Come the Spring (4 page)

“You weren't any trouble at all,” she replied. “You lost a little weight, but my chicken ought to put the fat back on you. I brought some from home.”

“My Josey makes mighty fine fried chicken,” Norton interjected with a nod toward the basket his wife carried.

“I felt I ought to do something to make up for my husband's orneriness. Thomas shouldn't have knocked you out the way he did, especially since you were feeling so puny and all. Does your head pain you?”

“No, ma'am,” he lied.

She turned to her husband. “Those two no-good gunslingers are still hanging around. I spotted both of them on my way here. One's squatting north of our avenue and the other's due south. Are you going to do something about it before this boy gets himself killed?”

Norton rubbed his jaw. “I expect Marshal Ryan will have a talk with them.”

“He doesn't seem the talking type,” Josey replied.

“Ma'am, those gunslingers want me,” Cole said. “I'll talk to them.”

“Son, they don't want to talk. They're itching to build their reputations, and the only way they can do that is if one of them shoots you in a draw. Just don't let them aggravate you into doing anything foolish,” Norton said.

Josey nodded her agreement, then turned to her husband again. “Where do you want me to lay out the plates?”

“It's too stuffy to eat in here,” Norton said. “Why don't you put it all out on my desk?”

Cole waited until Josey had gone into the outer room before speaking to the sheriff again. “Where's Ryan?”

“He'll be along soon. He was headed here, but then he got called over to the telegraph office to pick up a wire. I expect you're anxious to have a word with him.”

Cole nodded. He kept his temper under control by reminding himself that the sheriff had only done Ryan's bidding. It was the marshal who'd ordered Norton to keep Cole in town, and it was also the marshal who'd pinned the star on his vest. Cole had in mind another place for the badge. He thought he might like to pin it to the center of Ryan's forehead. The thought so amused him, he smiled.

Josey had removed the papers from the desk and covered it with a red-and-white tablecloth. There were two chipped china dinner plates, white with blue butterflies painted on the rims, and two matching coffee cups. In the center of the desk was a platter of fried chicken sitting in a thick puddle of grease, along with bowls of boiled turnips with their hairy roots, like gauze, still wrapped around them, congealed gravy that resembled day-old biscuit dough, pickled beets, and black-bottomed rolls.

It was the most unappealing meal Cole had ever seen. His stomach, still tender from the influenza, lurched in reaction to the smell. Since Josey had
already left, Cole didn't have to be concerned that his lack of appetite would offend her.

The sheriff took his seat behind the desk and motioned for Cole to pull up another chair. After pouring coffee for both of them, he leaned back and pointed to the spread. “I might as well warn you before you get started. My wife means well, but she never quite got the knack for cooking. She seems to think she's got to fry everything up in a kettle of lard. I wouldn't touch that gravy if I were you. It's a killer.”

“I'm really not hungry,” Cole said.

The sheriff laughed. “You're gonna be a mighty fine marshal 'cause you're so diplomatic.” Patting his distended belly, he added, “I've gotten used to my Josey's cooking, but it's taken me close to thirty years to do it. There was a time or two I thought she was trying to do me in.”

Cole drank his coffee while Norton ate two large helpings of food. When the older man was finished, he restacked the dishes inside the basket, covered it with his soiled napkin, and stood up.

“I believe I'll mosey on down to Frieda's restaurant and get me a piece of her pecan pie. You want to come along?”

“No, thank you. I'll wait here for Ryan.” One thought led to another. “What did you do with my guns?”

“They're in the bottom drawer of my desk. That's a right nice gunbelt you've got. It makes it easy to get to your guns, doesn't it? I expect that's why Marshal Ryan wears one.”

As soon as the sheriff was out the door, Cole got his gunbelt out and put it on. All of the bullets for the two six-shooters had been removed. He scooped them up, filled the chambers of one gun, and was working on the second when Norton came rushing back inside.

“I expect Marshal Ryan could use your help. Those two gunslingers are waiting at both ends of my street,
and he's strolling right smack across the middle. He's gonna get himself killed.”

Cole shook his head. “They want me, not Ryan,” he said as he slammed the loading chamber into place and shoved the gun in his holster.

“But that's the problem, son. Ryan ain't gonna let them have you. If one of them kills you, then you won't be able to help him get the Blackwater gang, and he's said more than once he needs your special kind of help.”

Cole didn't have the faintest idea what the sheriff was talking about. What special kind of help could he give? He guessed he was about to find out, though. His suggestion that the sheriff remain inside was met with resistance.

“Son, I can lend a hand. Granted, it's been a while since I've been in a shoot-out, but I figure it's like drinking out of a cup. Once you've learned how, you never forget. I used to be considered quick with a pistol too.”

Cole shook his head. “Like I said, they want me, but thanks for the offer.”

Norton rushed forward to open the door for him, and before Cole stepped outside, he heard the older man whisper, “Good luck to you.”

Four
 

Luck didn't have anything to do with it. Years of hard living had prepared Cole for these annoying nuisances.

Cole took everything in at once. The gunslingers were waiting at opposite ends of the dirt street, but he didn't recognize either one of them. Gunslingers all looked the same to him—God, how many had there been, chasing after the empty dream of being the fastest gun in the West? Dressed alike in leather chaps, the two men shifted from foot to foot, letting Cole see their eagerness. They weren't boys, which was going to make killing them easier, Cole supposed. He had already figured out exactly how he would do it. The plan called for him to hit the dirt—but damn, he really hated diving and rolling around in the mud, especially today, since his stomach was acting so persnickety. Still, he would do what he had to do in order to survive.

Marshal Ryan was the fly in his ointment, however. The lawman was standing stock-still in the center of
the street, and that would put him right in the middle of the gunfire.

Cole was about to call out to him when Ryan motioned for him to come forward. Keeping his hands down and loose at his sides so he wouldn't spook the eager-to-die gunslingers, he stepped off the boardwalk and headed for the marshal. His fingers itched to reach for his gun. He didn't particularly want to shoot the lawman, just hit him on the back of his head with the butt of a gun so Ryan would have an inkling of the pain Cole had endured because of his order to keep him in town.

As he sauntered closer, the gunslingers, like rodents afraid of the light of day but craving the prize between them, edged forward.

Cole decided to ignore them for the moment. He and Ryan were both safe … until one of the gunslingers went for his gun. The challengers were there to build their reputations, and the only way they could do that would be to shoot it out in a draw with witnesses watching. Fair and square. Otherwise, the kill didn't count.

Sheriff Norton peered through the crack of the doorway, watching. He smiled at the sight before him, for it was something to behold, and remember. The two marshals, both as big and mean-looking as Goliath, were sizing each other up like contenders in a boxing ring. They made a striking pair, just like Josey said. She'd been afraid of Daniel Ryan when she'd first met him, and later on she'd had the very same reaction when she met Cole Clayborne, though she did a decent job of masking it. The two marshals spooked her, she'd confessed, and Norton remembered vividly her exact words when she'd tried to explain why she felt the way she did. “It's in their eyes. They've both got that cold, piercing stare, like icicles going right through a body. I get the feeling
they're looking into my head and know what I'm thinking before I do.”

She also admitted that, in spite of her timidity, she couldn't help but notice what handsome men they were … as long as they didn't stare directly at her.

Cole shouted to Ryan, drawing the sheriff's full attention.

“Get the hell out of the street, Ryan. You're going to get killed.”

The marshal didn't budge. His eyes narrowed as Cole moved closer. Cole stopped when he was a couple of feet away. He stared into Ryan's eyes. Ryan stared back. He was the first to break the silence. “Are you thinking about shooting me?”

There was a hint of laughter in his voice Cole didn't particularly like. “The idea crossed my mind, but I've got other things to worry about now. Unless you want to catch a stray bullet, I suggest you move.”

“Someone's going to die, but it isn't going to be me,” Ryan announced in a lazy drawl.

“You think you can take both of them?” Cole asked with a nod toward the gunslinger on his left, who was slowly creeping closer.

“I'll find out soon enough.”

“They want me, not you.”

“I'm just as fast, Cole.”

“No, you're not.”

Ryan's smile took Cole by surprise, and he would have asked Ryan why he was so amused if the gunslinger on his right hadn't shouted at him.

“My name's Eagle, Clayborne, and I'm here to take you out. Turn and face me, you lily-livered bastard. I'm gonna draw on you, damn your hide.”

The competing gunslinger wasn't about to be left out. “My name's Riley, Clayborne, and I'm the man who's going to kill you.”

The gunslingers Cole had encountered so far had all
been stupid. This pair, he decided, wasn't the exception.

“I should probably do something about those two,” Ryan said.

“Like what? Are you thinking about arresting them?”

“Maybe.”

His casual attitude was irritating. “What kind of a marshal are you?”

“A damned good one.”

Cole clenched his jaw. “You're sure full of yourself.”

“I know my strengths. I know yours too.”

Cole's patience was gone. “Why don't you go on inside with the sheriff, and you can tell me all about your strengths after I'm finished here.”

“Are you telling me to get out of your way?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Besides, I've got a plan,” he said with a gesture toward one of the gunslingers.

“I've got a plan too,” Cole replied.

“Mine's better.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. On the count of three, we both drop to the ground and let them kill each other.”

In spite of his dark mood, the picture Ryan painted made Cole grin. “That would be real nice if it worked, but neither one of them is close enough to hit the other. Besides, I'd get my new shirt all dirty dropping to the ground.”

“What's your plan?” Ryan asked.

“Kill one, then dive, roll, and kill the other.”

“Seems to me you're going to get that brand-new shirt dirty with your plan too.”

“Are you going to get out of my way or not?”

“Lawmen stand together, Cole. That's a real important rule to remember.”

“I'm not a lawman.”

“Yes, you are. You should be sworn in, but that's only a formality.”

“You've got a twisted sense of humor, Ryan. You know that? I'm not going to be a marshal.”

“You already are,” Ryan explained patiently.

“Why?”

“I need your help.”

“I think maybe you don't understand how I feel. I'm fighting the urge to shoot you, you son of a bitch. You kept my compass for over a year.”

Ryan wasn't at all intimidated by Cole's threat. “It took that long for the appointment to come through.”

“What appointment?”

“I couldn't just pin a badge on you,” Ryan said. “The appointment came from Washington.”

Cole shook his head.

“They're moving in on us,” Ryan said. He rolled his eyes in Eagle's direction. “Do you know either of them?”

“No.”

“I'll take the one at five o'clock.”

Cole started to turn, then stopped. “Your five or mine?”

“Mine,” Ryan answered.

They each turned to face an approaching gunfighter, then slowly stepped backward, stopping when they were shoulder to shoulder.

“Don't shoot to kill.”

“You gotta be joking.”

Ryan ignored the comment. He shouted to the gunslingers to put their hands in the air and walk, slow and easy, toward him, but Eagle and Riley stayed where they were with their right hands hovering above their guns.