Port Baldwin was an old he-coon from the high-up hills when it came to fighting. He had been one of Tom Poole’s shoulder-strikers in the old gang-war days of politics — a brutal, confident man who fought to win and would stop at nothing.
That he had brains was obvious by the fact that he had risen from the crowd. There were few shady practices in which Baldwin had not taken a hand. Now he looked and acted the gentleman when it served his purpose, but he had won many a bloody brawl in the streets when he was getting started. At forty, Baldwin was as dangerous and cold-blooded an opponent as a man could find.
On the morning of the third day after the shooting on North Plain, Flint awakened with an itch to get out, to see the newspapers. By now it would be known that he had vanished and questions would be asked.
This time he would go to Alamitos and get the boxes he had there. Besides, he must bring in more supplies. Any day he might become too weak to get out, and he did not want to starve to death.
He saddled the mare and led her through the tunnel. He checked the loads in his rifle and his pistols, for there was every chance that he was riding into trouble.
For a moment he remembered the talk of Buckdun. The man was somewhere around, and it had probably been he who shot at Ed Flynn, and wounded him. There might be others.
Fortunately, he and Baldwin had never met, and Baldwin would not recognize him if they came together on the street.
There were a dozen horses tied to the hitch rail in Alamitos, and two big freight wagons stood near the supply store. Leaving his mare at the rail in front of the stage station which also did duty as a post office, he went inside.
He knew the minute he stepped through the door that the big man in the black suit was Port Baldwin. He was huge, towering inches over six feet, and massively built. His face was wide and there was an old scar on his cheekbone. He looked exactly what he was, a New York tough who had come into money.
Twice in recent years he had taken beatings in stock manipulations, once from Jay Gould, and again from Kettleman. Yet he had forged ahead, using blackmail, threats, and even beatings to frighten his enemies or business rivals.
Walking to the corner, Flint said, “Mail for Jim Flint?” He was aware that Baldwin turned sharply around.
Several letters were awaiting him and he recalled that in the excitement over the shooting on North Plain he had forgotten the mail received on that occasion. The agent said, “There’s two big boxes, too.”
The door closed behind him and Flint was aware that the man with Baldwin had gone out. Baldwin stepped up to the counter and turned to face him. “Flint? My name is Port Baldwin, and I want to talk to you.”
“Go ahead. You’re talking.”
“Outside, not here.”
Flint turned and looked into Baldwin’s cold blue eyes. “Why, sure!” he said. At the door he paused, “You first.”
Baldwin hesitated, then stepped through the door. Outside Flint glanced swiftly up and down the street. Three belted men were moving down from the right, two more from the left. A man leaned against a store front across the street.
“You killed one of my men.”
“He asked for it.”
Baldwin took a diamond-studded cigar case from his pocket and selected one, then handed the case to Flint, who took one. “I want you to work for me,” Baldwin said.
“Sorry.”
“I’ll pay better than anyone else.” Baldwin clipped the end from his cigar and put it between his teeth. “I need a man who doesn’t waste time. A man who can use a gun.”
“No.”
Baldwin was patient. “Flint, you simply don’t understand. All the rest” — he waved a hand — “they’re finished. There’s room here for one big outfit, and I’m it.”
“Cattle?” Flint asked mildly. “Or is it land?”
Baldwin’s pupils shrank, and the muscles around his eyes tightened. “That’s no affair of yours. If you work for me you do as you’re told.”
“I am not working for you,” Flint said quietly. “Nor do I intend to.”
“All right.” Flint, half-turned to meet the men coming up on him, and too late he saw Baldwin swing. He had not expected Baldwin to take a hand himself, but the big fist caught him behind the ear and Flint fell against the hitch rail, stunned.
Before he could recover his balance or even turn they moved in on him. One man swung viciously at his kidney and a boot toe caught him on the kneecap. He felt the wicked stab of pain and his knee buckled and when Flint threw out an arm to protect himself a man grabbed it and bore down with all his weight. Another grabbed his other arm, and two swung on his unprotected stomach.
Viciously, they pounded him to his knees, and when he fought to his feet, they battered him down again. There was a roaring in his skull and a taste of blood in his mouth. He was falling in the dirt and they were beating, pounding, and kicking him. Yet he could not quit.
Once his fist caught a jaw and knocked a man sprawling. Once he got his toe behind a man’s ankle, kicked him on the kneecap with his other heel, and felt the leg bone snap. He grabbed a man behind the neck and butted him in the face. He stabbed a man’s nostril with a stiff thumb and felt the flesh tear. But at last they beat him into the dirt and left him there, bloody and broken.
One man remained loafing nearby and, when a cowhand would have come to Flint’s assistance, warned him off.
For more than an hour, Flint lay in the street. Slowly consciousness returned, and with it, pain — a heavy thudding in his skull, and a stabbing in his side. He lay still, aware only of pain, then of the smell of dust, the warmth of the sun on his back and the chill of the ground beneath him, and the taste of blood.
Somehow he knew enough to lie still. He could hear the passing of boots on the boardwalk, the jingle of spurs, a rattling of harness.
Could he move? One hand lay on the ground beneath him, and he tried moving the fingers. They stirred, but stiffly. The back of the hand felt raw, and he seemed to remember it being stamped on. His hand must have been lying on the soft earth near the water trough or the bones would have been broken.
He was in bad shape, but how bad? Had they taken his gun? If he moved now, would he be killed?
Through the fog in his brain, he fought to work out a plan. His head throbbed and his stomach was hot with agony. He worked the fingers in his right hand some more, and opened his eyes to the merest slits.
He was lying just off the walk and because of it he could not see the watcher, although he could hear the creak of the boards when he moved, and the rustle of his clothing. Then Flint remembered the gun in his waistband. Out of sight beneath his coat, they might not have seen it. He worked his hand over to it and grasped the butt.
He did not know whether he could rise or not, but he was going to try. Fury was beginning to build within him. He had always been slow to anger, yet terrible in his rages, for he never ceased to think when angry. He was going to make them pay.
A few faces he remembered, a few hands. Those he wanted. As for Baldwin, there was a better way for him. To such a man defeat is worse than death.
As he was gathering his muscles, a buckboard rounded into the street. He heard the rattle of trace chains, the wheels on the gravel, and then the team drew up.
“What is wrong with that man?” It was Nancy Kerrigan’s voice. “Why doesn’t somebody do something?”
The watcher replied lazily. “Because he’s a man tried to buck Port Baldwin, ma’am. This is the least that happens.”
Flint heard the buckboard creak. Then the watcher said, “I wouldn’t try that, ma’am. You touch him and I’ll have to be rough.”
“You are fighting women now?” There was a chill in her voice. “How very brave you must be!”
“We ain’t playin’ favorites.” The man’s voice was uneasy. “When he comes out of it, we give it to him again. We keep on doin’ that until train time, and then we put the rest of him on the train — if anything is left to put on.”