idea.
Killing McLain outright could bring the townsfolk down on him. But if he beat the lawman in a straight fight it didn’t seem very likely they’d let him take the gun. He needed that edge the Tallons had unwittingly given him. And he needed a way to take it.
He slid back down the alley and began to run past the darkened buildings towards the livery.
There was a big corral out to the side with stage horses behind the fence. A tack shed was built up at the rear, and beside it there was a lean-to piled high with drying grass that would make winter fodder.
Blass nodded approvingly and reached into his black jacket for a lucifer. He struck the match against the wall of the tack shed and cupped the tiny flame in his hands as he bent towards the grass. A thin tongue of flame rose upwards, then sputtered and died on the greenish shoots. Blass struck a second, touching it to a drier-looking area. This time the flame caught. Dry grass crackled, rills of fire licking upwards and across to spread over the pile. The undried fronds heated and began to smolder, giving off a thick, eye-watering smoke. The horses penned in the corral began to stamp, nickering nervously, their anxiety communicating to the animals inside the livery building so that they, too, began to fret.
As the fire gained in size, Blass ran back towards the Maison Belle.
He reached the back of the building and slid the bone-handled knife from its sheath. Inserting the blade between window frame and catch, he snapped the lock open and pulled the window towards him. Swiftly, he scrambled over the sill, crouching as he stared around. The room was empty. There was a table at the center with two cups on it, a stove glowing faintly against the outer wall, a door showing light around the edges set in the inner wall. Blass closed the window and went through to the bedroom. The air smelled of some heady perfume. Blass drew one of his Navy Colts and sat down on the bed, cocking the pistol.
A homesteader called Abner Teech was the first to spot the blaze. He was asleep under a Conestoga that needed the new lynch pins Swede was making, his wife in the wagon, nursing a boy with toothache. Teech wondered what had woken him and yawned. Then he sniffed and sat up, cursing when he banged his head. He sniffed again and forgot about the bump as he crawled fast from under the wagon, nostrils identifying the smell: smoke. He climbed to his feet, staring across the four-hundred-foot distance that separated his wagon from One-Eye Peters’s stable. There was a yellow glow showing against the rear wall, and now that Teech was on his feet, he could hear horses shrilling. He opened his mouth and began to shout.
‘Fire!’
In the Garrison saloon Shawn Docherty, John T. McLain, One-Eye Peters, Swede, and Abe Kintyre were sharing a bottle and talking about nothing in particular. They had run through the possibility of the black-clad killer turning up in Garrison and come to the conclusion that it wasn’t very likely. Abe had wondered if whoever took over from Jesse Comstock would extend the same terms of credit, and Shawn had decided that if the Army was looking at the new gun – which, to judge by the one John T. was wearing, was every bit as good as the rumors had said – then the Army would take every model the Hartford factory could produce. One-Eye had pondered the likelihood of Frank Donnely and Janey Page coming back from Brownsville wed. And Swede hadn’t said much at all.
The shouting came as a surprise.
McLain was the first through the batwings, halting on the sidewalk as a small figure came running through the night.
Jimmy Teech had one hand pressed to his aching jaw as he yelled, ‘Marshal! There’s a fire! Paw says to come quick!’
‘Looks like yore place, One-Eye.’ McLain turned from Peters to Shawn. ‘Shawn! Go tell Syl Bellew we may need a fire-fightin’ party. An’ roust out whoever’s in Belle’s place.’
‘Yo!’ Shawn took off up the street at a run.
One-Eye was already heading for the livery with Swede and Abe close behind. McLain went after them.
They came around the stable and halted, staring at the rear wall. The homesteaders already had a line formed, passing buckets and pans and anything else that would hold water from the well to the blaze. The grass was not yet dry enough to have taken real hold, but the lean-to was beginning to burn and that might spark the livery itself.
‘I gotta get the horses out.’
One-Eye ran for the doors with McLain and Swede on his heels, Abe Kintyre bringing up the rear. Smoke was fuming through the end wall, panicking the animals penned in the stalls. The four men began to bring them out.
Garrison was beginning to wake up. Angus MacKay came running down the street with the tail of his nightshirt flapping over his pants and his feet bare. George Willard appeared outside the saloon, standing slack mouthed until Alice barked at him and he, too, ran to help. Eleanor Farmer came out to stand beside the older woman, her face impassive.
Shawn went through the doors of the Maison Belle at a run. A trooper stared at him over the ample breasts of a girl called Mary and asked, ‘What the hell’s wrong, Shawn?’
‘Fire!’ The single word sent Mary pitching to the floor as the trooper jumped up. ‘The livery’s on fire!’
The pianola wheezed to a stop as Belle came down the room to face Shawn.
‘What can we do?’
‘Nothin’.’ Shawn shook his head. ‘Thanks, Belle.’
The redhead nodded, watching as the brothel emptied of men.
‘I guess that’s it for tonight.’ She glanced around. ‘Any of you girls want to watch the fire, you get dressed before you go out. And keep out of the way.’
‘John T.’ll be there,’ said a girl called Rose. ‘Aren’t you goin’, Belle?’
Belle shook her head.
‘I’d only be in the way. I’m going to make some coffee and wait for him.’
She turned towards the door leading to her private rooms. What she felt like doing was taking off down Main Street at an unladylike run to check that John T. McLain was safe and not about to put himself in the way of harm. And that was what she mustn’t do. McLain wouldn’t welcome a jumpy woman running scared every time something happened. And this was just one more thing she had to get used to so long as she wanted to stay with McLain. So she would show him how calm she could be and go brew some coffee. Sit and wait for him to come back without making a fuss.
She went down the corridor and opened the door to her parlor. She stepped inside and closed the door, lighting a taper at the stove and carrying it back to the lantern suspended above the table. The flame filled the room with a cozy glow as she adjusted the wick and set the glass funnel back in place. She took the empty cups and rinsed them under the pump, then spilled fresh coffee into the pot and set it on the stove. She decided he’d be hungry when he came back, so she slid a tray of biscuits into the oven and cut two thick slabs of bacon in readiness. Then she decided to tidy her hair and went through to the bedroom.
She left the door open so that the lantern in the parlor threw a slanting rectangle of light across the room as she went in. She was reaching for the lucifers on the dressing-table when she sensed something wrong. It was hard to define. There was no sound, nor any smell that she could recognize, no movement, nor anything – so far as she could tell – amiss. But there was an intuitive feeling of danger. And a soft voice said, ‘Guess you’d be Belle Hannett.’
Ice ran stabbing fingers down her spine. She felt the hair on her neck tingle. In the pit of her stomach a void opened on grim certainty. Her lips clamped tight on the scream that was starting in her throat. There was a tone in that voice that told her she was dead if she made a sound. If she did the wrong thing. Very slowly, as though her back were suddenly stiffened, she straightened from the table and turned around.
‘That’s right. Who the hell are you?’
The parlor lantern made a focus of light. The open door threw shadow along the wall. Inside the shadow there was the shape of a man. It blended with the darkness. Like a bad dream blending with the twilight between sleep and waking.
‘Name’s Saul Blass. You’re McLain’s whore.’
She ignored the insult as the man stepped into the light. He was tall – tall as McLain, which was pretty big – but a fraction leaner. He was dressed all in black: pants and boots and vest and coat. Even the string tie that hung loose from his collar. She recognized him from McLain’s description. The green eyes had the intensity John had spoken of, and when she could see him clearly against the light he had a slight hunch to his left shoulder. He also had a Navy Colt in his right hand and a smile on his face that looked like it would get broader if he used the gun.
She said, ‘What do you want?’
Blass said, ‘My gun, whore.’
Belle frowned and said, ‘Your gun? I don’t understand.’
‘McLain took my gun.’ Blass moved across the room to stand close to Belle. ‘The Colt.’
She stared up at him. The light from the parlor shone on his face so that she could see the angular planes, the delicate bone structure. It lit his eyes. They gleamed with a cold and ugly fire. They looked mad.
‘He’ll use that gun to kill you,’ she said.
Blass stared at her; his face stony. Then he swung his left hand up and around in a backhanded sweep. Belle gasped as the knuckles caught the underside of her chin, slamming her head back.
‘Not while I’ve got you.’ His voice was a snarl.
Belle touched her jaw, wincing.
‘One shot an’ you’ll have the whole town on you.’
Blass chuckled and shook his head. ‘They’re all fightin’ the fire.’
‘You started that.’ It wasn’t a question: more an attempt to buy herself time to think.
‘That’s right.’ Blass lifted the Colt, stroking the cold metal over her cheek. ‘How many girls you got?’
‘Nine,’ she answered, automatically. ‘Why?’
‘I wondered.’ Blass raised his eyebrows rather than shrug. ‘McLain live here regular?’
‘He doesn’t live here,’ she said.
Then groaned as his blow landed low on her stomach, gusting air from her lungs as the nausea rose in her throat. Unable to help herself, she leaned forwards, arms folding over the pain.
Blass unclenched his fist and cupped his hand under her chin. He heaved her back, throwing her onto the bed. Long legs waved silkily. Belle wriggled back, smoothing her skirts, trying hard not to show the fear she felt.
‘Don’t lie to me.’ His voice was soft as a diamondback’s hiss. ‘He lives here.’
‘Why ask if you know?’ she demanded, refusing to cringe. ‘How d’you know?’
‘Folks at the staging post told me.’ Blass eased to the side, moving out of the light. ‘Before they died.’
Belle felt the fear curdle sickeningly in her belly. She could handle drunks – most kinds of difficult customer – but this man was different. How many had he killed? The trader, Jesse Comstock, first, John had told her. Then two deputies. Now the Tallons? That was five people. Five people murdered because he wanted a gun? Her mouth filled with saliva as she realized she was dealing with a crazy man.
‘You won’t get away.’
She wondered how her voice could sound so dry when her mouth felt so wet.
Blass smiled.
‘I’ll have you as a shield.’
Belle felt the sweat on her palms. She thought about screaming. At least that would warn McLain. But it would also guarantee her death and that of anyone who came in answer. Estrelita or Madrileña or one of the girls. And Blass would still have time to get away.
No: screaming wouldn’t do anyone much good. Not right now.
She said, ‘There’ll be a whole town after you.’
Blass said, ‘I reckon not. I reckon you give me an edge. McLain ain’t gonna shoot me while I got you. He’ll hand me that Colt an’ watch me ride away. He’ll stop anyone from followin’ me. So long as I got you.’
Belle went on fighting the fear and the panic it threatened to induce. She had been planning on showing John T. just how calm she could stay: now she had to show it to herself: it was the only way she was going to stay alive.
‘What then?’ she asked. ‘After you get away?’
‘That depends.’ Blass’s smile got wider and uglier.
‘On what?’
‘On how I feel,’ he said softly.
And Belle knew he was lying. Knew that he would kill her as soon as he felt safe. She had been around men enough to sense when they were telling the truth. And when they were interested in her. This man wasn’t. Not as a woman. There was a deadness about him, an absence of any kind of sexual interest. With another man she might have used her body to put him off guard. Or her tongue to seduce him into carelessness. But not this one. This one was dead to that kind of ploy. With a sick certainty she knew that to him, she was just a piece of meat to be used and then killed.
She said, ‘I’ve got money.’
Blass said, ‘I ain’t interested in money. I want my gun.’
Belle pressed back against the pillows, struggling to make her mind work coherently. Struggling to discover something she could use. Some way to warn McLain and still come out alive.
She said, ‘There’s coffee on the stove.’
Blass’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded, beckoning her to rise. ‘Yeah. That ain’t a bad idea.’
Belle climbed off the bed and smoothed her skirts. Blass stepped back, motioning her into the parlor.
‘Pull them curtains.’
She obeyed, going over to the stove. The coffee pot was bubbling, the lid bouncing gently. She took a cloth and wrapped the handle, lifting the pot. Blass smiled at her from across the room: too far away to risk throwing the coffee. She filled the two cups and carried them to the table.
‘You want sugar?’
‘No.’ Blass shook his head. ‘You just set an’ drink yore coffee. An’ keep quiet.’
The Navy Colt stayed pointed at her chest as he came forwards to take the cup and carry it back to his position against the wall, between the outer door and the bedroom door. He put the saucer on a shelf, holding the cup in his left hand, sipping without taking his eyes from her face.
‘When McLain comes in, you stay real quiet,’ he warned. ‘You try to tell him anythin’, I’ll gun him. You stay silent an’ he might just stay alive.’
Chapter Eleven
MCLAIN WATCHED THE final embers stamped out and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. The stored fodder was ruined, but that could be easily replaced, as could the lean-to, which was now a charred ruin that threatened to tumble in under its own blackened weight. Paint was scorched and peeled in a big swathe up the wall of the stable, but the timbers had been doused in time to prevent any serious damage. He turned as One-Eye Peters came out of the night.
‘How the hell did that get started?’ wondered the stable owner.
‘I seen ricks go up like that.’ McLain remembered his days as a farmer. They seemed a long time off now. ‘Fire starts inside.’
‘I know better’n that,’ grunted One-Eye. ‘I took real care.’
