He was not worried about talk from Strett or Saxon. He had already prepared a plan in case they did kill Kettleman, a plan that involved Buckdun. For two such drifters, Buckdun’s price would be less than he must pay them if they scored on Kettleman.
Jim Flint paused at the edge of town. He had been a fool to leave the hideout, but after four quiet days he had grown suddenly restless.
He had stopped briefly at the saloon at McCartys. There the telegraph operator showed him a badly battered face and told him about Saxon and Strett. However, the town was quiet. Nugent’s ranch headquarters was occupied by Baldwin men, and most of the Nugent riders were gone.
The Kaybar had pushed most of the Baldwin cattle off their range without trouble, and there was talk in town of electing a town marshal to keep the peace within the town limits.
Flint’s mind kept returning to Nancy, yet he knew he was a fool. They had turned on him, with little enough to go on.
When he reached town he rode up to the Divide Saloon, left the stallion at the rail and went in. It was clean but small, with sawdust on the floor and only two tables.
Rockley, the Kaybar hand, was at the bar. With him was an older man in greasy buckskins and a battered hat.
Rockley picked up a bottle and walked to a table. The older man followed. “Join us?” Rockley asked pleasantly.
Flint came over to them. “Milt Ryan here says it was Buckdun shot Ed,” Rockley said. “Milt’s our wolfer at the ranch, and better than a ‘Pache on a trail. He found Buckdun’s tracks a few days after the shooting and trailed him to a hideout.”
“Him, all right,” Ryan said. “An’ he leaves mighty little trail.” Ryan squinted. “A feller up the street says you ain’t Flint.”
“Claims he knew Flint,” Rockley said, “and you aren’t old enough by a good many years.” He gestured back up the street. “Name is Dolan … he’s a bartender.”
“He used to be in Abilene,” Flint said.
They had a drink. Nobody talked for a while. Then Rockley said, “The boss is upset these days. Ain’t like herself.”
“She won’t have any trouble. Before I — before I go away, I’ll run Baldwin out of town.”
Flint got up, and Rockley looked up at him. “If you ain’t the original Flint, you got to be somebody who was there. You knew about Flint’s arms being held, and that was something I never heard before.”
“He was a good man,” Flint said, “in his way.” He had never spoken of the old killer before, and now he looked at the man in his memory. “I don’t think he had any regard for human life at first. He figured he was in a war, and the cattlemen were in the right. He hated nesters. Well, he was wrong. No man is ever going to make anything right with a gun.
“Only” — he hesitated — “one time he helped a kid who needed it, and don’t ask me why.”
“Where did he come from? Who was he?”
“He never said. He never talked at all, come to think of it, beyond a comment about camp or the weather or when he was trying to teach me something.”
Flint pulled down his hatbrim, hesitated briefly at the door and went out.
Rockley looked over at Milt Ryan. “Well, there she is, Milt. Only one person he could be, if you see it like I do.”
Milt Ryan looked at his whiskey glass and at the bottle and decided against it. “He was the kid at Crossing,” he said, and got up. “Rockley, you ever see Pete Gaddis with his shirt off and his belt down low?”
“He’s got a bullet scar.”
“And he got it at The Crossing.”
Outside in the dark street they stood together, looking carefully around.
“I been wonderin’ about Gaddis,” Ryan said. “He ain’t been himself.”
“He’s got him a good memory,” Rockley agreed. “He thinks Flint wants to give it to him again … higher and on the left side.”
Chapter 13
Red Dolan, who had tended bar in Dodge, Abilene, Tascosa, and Leadville among other towns, was not deceived by the quiet.
His red hair was freely sprinkled with gray, and with the passing of the wild years had come a wary appreciation of life. The frontier was in Dolan’s blood. He had been tending bar the night Wild Bill Hickok killed Strawhan, and he had been hunting a job in Deadwood when Wild Bill left for Deadwood, which was to be his last town. Aside from the Army doctor who had examined Hickok, Dolan had been the only man alive who knew Wild Bill was going blind, that he barely could see the spots on his cards.
Dolan had been in Montana running a faro game when Morgan Earp killed Billy Brooks, and had known both men. He had been in Virginia City when Eldorado Johnny came up from the Colorado River country, determined to be “chief of Virginia City or the best-looking corpse in the graveyard” . . . and after Langford Peel shot him, Dolan had attended the funeral
Red Dolan had seen them come and go, and when a youngster walked up to his bar, Dolan could almost tell within a few months how long be would last. The would-be tough ones rarely lasted long enough to have to shave more than once a week.
He had known the original Flint and had been a message center for him. Red Dolan took no sides, but if you wanted to locate a man for a job you told Red. Sooner or later the man showed up.
Old Sulphur Tom Whelan had come up from Horse Springs, and stood at the bar to share old-time talk with Red Dolan. “Buckdun and Flint,” Tom said, “that’s the one I want to see.”
“The good ones rarely shoot it out,” Dolan said, “they know even if they score they can be killed.”
“They’ll meet,” Sulphur Tom insisted, “if Pete Gaddis doesn’t tangle with Flint first.”
“What’s wrong with Gaddis?”
“Ask him about that scar on his belly. They do say Flint was the kid at The Crossing.”
A dust devil danced in the sun-lit street, and a roan horse stood three-legged at the hitch rail. A woman in a gingham dress went along the walk, holding a child by the hand. And down the street a German farmer was loading a pitchfork, shovel, and hoe into his wagon. It was a quiet day in town.
Five men loitered at the back end of the bar. All were Baldwin riders. Strett was there, and Saxon with him. At least twenty Baldwin men were in town, so the quiet did not deceive Dolan in the least.
Rumors of the telegrams sent from McCartys were getting around town. James T. Kettleman was somewhere in the country and he had thrown a monkey wrench into Baldwin’s plans.
Dolan felt intimations of trouble sharpen when Rockley and Milt Ryan came in. Rockley was a salty customer. Milt Ryan was a hard-bitten old mountain man.
A few doors up the street, Jim Flint went into the Grand and, hearing familiar laughter from the dining room, he walked in. Lottie sat there with Port Baldwin, and their laughter stilled as he entered the room.
Flint nodded briefly and Lottie watched him pass. It was hard to believe that this handsome, easy-walking man was actually her husband.
Baldwin was telling her some coarse joke and she felt a flicker of irritation that she was here instead of across the room with Jim. He was one of the few men she had known who always treated her with respect.
Jim looked composed, and the lines in his face had relaxed. “I can’t believe it,” she said suddenly. “Jim Kettleman — a gunfighter!”
Port Baldwin looked grim. “You would have believed it the day he shot up the town. Beaten within an inch of his life, blood all over him, clothes torn, face swollen, and he scared that bunch who work for me clear out of town. He killed two men that day, and put lead into some others.”
She looked at Baldwin with surprise. “You sound as if you admire him!”
“I hate his guts,” Baldwin said brutally, “and I’d like him dead, but by the Lord Harry, he’s a fighting man! I’ll give him that. He’s a real fighting man.”
He gulped coffee, put the cup down, and then added, “With a gun, he is. I’d give a-plenty to get at him with my hands. I’d like to pound his face in.”
“You couldn’t do it, Port, so don’t ever try.” Lottie surprised herself by the comment.
He looked at her in obvious astonishment. “I couldn’t? Are you crazy?” He doubled a ham-like fist. “I could beat him to death with this. Nobody ever stood up to me in a fist fight, nor rough and tumble, either.”