The Desperate Deputy of Cougar Hill (3 page)

Then the name of the song being sung struck him. It was
Lorinda
. And now the memory of Saxton Larabee came sharply to his mind. Memories of the times they had ridden together, drunk together, fought together. Sax was a little older, just enough to have been in the war near its end. He had a good voice and he had sung
Lorinda
a lot, had whistled it softly many a time when he rode night herd. But most of all, Cameron remembered him singing it softly and sadly in his cell at the Colorado prison.

This was a memory Cameron tried to keep far back in his mind, but there were times when it refused to stay there. A time like now — because he knew who the stranger reminded him of. In size and build, in the way he walked and held himself the man could have been Sax Larabee.

Cameron laughed shortly, mocking himself. To think that a man like Sax Larabee would come to an isolated mountain town such as Cougar Hill was absurd. His concern about Rafe Arker was making him dream up ghosts, Cameron thought. Sax Larabee was part of a past dead and buried all these years. It was foolishness to think that past could come to life again.

Moving quickly now, as if to escape from the song drifting down to him, Cameron went into Jenny’s café. The supper hour was almost over and the only customer was Obed Beggs, perched on one of the three counter stools. The room was small, with only four tables besides the counter, and the fragrant odors of stew, freshly boiled coffee, and newly baked pie were packed tightly in the air. Cameron nodded pleasantly to Obed Beggs and sniffed hungrily as he slid onto a stool.

Jenny Purcell was behind the counter, the sleeves of her plain green dress pushed to her elbows and her hands in a full dishpan. Cameron looked down for a moment at the crown of her wheat-blond hair, and then she lifted her head and touched him with the warmth of her smile. She was a pretty woman with hauntingly large gray eyes, but their beauty was darkened by a shadow of concern. Cameron guessed she had heard the rumor about Rafe Arker.

“I saved a piece of apple pie for you,” she said in her husky voice.

“And after you eat it, you’ll be so contented you won’t be able to say no to a favor I got to ask,” Obed Beggs put in. He was a tall, spare old man, owner of the biggest cattle and mule ranch in the valley. It was a piece of his range Cameron had bought.

“I know,” Cameron said, “you want me to help with the roundup next week.”

“I got about everybody else except for a few drifters,” Obed said. His eyes gleamed. “And I’ll need just about twice as many riders as we got people in this Cougar country. Did you hear that the army wants three times more horses and mules than they ever bought from us before?”

“I heard,” Cameron said.

“Those bankers’ll have to be working nights for quite a while to keep track of all the gold there’ll be in these parts,” Obed chortled. “Think of all the mortgages that’ll get reduced! And all the little debts men can pay off with the money they make in the roundup. It’ll be the easiest winter most folks ever had to look forward to.”

Jenny smiled at Cameron. “I offered to turn the café over to Manuel and help out, and I think Obed’s about to agree.”

“I’ll take anybody can sit a horse,” Obed said. “When the ranchers put me in charge of this shindig I didn’t know what I was getting into. I thought the way my horses and mules are scattered all over summer range was bad enough, but you should try to find some of the critters Val Vaught and Toby Landon own.”

He gulped down his coffee and stood up. “Try to find time from your law work, Roy. Now I better get or the Widow Crotty’ll think I’m dodging her singamajig.” He hurried out.

Cameron watched Jenny dry her hands and then move gracefully about in the small space behind the counter. She brought him a bowl of stew and thick slices of homemade bread. Then she stepped back and silently watched him eat.

“You heard about Rafe Arker?” Cameron asked. She nodded and he said, “If you’re worried he might come here, I can get you a gun.”

“I have one under the counter,” Jenny said. “But Rafe would never hurt me personally.”

“Then you’re afraid of what he might try to do to me?”

She touched his hand with the warm tips of her fingers. “I’m afraid,” she admitted. She shook her head as if to deny her own words. “I’m not afraid as long as you can face him. I’ve seen you fight those big cavalrymen. It isn’t that. It’s what could happen when you turn your back. Rafe has never cared how he gets what he wants, just so that he gets it.”

She could be talking about Sax Larabee in the old days, Cameron thought. And he felt a stir of anger directed at himself for not being able to keep from thinking about Sax Larabee.

Before he could answer Jenny, the door burst open. Tod Purcell staggered in, his freckles standing out with excitement and his mouth open while he sucked in air.

“Rafe’s come to the Silver Strike with Joe Farley, Roy. And they’re causing trouble already!”

Cameron spooned up a mouthful of stew and waited. Tod caught his breath. “Both of them refused to check their guns with the barkeep. More than half the customers have already got up and left The swamper came and told me to find you.”

Cameron swallowed his stew and slid off the stool. “Is Rafe drinking?”

“Just one whiskey, I was told.”

Cameron nodded at the stew. “Keep it hot; I’ll be back in a while.”

“I’ll do that,” Jenny said, and turned quickly away.

C
AMERON STRODE
down the board sidewalk toward the Silver Strike Saloon. It was the most southerly of the two on Main Street, and the place that caused most of the trouble on a Saturday night. Most of the drifters and miners patronized it, while the sawmill workers and the settled cowhands and the small ranchers went to the Cattleman’s Bar three doors to the north. The well-to-do, both from town and valley, did their drinking in the hotel bar.

But for all that the hotel bar was quietest; Cameron checked it with the same thoroughness he checked the other saloons. And he was as insistent that Obed Beggs check his gun as he was that the poorest drifter do so. That was Balder’s law — no one but the marshal and his deputy carried hardware inside the town limits.

Tod Purcell trotted alongside Cameron. “What do you figure on doing, Roy?”

“Make Rafe Arker and Joe Farley check their guns.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they get out of town the same as anyone else. If they kick up a fuss, they’ll have to cool off in a cell. They’re no different from other people.”

Cameron stopped just short of the heavy plank door of the saloon. “You get back to the livery,” he said.

“There are a few in there that’ll side with Rafe if they get a chance,” Tod said.

“I expected as much,” Cameron admitted. “But if the law had to have outside help everywhere it went, it wouldn’t be much force. This is my job. If I can’t do it, I’d better quit being the law.”

Tod moved reluctantly away. Cameron watched until he was back in the livery, safely out of the way. Then he started toward the door. He stopped to loosen his gun and to set his hat. He felt no fear and wondered at his own hesitancy. Sooner or later, he would have to face down Rafe Arker. It was just another lawing chore that had to be done.

But the question came sharply to his mind: Had he slowed down after these months of quiet living? Fear that he might have, he realized, explained Balder’s attitude and Tod Purcell’s hesitancy.

It was a question that he knew only one way to answer. He pushed open the door and stepped into the saloon. Kicking the door shut with his boot-heel, he stood quietly, his head moving from side to side as he measured the men in the room.

It was a small place with a short bar at one end, a cleared space for dancing on those rare occasions when hurdy-gurdy girls trouped through town, and room for three card tables at the back. All three tables were occupied, two with card players. The third held the Dondee brothers who were too busy staring at Cameron to worry about the cards and chips in front of them.

Cameron was surprised to find them here on a week night but he gave no sign of his interest. He was more concerned with Rafe Arker. He and Joe Farley were bellied up to the bar, Rafe in a position to have his broad back turned contemptuously toward the door, and to have his .44 visible on his hip.

Two other men at the bar were backed as far from Arker as they could get without leaving. Cameron noted that the younger one was Nick Ramey, one of Obed Beggs’ hands. The other was a stranger to him.

The barkeep was a sallow-faced man with an oversized mustache covering his upper lip. He was pouring Ramey a drink. When he finished, he backed against his liquor rack and watched Cameron.

Rafe Arker kept his back to the door. “Get out, lawman,” he ordered in his heavy voice. “This is a private party.”

“The law says you check your guns when you first hit town,” Cameron stated in his quiet way. “Now both of you draw slow and easy. I want to see that hardware on the bartop. Now!”

Silence came down over the small room. Cameron stood apparently relaxed. But inside he was taut, holding himself ready for any move Arker might make. What the man did at this moment would determine the course of things from now on.

Arker straightened up and turned slowly. His right side was next to the bar now and he stepped away to give his gun arm room.

“My gun stays with me,” he challenged.

Jupe Dondee called out, “Better watch yourself, mister. The deputy here’s a real gunslick.”

Cameron’s glance moved around the room, lingering longest on Nick Ramey. From the expressions he saw he realized that Balder had been right. It would mean nothing for him to beat Rafe Arker to the draw. He would have to prove his authority over this mountain of a man with his fists.

Arker had finished his turn and now it was Cameron’s right to move. He started slowly forward, his eyes fixed on Arker. The big man was motionless, his massive torso bent slightly forward in a gunfighter’s crouch, his fingers just clear of his gun butt.

Cameron kept his eyes on Rafe Arker’s face, not on his hand. He had learned long ago that a man’s eyes and expression revealed more of his intent than a hand motion. And always the quick blink or the sudden fixed stare, the tautness around the mouth or the uncontrollable twitch of a muscle — one of these preceded the draw by a fraction of time.

Cameron walked with his arm crooked slightly at the elbow, his fingertips brushing his gun butt. His stride was slow-paced, steady. With each forward step he made, the silence in the saloon thickened until it was like a solid wall wrapping itself around himself and around Rafe Arker, a cocoon that cut them off from awareness of their surroundings.

Arker and Cameron had been a good twenty feet apart before. Now the distance between them was six feet. Cameron lifted his foot for another step. He saw the telltale movement from Rafe Arker — the involuntary flick of the man’s tongue across dry lips. At almost the same instant, Arker dove for leather. He stopped his draw abruptly, his .44 barely more than half clear of its holster. Surprise flooded his expression as he stared at Cameron’s gun, drawn and aimed steadily for his belly.

“Hardware on the bar, butt first,” Cameron said. His words dropped softly into the thick pool of quiet. “You first, Arker.”

With aching slowness, Raft Arker pulled his gun free. He turned and with the same slowness, laid the gun on the bar top. A sigh rustled through the watching men as he lifted his hand, empty, and stepped back.

“Your turn, Farley,” Cameron commanded.

Joe Farley followed Arker’s lead, his small body stiff with frustration. As he moved away from the bar, his lips moved jerkily, throwing words at Arker that were too soft for anyone else to hear.

Arker grunted and stared fixedly at Cameron.

From the rear of the room, Jupe Dondee called again, “I told you to watch yourself, mister.”

The mocking twist was back on Rafe Arker’s mouth. “So the law is faster with a gun. That don’t prove nothing.”

Cameron could feel the challenge in the words bring all eyes toward him. He had resigned himself to the fight with Arker and for the moment was not concerned about it. But he was puzzled at the way this affair was going. Even though Arker had obviously been surprised at the speed of Cameron’s draw, he had not acted as if he expected to win a gun duel. Rather, Cameron thought, he had acted as if he expected to lose it.

Cameron could not rid himself of the feeling that each move Rafe Arker had made — from the butchering of the steer to the laying of his gun on the bar — had been carefully planned in advance. Planned to force Cameron into moves he had no desire to make. He had the sensation of playing a game of chess against an expert. And yet it was impossible to believe that Rafe Arker was capable of planning one move ahead, let alone a half dozen.

Cameron took a backward step. “Take those guns,” he ordered the barkeep. They disappeared from the bartop and Cameron holstered his own weapon. He unbuckled his belt and let it drop to the floor. Pushing it aside with a foot, he took off his hat and sailed it on top of the gun and belt. Each move was made slowly and deliberately.

“It’s time you learned what the law is,” Cameron said softly.

And now it was Arker’s turn to hesitate. Clearly he had not expected Cameron to accept his challenge, to meet him in hand-to-hand combat. Surprise flickered into his eyes and then drained away, letting the contempt appear again.

“That’s an old trick,” he rumbled. “After I whip you, the marshal hauls me to jail for resisting a law officer.”

Cameron’s answer was to unpin the star from his vest and to drop it into the crown of his hat. Again Arker showed momentary surprise. Then he laughed.

Cameron stood quietly. Again he was waiting for the signal that would tell him Arker was going to make his move. This time Cameron expected a bull rush, an attempt to catch him in those thick arms — a catch-as-catch-can, no-holds-barred kind of wrestling that would let Arker take full advantage of his size and weight.

The street door opened. Momentarily all eyes turned in that direction. Cameron followed suit, wanting to make sure that this was not a threat aimed at his unprotected back.