Maverick Marshall (10 page)

Sam shook his head. “You’re forgettin’ Frank Carrico.”

Anger darkened Will’s skin. “He’ll die just as quick of a bullet as Kimberland.” Arrogance showed in the swirl of his temper. His hands, convulsing, became intolerant fists. “We’ll start with these hills. We’ll take the Bench right away. Go fetch me that money.”

Frank at Terrapin, caught hold of her roughly. “Brackley’s widow! What kind of talk’s that?”

“Straight.” Sandrey shook the hair back out of her face. “Why do you suppose he was in town last night?” When Frank, still scowling, said he’d gone in to see Gurden, the girl said, faintly smiling, “He came to meet me.”

Frank stepped back, puzzled.

“It’s true!” she said sharply. Frank’s eyes called her liar. In all the years he’d known Brackley there’d been no mention of a woman. Besides this girl was too young — where could she have met up with him? “I don’t know what your game is — ” Frank said.

“There isn’t any game. I came here in good conscience. He sent me the money. We were going to be married.”

Frank looked at her sourly. “Where’d you know him before?”

“I didn’t. He got my name out of a Heart-and-Hand magazine.” Color whipped into her lifted face. She looked at him defiantly. “People do such things — ”

“Some might — if they was desperate enough.”

“How do you know Jace wasn’t desperate?” Her eyes were dark now and bitter, the whole look of her taut as stretched hide. “It makes no difference to me what you think. I’ve got his letters. I’ve got a deed to this place!”

Frank’s eyes became unreadable.

“A quitclaim deed to it and everything on it, signed over to me in Brackley’s own hand!”

“I reckon you have,” Frank said finally.

She didn’t seem to like the tone of his voice. “I saw Jace right after Will Church jumped him last night. He took me over to the hotel — that’s when he wrote it. He got me a room; got pen and paper from the clerk — that pockmarked one with the warts on his chin. He’ll remember.”

Frank nodded. He could understand how Brackley might have done it, especially if the man believed that talk about Bar 40. The thing that Frank couldn’t figure was this girl. On the face of it — to someone ignorant of local conditions — Brackley’s ranch might hold a certain appeal. But Sandrey Larren — Frank shook his head. He had seen a couple of these Lonely Heart females, and the only resemblance between them and her wasn’t showing. Why, with her shape and looks….

“I’ve got a right to this place.”

“Ma’am,” he said, “I ain’t disputing it. The graves are filled with folks who had rights. You’ll move, one way or another.”

“It’s up to you to protect me.”

“Then come into town where I might have some luck at it.”

“I’m stayin’ right here.”

Suddenly fed up with this jawing, Frank said, “Why don’t you try being reasonable for a change?”

She grinned. “I can take care of myself.”

Frank reached out and got hold of her, roughly yanking her toward him as though by force he’d disprove her contention, revealing it beyond argument for the empty brag it was. But he had reckoned without the vulnerability of emotion. Contact roused forgotten hungers. By the time he realized what lay ahead, the lesson he’d been going to teach had gotten out of hand.

She came against him solidly. He had a wild thought of Honey, then Sandrey’s breath rushed across his cheeks. Her mouth found his with astonishing firmness. The yard dissolved. Sensation blurred. It was just like crashing through the roof of the sky.

When they broke apart Frank was breathing hard. Everything around him tipped and spun like the way things would look from a pitching bronc. It was like coming up from the bottom of a spill.

“Well!”

The word winged toward him through incalculable space. Frank found her then, found her flushed and trembling. The breath was sawing in and out of the both of them. Sudden guilt barreled through him. His face got hot. He felt sweat come out on him. “Sandrey,” he said through the roaring in his ears, “I sure didn’t aim to pull anything like that!”

Her eyes were like coal in the awful whiteness of her face. He had handled her like a whore, and remembrance of Honey was like a knife twisting in him.

That was when she hit him, open-handed across the face.

He staggered back with stinging cheeks, blinking, not finding it in him to much blame her though. His blurry eyes picked her out again and he stared unbelieving. But that girl wasn’t fooling. She was heading for the rifle. Frank piled onto his horse and got out of there….

He didn’t know how long he rode. He felt meaner than a twitch-eyed centipede with chilblains. He didn’t want to think about her and wasn’t hardly able to consider anything else. Except, now and then, Honey. He sure couldn’t leave Sandrey Larren here in the middle of what looked to have all the makings of a knock-down and drag-out.

Frank swore. It wasn’t Kimberland who Sandrey would have to fear, but the riffraff these hills were full of — the scum who might or might not be teamed up with Gurden. W. T. might grab the land but these renegades would grab Sandrey. It turned Frank sick to think what might happen if some of that crew chanced to come on her out there — rifle or no rifle!

He abruptly discovered he was no longer alone. There was a fellow up ahead on a black-and-white knothead, and the horse wasn’t moving. The man wasn’t, either. He was watching Frank sharply with a hand on his gun butt. He caught the flash of Frank’s star and sat back, smiling sour-like, saying:

“Some pretty hard cases sifting around through these parts. Thought you might be one of them.” He was garbed in an out-of-press store suit but hadn’t the air or manners of a dude. He looked perfectly at home in flat-heeled boots that laced up the front, and had a turned-sideways nose below a pair of cagey eyes.

“Looking for something?” Frank asked conversationally.

“I been looking for snow but it keeps getting hotter.” The fellow blew out his breath and wiped his face with a coat sleeve. “How far are we from Vega?”

“Pretty fair piece. Nearer South Fork. About a forty minute push if you happen to be in a hurry.”

“It can wait,” the other said. “I’m just ambling around. Expect you know most of the stockmen hereabouts?”

“Most of them.” Frank could be cagey too. This guy was no tramp. Kind of hard man to place. Didn’t look like a range dick. “What’s your angle?”

“Just taking things easy.” The fellow dug a couple of cigars from his coat, considering their tatters. Frank shook his head and the man put one back. He seemed to reach a decision. “Whereabouts does the Brackley spread lay from here?”

“Which one?” Frank said blandly.

The stranger scratched a match on the horn of his saddle. He lapped the tatters and presently, blowing smoke, broke the match stick and dropped it. “Didn’t figure there was more than one.”

“How long you been ramming around through these hills?”

The man faintly grinned. “I guess that’s a fair question.” He didn’t seem in any great sweat to answer it.

Frank asked: “What’s your business?”

The man observed brightly, “That’s a marshal’s badge, ain’t it?”

Frank whipped his gun out. “You sooner talk here or in town?”

The man grinned. “Guess there ain’t no reason you shouldn’t be let in on it, everything considered. “I’m advance scout for a survey crew.” Observing Frank’s skepticism, he added reluctantly, “Like to keep this confidential if I can. There’s some notion of putting a railroad through here.”

“Keep talking.”

The man shrugged. “Pretty definite now. One of your local men — fellow named Kimberland — has a wad of jack tied up in the deal. You can see why we’d want to keep it quiet for a while.”

“You mean options?”

“Well — yes.”

“Giving the big frogs a chance to get fixed, eh?”

The man said, “I’m not running the Company.”

Frank asked, “Going to bring your road across the Bench, eh?”

“A road’s got to be practicable if it aims to make money.”

“Brackley’s dead,” Frank said. “Killed in town last night.” Now Frank could understand why Brackley had been killed.

The man kept his face straight but there was a shifting back of his eyes like smoke. Frank picked up his reins.

The man rubbed his nose. “Somebody’ll probably take it over.”

“It won’t be Gurden,” Frank said pointedly.

Dust-splashed and taciturn Frank pulled into South Fork at a little past eleven. After studying the street he wheeled into the gloom of Fentriss’ stable. The bald-headed proprietor came up, mopping at his face. Frank, getting down, allowed that he was minded to look over the spare mounts. They went out to the corrals which showed evidence of repairs. Frank considered a blue roan, a squatter, that was fifteen hands without a patch of white on her.

Fentriss leaned on his hay fork. “You fixin’ to buy or borrer?”

“Rent,” Frank said, and stood silent a moment. “Get her ready,” he said, and abruptly walked off.

Back in the street’s sun glare Frank passed up the jail, went by the hotel and, ignoring the stares of a couple of townsmen, cut over to the New York Cafe and stepped in. He took one of the twelve empty stools at the counter and distributed a part of his weight on his elbows. The pungent aroma of corned beef and cabbage made a strong bid for notice in the overheated room. At a corner table near the end of the counter Old Judge, hunched over his plate like a dilapidated vulture, sat gumming his food in preoccupied silence. “How’s tricks?” Frank asked. The old man ignored him.

The biscuit-shooter, wiping hands on her apron, came from the back and hung out a tired smile. “Hi, Frank — what’ll it be?”

“Slab of pie — make it apple, and a mug of black java.”

The girl poured the coffee and slid the pie in front of him. He drank half the coffee at one gulp and then said, sniffing, “I’ll take a bowl of that soup.” The hasher dipped and passed it. “Crackers?”

Frank shook his head.

“How does it feel to be totin’ the tin?”

“About like the pea in this bowl of hot water. Better give me them crackers.” She pushed a plate down the counter and Frank broke up a big handful. The girl came back and leaned over, stacking some cups under the counter. She straightened up. “Thought you’d be eatin’ with Honey Kimberland this noon.”

Frank said, “It ain’t noon yet.” He finished the bowl and swung around to Old Judge. “What was you and Chip Gurden finding so profitable talking about last night?”

Old Judge, suddenly strangling, took on like a bronc with a clot of hay in its gullet. The hasher hurried over with a glass of water. “Watch out,” Frank said, “you’ll rust his pipes with that stuff.” When the judge came up for air, Frank said, “Now that you’ve got that off your chest, how about answering my question?”

The old man wiped his mouth and eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s about the size of a plaster on Terrapin. You don’t have to play so innocent. That lien, if he’s got one, ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. You can tell him I said so.”

The judge, a bit shaky, got out of his chair. He appeared so disturbed by what Frank had said to him he went off without leaving the price of his meal. Frank tossed the girl some silver and dug into his pie. She dropped it into the till and said, half indignant, “He’s like to be sick for the rest of the day!”

“Do him good.” Frank finished the pie, paid and grinned up at her. “Don’t worry about Judge. Next to Chip Gurden he’s got the strongest gut in town.” He took a look at the clock. It said ten of twelve. Frank went out and settled his shoulders against the front of the place in the shade of its overhang. He saw a kid pushing a hoop coming toward him from one of the alleys. Frank dragged a sleeve over his star and tried to think about Honey, but all he could see was the face of that sorreltop he’d left out at Brackley’s. Chavez came into the street on his horse from the direction of Halbertson’s. They considered each other and Chavez cut over.

The Mexican said, “Pretty quiet,” and then leaned out from the saddle. “Them trail hands is raisin’ a hell of a stink. Claim Kimberland’s back of that run-off last night; say a lot of their stuff has got mixed in with his. If that’s right there’s somethin’ fishy, they was headed the other way. And they’re still throwin’ fits about all that dropped beef.”

“What become of it?”

“Well,” Chavez grinned, “you can’t prove it by me. But a lot of people around here is goin’ to really fill up today.”

He rode on. The kid wabbled his hoop up to the front of the cafe, regarding Frank with bright eyes. “Got a note fer you, mister.” He dug a bit of paper from his jeans and passed it over. Frank tossed back a quarter. “Geez!” the kid yelled, and tore off like a twister.

Frank looked at the note. Signed “Kelly,” it read:
Be in front of the bakeshop today at 12 noon
.

Frank peered through the window. Two minutes. He recalled the message Gurden’s piano thumper had left for him with Danny, about some deal Kelly was in with Chip. Wants to explain that, he thought, and shook his head. Nothing, anymore, was solid white or solid black. Everybody it seemed was daubed with something. Everyone but Honey. In another half hour they’d be putting on the nosebag.

He struck off toward the bake shop. He wasn’t going to have much time with Honey for at one o’clock he was due to take over patrolling the town; and he still hadn’t figured what to do about Sandrey. He wistfully remembered the job he had quit and halfway wished himself back at Bospero Flats where life, though dull, had been simply a routine matter of eating, sleeping and watching cows’ butts while they fed on the landscape. He had frequently bemoaned in those halcyon days being maneuvered into the position of being Will Church’s keeper — now he was saddled with an entire town. Frank was out of his depth and he finally knew it.

He was abreast of Abbie Burks’ millinery, with the bake shop’s front in plain sight when, just like a hand had reached out to stop him, something pulled Frank up. He looked around perplexedly, and so discovered Kimberland riding in from the south. The Bar 40 boss waved, calling out some rigamarole which Frank, at this distance, couldn’t make head nor tail of.