Yet as he turned to go, King Mabry spoke. The remark came from nowhere, unconsidered, unplanned.
“One thing, Barker. They were all armed, and they were all facing me.” The big man stiffened, and the glance he threw over his shoulder at Mabry was malignant. Yet it held a probing, half-frightened curiosity, too.
As he watched the man leave, Mabry’s mind caught at that final reaction. Somewhere, Mabry told himself, he’s shot a man in the back, or been accused of it.
It was something to remember. Something not to forget.
Nor was Barker an enemy to be underrated. The big man was too confident not to have victory behind him. He was no fool. He was a shrewd, tough, dangerous man. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room after Andy Barker had gone. Mabry drank his coffee and refilled the cup.
“None of my business,” he said, “but I’d think about that trip. You’ll have trouble.” Healy shifted his cup on his saucer and said nothing. Janice Ryan started to speak, then stopped. Silence stretched taut between the walls, and then a board creaked, and when they looked around a man was standing in the door. He was a tall man, somewhat stooped, with a lean hatchet face, and he wore his gun tied down. And King Mabry knew the kind of man he was, and what to expect.
Low-voiced, he said, “Better get out. This is real trouble. Gun trouble.” NOBODY MOVED. The man in the doorway looked down the table at Mabry, then advanced a step into the room. When he stopped his right side was toward them. His features were lean and vulpine.
Mabry could see that the fellow was primed for a killing, and he was the man he had seen watching the game in the outer room.
“You brought in Pete Griffin?” Mabry’s right side was toward the door as he sat on the bench. His coffee cup, freshly filled, was before him. He waited while a slow count of five might have been made, and then he replied, “I brought him in.” “Where’s Pete now?” The speaker came on another step, his eyes holding on Mabry. “I said, where’s Pete?” “Heard you.” Mabry looked around at him. “You want him, go find him.” A second man came into the room and moved wide of the first. This man was not hunting trouble. “Bent?” Benton ignored him. He had come into the room set for a killing, for a quick flare of anger, then shooting. Yet the attitude of Mabry gave him nothing upon which to hang it.
Mabry took the cup and cradled it in his hands.
Benton tensed; Mabry might throw the hot coffee. He drew back half a step. Healy looked from Mabry to Benton, seemingly aware for the first time that the situation was taut with danger. Sweat began to bead his brow, and his lips tightened. There was only one door and Benton stood with his back to it.
Janice Ryan sat very still, her attention centered on Mabry.
“Bent?” Distracted, Benton turned a little. “Shut up!” Aware of his mistake, he jerked back, but Mabry seemed oblivious even of his presence.
Mabry tasted his coffee. Then, putting down the cup, he fished in his shirt pocket for makings and began to build a smoke. “Bent,” the smaller man persisted, “not now. This ain’t the place.” Benton was himself unsure. Mabry’s failure to react to his challenge upset him.
He dared not draw and shoot a man in the presence of witnesses when the man made no overt move, and when, as far as he could see, the man was not even wearing a gun.
Yet he could see no way to let go and get out.
He hesitated, then repeated, “I want to know where Griffin is!” Mabry struck a match and lit his cigarette.
Benton’s face flushed. He considered himself a dangerous man and was so considered by others. Yet Mabry did not seem even to take him seriously.
“By God!” He took an angry step forward.
“If you’ve killed Pete-was Mabry looked around at him. “Why don’t you get out of here?” His tone was bored, slightly tinged with impatience Benton’s resentment burst into fury and his right hand dropped to his gun. Yet as his hand dropped, Mabry’s right slapped back and grabbed Benton’s wrist, spinning him forward and off balance. Instantly Mabry swung both feet over the bench and smashed into the man before he could regain his balance. Knocked against the wall, his breath smashed from him, Benton tried to turn and draw, but as he turned, Mabry hit him with a wicked right to the chin that completed the turn for him. And as it ended, Mabry swung an underhanded left to the stomach.
Benton caught the punch in the solar plexus and it jerked his mouth open as he gasped for wind.
Mabry hit him with a right, then a left that knocked him against the wall again, and a right that bounced his skull hard off the wall. The gunman slumped to the floor.
King Mabry turned on the smaller man.
“You’ll be Joe Noss. You wanted out of this, so you’re out. But take him with you.” And as the white-faced Noss stooped to get hold of Benton, Mabry added, “And both of you stay out of my way.” He sat down and picked up his cigarette. He drew deep, and as his eyes met Janice’s he said, “If that’s too brutal, better get out.
It’s nothing to what you’re liable to see between here and Alder Gulch.” “I didn’t say anything,” she said. “I didn’t say anything at all.” He got up abruptly, irritated with himself. He was no kid to be upset by the first pretty girl who came along. He had seen a lot of women, known a lot of them.
But not like this one. Never like this one.
He walked out and nobody said anything. At the bar he stopped, aware of the undercurrent of interest.
Hat Creek Station had seen much rough, brutal action, but fists were not much used where guns were carried.
It was something new to be considered in estimating the caliber of King Mabry. No place for a woman, Mabry told himself.
Behind him the momentary silence held. Then Tom Healy looked at Janice. “I’m a fool. You shouldn’t be out here. None of you should.” “Because of that? That could happen anywhere.” “It may be worse. That’s what he said.” She looked across the table, knowing what this trip meant to Healy, knowing there was nothing back East for him.
“Do you want to quit, Tom? Is that it?” “You know me better than that.” “All right, then. We’ll go on.” “There’s only trails. We may run short of supplies before we get through. And there’s Indians.” “Friendly Indians.” “You’ve a choice. I haven’t. I failed back East. I’m bankrupt. The frontier’s my last chance.” She looked at him, her eyes grave and quiet. “It may be that for a lot of us, Tom.” His coffee was cold, so he took another cup and filled it. He had no idea why Janice was willing to go West with him. Maybe somewhere back along the line of days she had known her own failure. Nevertheless, what he had said was true.
For him there was no turning back. He had to make it on the frontier or he was through.
He had been finished when the letter from Jack Langrishe reached him, telling of the rich harvest to be reaped on the frontier in the cow and mining towns.
Langrishe had a theatre in Deadwood, and there were other places. So Tom Healy put together his little troupe of five people and started West.
He had not been good enough for New York and Philadelphia. He had not been good enough for London, either. Not to be at the top, and that was where he wanted to be.
The Western trip began well. They made expenses in St. Louis and Kansas City. They showed a profit in Caldwell, Newton, and Ellsworth. In Dodge and Abilene they did better, but in Cheyenne they found the competition of a better troupe and barely broke even. And the other troupe was going on West. Then Healy heard about Alder Gulch. For ten years it had been a boom camp. Now it was tapering off. The big attractions missed it now, yet there was still money there, and they wanted entertainment. It was winter and the snow was two feet deep on the level, except where the fierce winds had blown the ground free.
Alder Gulch was far away in Montana, but with luck and Barker to guide them, they could get through.
Yet Mabry’s doubt worried him. He was a good judge of people, and Mabry was a man who should know. And he did not seem to be a man to waste breath on idle talk. Yet what else to do?