Shoot-Out!, page 3
He said, ‘I know. But I have to do it.’
Belle stared at him, then smiled. Female intuition and her knowledge of men warned her that McLain wasn’t the kind of man to be caged. He made his own decisions, and when they were made, he stuck to them. Trying to tie him down was the surest way of losing him. And she didn’t want to lose him.
‘You do what you have to,’ she murmured. ‘But you hurry back.’
‘Count on it.’ McLain smiled his gratitude for her acceptance. ‘I got you to come back to now.’
Belle blushed like a girl and cleared the stew from the table. McLain watched as she fussed about the stove, enjoying the simple domesticity of her actions. After the Kansas Redlegs had killed his wife, he hadn’t expected to find himself in a situation like this again: he wasn’t quite used to it yet, but it felt pretty good.
The red-headed woman came back with a deep dish clutched in hands protected by a thick cloth. ‘Blueberry pie,’ she announced as she set the dish down. ‘I baked it myself.’
McLain whistled appreciatively as she cut the pie and the sweet aroma of the berries filled the room.
‘Where’d you learn to cook like this?’ he asked after the first mouthful. ‘It’s the best I tasted.’
‘It’s a long story.’ Belle picked delicately, almost nervously at her own small portion. ‘You want to hear it?’
McLain heard a note of apprehension in her voice and shook his head.
‘Not particularly. You’re here now. That’s what counts. You can tell me sometime, if you want to; but the past don’t matter.’
Belle looked at him and saw that he meant it. She said, ‘You’re something special, John T. You know that?’
McLain felt pleased and oddly embarrassed at the same time. He wiped his mouth and said, ‘So are you, lady. Real special.’
‘Oh, hell!’ She reached across the table to take his hand, clutching tight for an instant. ‘Times are you make me feel sweet sixteen all over again. Now tell me why this gun is so important.’
McLain told her, and she nodded.
‘I guess I have to learn to live with the law. You need any money?’
‘No.’ McLain shook his head quickly. ‘I get wages.’
Belle realized her mistake and got serious.
‘Don’t take me wrong, honey, but your bein’ here makes this place a whole lot easier to run. With the town marshal living on the premises, I avoid a lot o’ trouble. I’d have to pay anyone else.’
‘You give me a bed an’ you feed me,’ said McLain, serious in turn. ‘That's enough.’
‘You ever need it, though, all you have to do is ask.’ Belle rose again and cleared their empty plates. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘I know that.’ McLain climbed to his feet and went to stand behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. She leaned back against him so that he could smell the freshness of her hair and the perfume she wore. His arms went around her and she sighed with pleasure. ‘But I never been owned. I earn my way. That’s how it has to be. Otherwise it’s no good.’
‘I know.’ She wriggled, turning inside his arms to face him. She put her hands on his cheeks, staring up at his tanned face. ‘But I needed to tell you. I got rules, too.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘So long as we both understand.’
The green eyes were filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire as they closed. Her hands pulled his face down as her lips parted and her body pressed seductively against him. McLain grunted deep in his throat as he felt her tongue probe into his mouth and her hands slide gently over the muscles of his back. He returned the pressure, holding her tight against him, feeling desire kindle inside.
After what felt like a long time and not long enough, he pulled away, holding her at arms’ length as she gazed at him from under provocatively lowered lids.
‘You’re detainin’ a peace officer in the course of his duty,' he grinned. ‘I got work to do.’
Belle nodded. ‘All right. When do you leave?’
McLain started to say, now, then changed it to, ‘Tomorrow. Early.’
‘I’ve noticed that,’ she said, her voice demure.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘That you’re an early riser.’
Chapter Three
THE SKY WAS still dark in the west when McLain rose, the eastern horizon showing a band of pale light that got steadily brighter as he tugged on his clothes. Belle pulled a dressing-gown over her nakedness and pushed tousled red hair from her face as she moved to the stove and set coffee to brewing. McLain drank the hot, strong liquid as she broke eggs into the fry pan and the sun came up in a great burst of golden brilliance, watching the sway of her hips against the thin material of the garment.
When he had eaten, he picked up his gear and made his way out through the sleeping brothel. Belle came with him to the door, gazing at him through sleepy eyes as he halted on the porch. They kissed, and she said, ‘You take care.’
‘Sure.’ McLain smiled, feeling a little awkward at so public a display of affection. ‘An’ you.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ She touched his face. ‘I’ll just be waitin’.’
He nodded and turned away, striding down Main Street towards One-Eye Peters’s livery stable. One-Eye was already sweeping out the stalls, nodding a greeting, McLain fetched his saddle and put it on a big, buckskin gelding.
‘Crazy,’ muttered the stable owner as McLain took the horse out and swung into the saddle. ‘Pure crazy.’
‘What is?’ asked the Missouri man. ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about?’
‘You,’ said One-Eye, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. ‘I was in yore shoes: I wouldn’t be takin’ no ride.’
McLain laughed and said, ‘See you in a week, One-Eye.’
‘Crazy,’ repeated the ostler. ‘Man don’t know when he’s got it made.’
McLain touched the buckskin with his heels and took the gelding up the street at a walk. Garrison was still mostly asleep or eating breakfast. Smoke was drifting lazily from chimneys, swirling as the slight breeze hit it. The sky was a powder blue, the night chased off now and the sun coming up fast, shining off a long tail of high cloud. Bullfrogs were croaking in the rushes lining the banks of the Rio Verde and a milch cow penned behind one of the newcomers’ cabins was lowing impatiently as it waited for its owner to relieve its burden of milk. Belle was still standing in the doorway of the house, dressing-gown drawn tight under her folded arms as she shivered in the early-morning chill. She smiled and waved as McLain went past, and he grinned back before swinging the buckskin around the cathouse and onto the open prairie.
Outside of town, he lifted the horse to an easy canter, heading northwest to San Antonio.
The place was big enough McLain regarded it as a city, and the influence of the Spanish founders was clear in the architecture and the layout. The battered mission building the Mexicans knew as San Antonio de Valero and the Texans as the Alamo, stood bullet-pocked and white near the river, where, in 1718, Martin de Alarcón, then governor of the Spanish province of Texas, had begun construction of the presidio San Antonio de Bexar. With the governor and his settling party of soldiers and civilians had been a Franciscan missionary, Father de San Buenaventura y Olivares. The father had opened the mission building whose chapel would one day become a rallying cry for Texans.
After the Mexicans had achieved independence from their Spanish overlords in 1821, San Antonio became the residence of the lieutenant governor for the combined state of Coahuila y Texas. That was why the rebellious Texicans marched down there when they, in turn, revolted in 1835, and defeated the Mexican garrison. That was in December. In February of 1836, a force of 187 men under the command of Colonel William Barret Travis occupied the mission and prepared to hold against attack. The next day, the Mexican dictator Antonio López de Santa Anna, lay siege with an army of five thousand. Travis answered Santa Anna’s demand for surrender with a cannon shot, and behind the walls men who were already legends and others who were just ready to die for their beliefs got ready to show their word was good.
They lasted thirteen days and took more than fifteen hundred Mexican lives, but on the morning of March 6th Santa Anna stormed the walls. Travis, Davey Crockett, Jim Bowie – all the heroes – died. Santa Anna had ordered the degüello played and Travis had drawn his line in the sand: there was no quarter; not one man crossed the line.
They bought Sam Houston the time he needed to gather an army large enough to beat the Mexicans: in 1837 Santa Anna was defeated.
McLain came from Missouri, so he didn’t feel the way home-grown Texans did about the Alamo, but as he rode by the mission, he felt a sense of awe at the sacrifice it represented. The town proper had less sense of history. It was big and busy and bustling, Mexicans and Americans thronging the streets, blue Army tunics prominent. The architecture was mostly adobe and stucco, but plain timber-frame buildings served to echo the mixture on the streets. The sheriff’s office was in one of the Mexican adobes. It was cool, and quiet enough the tall man with a belly starting to go soft who occupied the room could put his feet on the desk and doze.
He woke as McLain came through the door; gray eyes abruptly alert as his right hand dropped to the Navy Colt on his right hip.
McLain, grinning, said, ‘Wilf? You sleepin’ on the job?’
Wilf Stodard grinned back, brushing a hand through his thinning hair as he stood up.
‘John!’ He extended a hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’
McLain shrugged, shaking hands. ‘Garrison’s big enough for me, Wilf.’
‘So what brings you here?’ Stodard motioned at a chair. ‘You got business?’
‘With a man called Jesse Comstock.’ For no reason he could properly define, McLain was reluctant to mention the exact purpose. ‘Trades with Abe Kintyre.’
‘I know him,’ Stodard nodded. ‘He’s got offices two blocks down. You stayin’ long?’
McLain shrugged again as he heard the curiosity in Stodard’s voice. He said, ‘Overnight, at least.’
The sheriff grinned at him: ‘Close-mouthed, ain’t you? All right … we can talk tonight. I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘Thanks.’ McLain rose to his feet. ‘I’ll see you later, Wilf.’
He ignored Stodard’s curious stare as he quit the office and took his horse from the hitching rail outside. He checked it into a stable and got himself a room in a saloon called Numero Uno. A Chinaman he couldn’t recognize from Chen Lee gave him a shave and showed him to a hot tub where he soaked while the Chinaman’s wife cleaned his clothes. It was mid-afternoon when he emerged, and the streets were getting busy again after the siesta. Jesse Comstock’s name was emblazoned across the frontage of a two-story building that reminded McLain of a church. The legend read: Jesse Comstock, Trader & Factotum in big, dark green letters edged with gold, then in smaller letters of the same fancy design, Warehouse & Trading Emporium. Two high and narrow windows stood above the sign; below were two square windows and an open door. McLain went through the door and found himself in a long, shadowy room piled ceiling to floor with trade goods. To one side stood an office built like a teller’s cage. The door was open and a fat man with a bald, sun-freckled head was looking out. McLain saw small, beady blue eyes and a veined, whiskey-reddened nose above a cherubic mouth. The man wore a collarless shirt with gauntlets protecting the cuffs and bright-red braces holding up baggy blue pants. There was a pen in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.
‘Jesse Comstock,’ the man said, speaking fast, the words clipped. ‘What do you want?’
‘Abe Kintyre wrote you.’ McLain fetched the note from his shirt and passed it to the bald man. ‘I’m McLain.’
Comstock motioned for the Missouri man to follow him into the office. He set the papers and the pen down and went behind a vast, mahogany desk. McLain took a chair as the blue eyes sped rapidly over the lines. Comstock gave the impression of doing everything rapidly, as though reluctant to waste time that he might be spending making money.
‘I got one,’ he said, looking up. ‘Reckoned to keep it for demonstrations. Lot of interest in a gun like that. Sell well.’
McLain waited, not certain whether Comstock was bargaining or refusing.
‘Man come by yesterday,’ Comstock continued. ‘Said I could name my own price. Told him, no. Real sad, that made him.’
‘You’ll sell as many as you can buy,’ said McLain. ‘Just one can’t be worth much to you.’
‘Worth what I say it is.’ Comstock shrugged. ‘So long as it’s the only one.’
‘You sayin’ no to me?’ McLain asked.
And the trader smiled suddenly, his manner relaxing.
‘I owe Abe a favor or two. An’ I already ordered a shipment. You want to see it?’
‘That mean yes?’ McLain didn’t remember feeling this nervous since he’d proposed marriage.
Comstock chuckled: ‘You’ll need a rig, too. That holster’ll be too big.’
McLain felt the smile spread across his face. For a moment he stood there grinning, just staring at the small, fat man with surprise and excitement and disbelief on his face. Like a kid just told there’s a present waiting in the next room. Not quite daring to believe it’s the present he’s been waiting for. Almost afraid to believe it. To open the door.
‘This way.’ Comstock beckoned briskly. ‘I don’t have all day.’
McLain followed him into the warehouse. There was a locked room at the far end from which the trader took a polished box with brass fitments gleaming on the dark wood. He carried it carefully back down the aisle, pausing to select a gun belt from a variety piled on top of a big crate. Back in his office, he set the belt and the box on the desk and motioned McLain forwards.
‘Open it.’
McLain sprung the catches and lifted the lid.
The interior of the box was lined with scarlet baize, depressions cut to hold the contents. McLain ignored the cleaning equipment, his eyes fastening onto the pistol nestled at the center. It looked powerful. Solid. Like a beautiful tool, the efficiency of its design giving it a rugged grace. It was gunmetal blue except for the case-hardening colors showing on the frame. The trigger guard was polished, gleaming a dull yellow that matched the six fat slugs resting in the baize. The one-piece grip was of walnut, the shape looking to sit naturally in the hand.
‘Quit gawkin’ an’ touch it,’ suggested Comstock. ‘See how she fits.’
McLain lifted the pistol. It settled in his hand like the grip of an old friend. He guessed the weight at something over two pounds, almost half that of the bigger Dragoon. The balance was perfect, the smooth curves of the butt compensating for the weight of the 7½-inch barrel. He checked the loading operation, flipping back the gate to study the empty chamber, drawing the hammer to part-cock so that he could turn the cylinder.
‘That’ll load like a dream,’ said Comstock.
‘And unload.’ McLain worked the sprung ejector rod mounted along the barrel. ‘It is a dream.’
‘Try it.’ The trader was still smiling as he came around the desk. ‘I got a place out back.’
McLain followed him to the rear of the warehouse with the Colt held reverentially in his right hand, the six shells in his left. Comstock brought the gun belt.
Behind the warehouse there was an enclosed yard around forty feet by thirty, big enough that wagons could off-load. Straw was piled in bales against one wall and a bullet-marked target was propped against the bales.
‘Here.’ Comstock held out the gun belt he had picked. ‘Try this for size.’
McLain unbuckled his own rig and passed it to the trader. The belt he fastened in its place was a long strip of brown leather with the holster fixed in place by a flap that folded over the belt behind the scabbard. A single slot was cut in the backing, running over the holster to secure the assembly smooth against his right hip. A series of tabs were stitched along the belt, running around his waist from behind the holster to the buckle. He guessed they were designed to hold the new brass-jacketed cartridges, the arrangement further speeding the loading process.
He flipped the Colt’s loading gate open and eased the hammer back to part-cock so that he could turn the cylinder as he dropped the shells into the individual chambers. They fell easily into place and he closed the gate on the sixth, then let the hammer down slowly. Comstock watched as he slid the pistol into the holster and tested his draw. The Colt Single Action lifted smoothly from the oiled leather, fitting naturally into his hand as he leveled on the target.
‘Go ahead an’ shoot her,’ urged the trader.
McLain obeyed.
The recoil was a little less than the Dragoon produced, the sturdy design of frame and butt absorbing most of the impact, the decreased weight resulting in a slightly greater angle of lift. His first shot hit five inches above the bull.
The second was three inches high, and on the third he over-compensated, a hole appearing an inch below the target’s center. The next plucked the edge of the red, then he put two clean into the bull.
Comstock chuckled as he began to work the ejector rod, the empty cartridge casings jumping fast from the pistol. The trader ducked back inside the warehouse and returned with a carton of shells, still grinning as McLain reloaded the pistol and filled the belt loops.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What d’you think?’
‘It’s beautiful.’ There was pure delight in McLain’s voice. ‘It’s a dream of a gun.’
‘Be plenty o’ folk dreamin’ about owning one when word gets out,’ said the bald man. ‘Were I you, I’d watch that pistol real close.’
‘I will,’ McLain grinned. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I ain’t.’ Comstock became abruptly businesslike again. ‘It’s yore worry now. An’ I got business to attend.’
‘Yeah.’ McLain took the holstered Dragoon and slung the bigger pistol over his shoulder. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll bill Abe like he said.’ Comstock turned back to the warehouse. ‘An’ I’ll give you extra loads. When you get back to Garrison, you tell Abe I’ll ship him as many as he wants as fast as he orders ’em.’
