Sweetwater (38 page)
Authors: Dorothy Garlock
“Draw, ya sonofabitch!”
The boy was fast, but not as fast as Travor. He put a bullet in the boy’s heart as he was bringing his gun up. A surprised look came over the young face before he backed up and sat down hard on the floor. Travor had dropped into a crouch when he drew his gun. When Crocker fired, the bullet went over the top of his shoulder and into the backbar behind the counter.
Travor fired one shot at Crocker. The hired killer backtracked to the wall and hung there. Then his legs refused to hold him and he crumpled to the floor, his hand still holding the gun, but without the strength to lift it.
The three shots fired had come in rapid succession. Most of the men in the room had not had time to do more than fall out of their chairs to the floor, not knowing what would come next. One of the men kicked the gun out of Crocker’s hand. Travor holstered his and went to where Crocker lay against the wall. The bartender, with his buffalo gun in his hand, was beside him.
Crocker was still alive.
“Here’s one scalp ya’ll not collect on, you back-shootin’ bastard!”
“Thought we’d … got ya, McCall, when … ya went in the river.” A froth of blood came from his mouth. “Was … waitin’ ’round to find your … stinkin’ hide … to take back to Ashley.”
“Yeah, I figured he sent ya. Ya shot my brother, Trell, you son of a bitch, and knocked
him
in the river! He came out of it alive, or I’d take ya out now and string ya up for the buzzards to pick your bones clean.”
“Brother? Hell—I’d a swore it was you. I’d a got him, but let the kid—” His eyes began to glaze over. “He’d a not made a … hunter … nohow—”
“Ya got the kid killed, Crocker. You’ll meet him in hell.”
“He’s dead, McCall. Yo’re talkin’ to a dead man.” The bartender spoke from beside him.
Travor stood and looked at the men crowding around the dead men. There was no sympathy on their faces.
A commotion at the door drew Travor’s attention. Two men had entered. One was the man who had warned him about Hartog the last time he was here. The other was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and a black string tie.
“What happened here, Oscar?” The man who spoke had a tin star pinned to his chest.
“What’a ya think?” Oscar went back to place his gun on the bar. “I got me a mess to clean up.”
“Who shot first.” The sheriff knelt and looked into the faces of the men on the floor.
“One drew first and didn’t get off a shot. The other’n missed. McCall nailed both of them.”
“This one is a hired killer named Crocker.” Travor nudged Crocker with the toe of his boot. “The other was in trainin’ to be a hired killer.”
“Arrest him.” The man in the suit spoke for the first time. All eyes turned to him. The sheriff frowned.
“Why, Mr. Havelshell? ’Pears to me it was a fair fight.”
“Arrest him. A judge will decide.”
“Now see here, Alvin.” The booming voice of the bartender filled the room. “Ever’ man jack in this room saw what happened. The kid drew first—”
“Ain’t so, Mr. Havelshell.” Travor noticed Frank Wilson for the first time. “He drew and shot ’em down.”
“Godamighty, Frank!” Oscar exclaimed. “Ya know that ain’t what happened.”
“I was closer than you, Oscar.”
Frank’s mouth was still swollen from the brutal meeting with Travor’s fist. He leaned against the bar and glowered at him.
“We have a witness.” Havelshell spoke in a tone of authority. “Arrest him, Armstrong, and hold him for trial.”
The sheriff frowned at Havelshell, then turned to the more than a dozen men who stood beside the tables.
“How many of you saw McCall draw first and shoot these men down?” No one moved. “Show of hands if you saw what Frank said he saw,” he urged, then waited, looking into the face of each man. Still no one moved.
“All right. Who saw what Oscar saw?”
All hands went up.
“Oscar saw it right, Sheriff.” The merchant, a gunsmith, spoke up.
“You got a stake in this?” Alvin asked curtly.
“No. But what’s right is right. The boy drew on McCall. The other man drew, shot and missed. McCall’s got a right to defend himself.”
“We’ve got a witness that says otherwise. Do your duty, Sheriff. Arrest him and hold him for the circuit judge.”
“I’m not goin’ to arrest a man for defendin’ himself.”
“Goddamn you!” Alvin’s face turned ugly. “I gave you that star and I can take it away.”
“No, you can’t, Alvin.” The gunsmith spoke again. “Armstrong has done a good job keeping drunks off the street and controlling fights. We’ve formed a town council. It will take two-thirds of a vote from the council to fire him.”
“Town council? Why wasn’t I told of it?”
“We sent word to your office three times. You chose to ignore it. We proceeded without you. Armstrong stays on. We plan to elect a sheriff and a mayor in the fall. I hope he runs for the job.”
“You been going behind my back.” Alvin turned on Armstrong. “I should have listened to Hartog. You got no guts!”
“I’ve no taste for arrestin’ a man for defendin’ hisself, if that’s what ya mean.” Armstrong unpinned the star from his vest and shoved it into Havelshell’s hand. “Here’s yore star. If the council wants me to stay on, I’ll take one from them.”
“I’ll call a meeting in the morning,” the gunsmith said. “Meanwhile, I’d be obliged if you’d finish out the night.”
“Be glad to.” Armstrong looked steadily at Havelshell. “I ain’t nobody’s bought man. I thought I made that straight when I took the badge and told ya that Hartog wasn’t fit to shoot.”
“You two-bit, gutless piece of horseshit. Hartog’s got ten times the guts you got. You took my money quick enough.”
“I thought the money came from the city, or I’d not a touched one dirty dime of your money,” Armstrong said quietly.
Smoldering in rage, Alvin stomped out the door.
Frank, feeling the sudden hostility of the other men in the saloon, followed.
“Thanks for speakin’ up.” Travor stuck his hand out to the merchant. “Travor McCall. You may know my brother, Trell.”
“It needed to be done,” he said after shaking Travor’s hand. “I’m puzzled some. Aren’t
you
Trell McCall?”
“I’m Travor McCall, Trell’s brother. Only our maw could tell us apart. At times it’s more trouble trying to explain that there are two of us than to let it go. Crocker was sent to kill me. He ambushed my brother instead.”
“Well, horse-hockey!” Oscar exclaimed. “Was it you who come in here last week and twisted Hartog’s tail?”
“It was me.” Travor grinned.
“If that don’t beat all! Trell’s been in here off and on for several years. Yo’re as alike as two peas in a pod.”
“Yeah. Trell and I got used to that a long time ago.”
“About Hartog. He’s a bad’n.”
“The sheriff, here, told me that last week.” Travor turned to Armstrong and stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary. I was just doin’ what I thought a sheriff ort to do.”
“Gettin’ us a town council and a law-and-order sheriff calls for a drink on the house. That is—”
“Gawdamighty, Oscar! You sick or somethin’?”
“—That is, if I get help washin’ the glasses.”
“He ain’t sick. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Mr. Havelshell,” Frank called, as Alvin stepped off the porch and into the street. “Mr. Havelshell—”
Alvin turned on him like a snarling dog.
“Get the hell away from me, you stupid son of a bitch.”
“I was tryin’ to help, Mr. Havelshell—”
“Help? You dumb ass! You’re like the others … trying to drag me down to your level. I won’t be dragged down. Understand? I’ve got a law degree from the best law school west of the Mississippi. I was appointed Indian agent because I’m the most qualified man for the job. I’m not an ignorant clod like the rest of you.” Alvin’s voice rose to a screech. “Get away from me! Get away! Get away!”
Frank stopped in shock and backed away. Alvin hurried down the dark street toward his house, the blood pounding in his head so intensely he could hardly walk without stumbling. The humiliation he had endured at the saloon ate into him like a canker sore. He’d never be able to hold his head up in this town again. They’d had a council meeting without him. He’d received the messages but figured they’d not hold a meeting without him.
He
was the most important man in this town.
Alvin shoved his shaking hands into his pockets, then brought them out and hit the rough bark of a tree with his closed fist.
“Bastards! Bastards!” he croaked in a cracked off-key whisper, not even feeling the pain of the broken skin across his knuckles.
Alvin had been a total wreck, hardly able to concentrate on business at hand since he had realized that Longfellow was going to have him killed. Since that time he had not had an hour of uninterrupted sleep; fear haunted his dreams, food had stuck in his throat and when it did go down, it settled like a rock in his stomach. The only time he felt reasonably safe was when he was behind the locked doors of his house.
For four days Alvin had waited anxiously for Hartog to return. Aware that he was a marked man, he had kept himself in near seclusion, not even venturing out when he got the messages about the merchants forming a town council. Tonight he had gone to speak to the one man whom he had believed loyal. Then the shooting had occurred.
Alvin had planned to tell Armstrong about Longfellow’s threat. Because if Hartog didn’t come back, and the opportunity presented itself, he could kill the preacher himself and have an alibi of self-defense. Now that plan was shot to hell. Armstrong had gone over to the enemy. The whole damn town was against him after all he’d done for them. He hadn’t had to come here. He would have been welcome in a hundred, no, a thousand towns in the West. He’d chosen the stinking town of Sweetwater, and they hadn’t appreciated him; instead they’d been taken in and looked up to a two-bit phony preacher.
Alvin’s mind whirled out of control and into a frenzy of self-pity.
Thinking it possible that Jenny had slept with McCall, he shook with rage and frustration. He stumbled, then stopped and leaned against an oak tree. Jenny was not for a
cowboy
; a piss-poor horse rancher who could hardly read and write. She deserved an educated man, like himself. He could give her the kind of life she deserved. As soon as she understood him and what they could accomplish together, she would be grateful that he had saved her from a life of drudgery at that blasted Indian school.
They would leave this one-horse town that didn’t appreciate a man of his caliber and a woman of her breeding. He and Jenny would go to San Francisco, where he would set up a law practice and build her a fine home. They would be the toast of the town, he for his business sense and Jenny for her grace and beauty.
He began to smile, and then his high-pitched laughter rang in the stillness of the dark night. He headed home again with a jaunty spring to his step.
Havelshell reached home unaware that his thinking process had gone awry, that his mind was no longer functioning normally. The logical part of it had shut down. In an almost joyous mood, he pulled out a leather satchel and began to pack the things he wanted to take with him: money that he hadn’t wanted the banker and Longfellow to know he had, his certificate from law school, a set of clean clothes.
He made a quick trip to his law office and brought back to the house the contents of his file cabinet and his safe, took out what papers he wanted and strewed the rest over the dining-room table. He didn’t want Longfellow to get his hands on a single piece of his correspondence that might tie
him
to the theft of the reservation cattle.
In the stable at the back of the house, he saddled the thoroughbred mare he had planned to ride in a parade down through the center of town when he was officially made mayor of Sweetwater. He brought the horse to the front of the house and tied the leather satchel on behind the saddle.
Back in the house he went through it and methodically opened all the windows. When he was satisfied that he had created a sufficient draft, he splashed lamp oil onto the papers on the table, the floors and walls.
At the front door he looked back at the disarray that had once been his tidy home, and without a pang of regret, tossed a lighted match to the floor. He waited until the ribbon of fire had traveled to a large pool of oil and begun creeping up the dining-room table legs before he calmly walked off the porch, down the path and mounted his horse.
At the edge of town, he turned the horse to look back. All the downstairs windows of his house were alight with the fire growing within. He felt strong, relaxed, content, and almost unbearably pleased with himself. There was a special exhilaration in seeing the results of his actions.
He licked his lips and rode recklessly through the night toward Stoney Creek.
This was to be washday.
The dark clouds that rolled in from the southwest held a strong promise of rain. Colleen, her blue eyes dark-circled from worry about Travor and lack of sleep, went about preciated him; instead they’d been taken in and looked up to a two-bit phony preacher.
Alvin’s mind whirled out of control and into a frenzy of self-pity.
Thinking it possible that Jenny had slept with McCall, he shook with rage and frustration. He stumbled, then stopped and leaned against an oak tree. Jenny was not for a
cowboy
; a piss-poor horse rancher who could hardly read and write. She deserved an educated man, like himself. He could give her the kind of life she deserved. As soon as she understood him and what they could accomplish together, she would be grateful that he had saved her from a life of drudgery at that blasted Indian school.
They would leave this one-horse town that didn’t appreciate a man of his caliber and a woman of her breeding. He and Jenny would go to San Francisco, where he would set up a law practice and build her a fine home. They would be the toast of the town, he for his business sense and Jenny for her grace and beauty.
He began to smile, and then his high-pitched laughter rang in the stillness of the dark night. He headed home again with a jaunty spring to his step.
