Drunk as they were, they knew they were up against at least three men, maybe more. Muttering, they backed off. Some of those in the front rank began to ease off, trying to put other men in front of them. Those in the rear began drifting back toward the saloon. In a few minutes the space in front of the jail was empty.
The marshal lighted a lamp. Reluctantly, I laid my rifle on the table, then started to unbelt my pistol.
“Hold that,” the marshal said. “You keep your rifle. I’ll need that pistol for evidence.”
“Thanks. There’s a herd of cattle out yonder, and a long trail ahead of us. If you want me, I’ll be at the Hole-in-the-Wall. You just come up there or send a messenger and I’ll come down. I’m not guilty of anything except defending a herd from bunch-cutters.”
“You go ahead,” the marshal said. “I believe you, but there’ll have to be a hearing.”
“The crime wasn’t committed in your jurisdiction, Marshal,” Tarlton said quietly, “and the story of that shooting was well known in Kansas. I’d heard it before I ever met Otis Tom Chancy.”
We walked back toward the doctor’s office together, and we had gone fifty yards before I remembered Handy Corbin. Letting go of Tarlton, I turned to go back, but there Corbin was, only a few yards behind us.
“You huntin’ me?” he said. “I figured to trail along an’ make sure you got home safe. You got enemies, boy.”
“I know—I saw Kelsey and his crowd ride in.”
We had reached the door of the doctor’s office by then. Corbin grinned at me, but his eyes were serious. “I wasn’t talking about them,” he said; “I was referring to some other folks.”
I couldn’t figure out who he meant. He walked along a few steps and then said, “You know the railroad has men back east recruitin’ settlers—dirt farmers, most of them. They’ve promised ’em big farms, rich soil … land that’s almost for the taking. Well, they’ve convinced a lot of folks, and some of the crooked land speculators have been back there, too.
“Why, they tell that whole villages have picked up an’ come west, just achin’ to get rich. You ain’t been around Cheyenne much, but you can see trains come in with fifty, sixty families getting off, all to once. An’ it’s even worse in some places back along the line.”
“What’s that got to do with enemies of mine?” I asked.
Corbin stopped and pushed his hat back. He started to build a cigarette.
“Seems like some crackerjack salesman went into the Tennessee country and fetched ’em such tales they all packed up, bag an’ baggage, to come west. I was sort of perambulatin’ around when they come in, and heard some talk. Somebody mentioned that they shouldn’t be too anxious to leave town, not with a hangin’ to watch.
“Well, when they heard who was being hung, they all swore they’d not want to miss seeing the boy hung, when they’d helped hang his pa.”
“Was one of them a big, burly man with a reddish face?” I asked.
“A loud-mouth but big and mean,” Corbin said.
“Stud Pelly. Well, what about that? And I figured I’d have to traipse all the way back to Tennessee to see him.”
We went into the doctor’s office and helped Bob Tarlton back into bed. By now he was in bad shape, for exposure and loss of blood had robbed him of his strength. It would take a while to build it back.
“We’ll get a wagon, Bob,” I told him, “maybe one of those army ambulances. We can carry our grub in it, and you too. This Wyoming air and a lot of buffalo steaks will put you back in shape in no time.”
Handy Corbin walked with me to the hotel and we got us a room. Come daybreak, we’d be going back to the herd, and would be driving north to the Hole-in-the-Wall country. If we took short drives the first few days, Tarlton might be able to drive the wagon, leaving the four of us to handle the herd. It was not enough, but so far we hadn’t found another hand. We could have used two or three more.
Folks in the hotel looked sharp at me when I came in, and more than one of them glanced at my empty holster, but nobody said anything. The crowd who’d been around the saloons had mostly gone home or to wherever they slept, and the folks I now saw were a different sort—men who’d been working, and up late … good people, for the most part.
The hotelkeeper, too, gave me a sharp look. “I’ll deny no man a place to sleep, but I want no trouble, do you understand?”
“Mister,” I said, “you’re looking at a man who’s had more than trouble enough. All I want is a few hours’ sleep.”
Then I went to the register and started to sign my name. The name in the space right above it was Martin Brimstead.
I did not even look at the other names. All I could see was that name, which seemed as if it was burned into the page.
Stud Pelly was a brute; but whatever Stud had done, he would not have done if Brimstead had lifted a hand to stop him. Stud might have held the rope, but it was Martin Brimstead who had hanged my pa.
And Martin Brimstead was here … in this hotel! Carefully, I replaced the pen.
Martin Brimstead had come west to speculate in Wyoming land and now I was going to see that he got a piece of it. I was going to take particular care to see that he got the right piece, and of the right size.
It had to be about six feet long, and about three feet wide.
Chapter 13
When I rolled out of bed the sun was already high in the sky. It was a bright, sunny morning. I pulled on my jeans and stomped my feet into my boots, and then headed for the washbasin. I could see that the first thing I needed was a razor and a shave.
When I went to the window I pulled back the curtain and looked up and down the street. Everything looked about as it should in a western town on a nice morning.
There were a dozen horses tied at the hitching rails, a buckboard stood in front of the bank, the team dozing in the warm sun. Farther down a wagon was being loaded. A few idlers loafed along the boardwalk, enjoying a morning smoke. Nothing seemed out of kilter.
Putting on my gunbelt with its empty holster, I checked my rifle and then put it carefully to one side. Only then did I realize that Corbin was gone.
The blankets and heavy comforter had been heaped in such a way that I’d paid his bed no mind, but now it bothered me that he had managed to get out of the room without me knowing. It showed how tired I’d been.
I lathered my face and shaved, and put everything carefully away. In the cold light of day I was having second thoughts about Martin Brimstead. A man like him would find trouble a-plenty in these western lands. If there was to be trouble with me, he must bring it on himself. Pa, I thought to myself, would not kill him.
Stud Pelly was a horse of another color. Stud was big and he was rough, but the years had done a few things for me. Besides giving me confidence, they had put some height on me, and some weight. I knew how to treat Stud Pelly, with the only medicine he’d understand.
This morning I slung my rifle from my left shoulder. I’d been experimenting and found I could get it into action a split second faster that way. The left hand would already be well up on the barrel when I swung the rifle forward, and the right hand would come naturally to the trigger.
When I walked into the restaurant, I stopped dead still. For right in front of me was Martin Brimstead, and seated at the table with him was Kitty Dunvegan. Kitty and Priss, her sister.
Brimstead looked up, and it took him a minute to recognize me. “Well,” he said loudly, “the horse thief’s boy!”
“No.” I walked right up to his table. “The son of the man you helped to murder.” I leaned on the table. “Let me tell you something, Brimstead. In this country what you just said to me is an invitation to a shooting. The next time you open your mouth about me, or about my pa, you better be wearing a gun.”
He reddened with anger, and then as he realized what I’d said, rather than who was saying it, his face paled a little.