The Lawmen (13 page)

24

It was an hour before dawn when Clay and Essex, along with Vance Hopkins, walked their weary horses across the hastily rebuilt San Marcos Bridge into Topaz. The animals’ hoofs clumped heavily on the green planking.

Even at this late hour the lights in the saloons and gambling halls burned. The streets were full of miners and cowboys. There was music, loud talk, celebratory gunshots. “Saturday night,” Clay realized.

“Everybody’s going to know we’re back,” Essex said.

Clay was philosophical. “It ain’t like it would have been a secret for long.”

As they led the six horses down Tucson Street, people stopped to stare. There were groans and angry mutters. “What are you doing back here?” somebody said.

Other men waved to the prisoner. “Hi, Vance.” “Where you been?”

Vance’s spirits had revived. “Been for a ride, boys. Work up a good thirst, ’cause when I get free in a little while the drinks are on me.”

There were cheers and laughter. “Makes you wonder who the good guys are, don’t it?” Essex said.

Almost the first person the three men ran into was Thomas Price. Topaz’s mayor was on his way home from what was supposed to have been a Saturday night poker game with Dunleavy, Saxon, and some of his other cronies—though in reality they had been with the girls at Francie de Lisle’s. Price walked down the middle of the street—hands in his pockets, open frock coat revealing his bulging stomach, top

hat back on his head. A big cigar was perched in one side of his mouth, and his gait was unsteady.

When he saw the two lawmen and their prisoner, he stopped. He stared at them, slack-jawed. “What the . . . ?”

“Yeah, we’re back,” Clay said wearily. “And Wes Hopkins is right behind us.”

“But what . . . ? I mean, where did you go? Why are you . . . ?”

“It’d take too long to explain. Look, Mayor, we need your help. If we can get some men, we can beat the Hopkins gang. You wouldn’t help us the first time, but I’d like you to change your mind. Rally the town. It’s not too late.”

Mayor Price was still in shock. “I’ll . . .I’ll think about it.”

“Well, don’t think too long,” Clay told him. “All hell’s liable to bust loose here at any time.” He turned to Essex. “Let’s get off this street. I feel like a circus exhibit.”

“It’s probably your natural calling,” Essex assured him.

The little party turned down a side street. Mayor Price stared after them, along with a lot of other men. Price had been sure that Wes would catch Chandler and the Negro before they got Vance to Tucson. And if Wes failed—well, that would be his problem. Wes would have no one to blame but himself, or so Price had hoped. He had allowed himself to believe that life could get back to normal again.

Now the problem was being dumped right back in his lap. All his fears of the Hopkins brothers and of what they might do—to him, to his town, to his family—returned. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. Then he pulled down his top hat and began retracing his steps toward Francie’s—Dunleavy and Saxon were still there, and he had to talk to them. They needed a plan, and they needed one quickly.

* * *

“This ain’t the way to the jail,” Essex said.

“I got somewhere I want to go first,” Clay told him.

 He and Essex, along with Vance and the six horses, were in an alley behind Lincoln Street. They made enough racket kicking around all the old tin cans and empty bottles, but at least no one was staring at them—though Clay knew that word of their arrival was spreading through town.

Back ways led the party to the Triangle. They crossed the south side of Grant Street and emerged on the Line.

Essex grinned in the darkness. “What are we going to do—have us some whores before we get killed?”

Clay gave him a look but didn’t answer.

They halted at the head of the nameless street that ran through the Line. Clay studied the street for a moment, then said to Essex, “Wait here.”

Hat down, head bent, Clay stepped from the shadows and walked down the filthy lane. Most of the shacks around him were dark; from others came laughter or drunken arguments. Somewhere a lonely mouth organ played “Sweet Betsey from Pike.” A shaft of light split the predawn darkness as a door opened and a woman tossed the contents of a chamber pot into the lane, narrowly missing Clay. “Better watch where you’re going!” the woman cried, to gruff laughter from inside.

Clay came to Julie Bennett’s crib. The frame and tar-paper shack was dark inside. He listened at the door but heard no sound. He knocked, then knocked again.

“Who is it?” a woman mumbled sleepily.

“Clay. Are you alone?”

There were noises inside, then a lantern glowed. The door opened, revealing Julie, wearing a cheap cotton night robe. “Clay,” she cried, “you’re all right!”

She put down the lantern—almost dropping it in her haste—and threw herself into his arms. “I was afraid Wes and his men had killed you. How did you get away from them? What are you doing back in—”

Clay slipped inside, where he couldn’t be seen. “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I need a favor.”

“Don’t you always?” she said. “Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you come to see—”

 She was cut off as Clay pulled her close and kissed her. “That’s the reason I come to see you,” he said when he let her go.

Julie sighed. “All right. What’s the favor?”

Clay looked out the door, up the lane to where Essex waited with Vance. He gave a low whistle, and the deputy hurried toward the crib, pushing Vance before him. The two of them ducked inside. Clay looked around to see if they’d been noticed, then he closed the door behind them.

Julie recognized Vance and her eyes widened. “I want you to watch him for a while,” Clay told her.

“You’re going to leave him here?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Essex asked.

“A hunch. In case we get pulled out of the office, like we did last time. There ain’t no truce now. Wes could just walk in and set little brother here free. I don’t want to make this easy for him.”

Vance leered at Julie. “Well, well, Scarface Julie. I guess you ain’t learned your lesson, after all. So you’re Chandler’s little woman, huh?”

Julie blushed, and Vance went on, “I guess you take what you can get—huh, Chandler? Me, I prefer my women with their faces in one piece—”

Clay jammed die bandanna in Vance’s mouth again. “You never learn, do you, sunshine?”

But Vance’s words had struck home. Julie struggled to keep tears from spilling out of her eyes and down her scarred cheeks.

“Can I leave him here?” Clay asked again, taking her arms gently. “I’m sorry to keep pressing you about it, but I don’t have much time.”

“How—how do I stop him from running?” she asked.

“That’s easy,” Essex told her. He took the length of rope that was still attached to Vance’s cuffs and yanked the young outlaw across the floor to Julie’s bed. He kicked Vance’s legs from under him, dropping him to the floor on his butt. Then he tied the rope to Julie’s metal bedstead. “That ought to do it. It’s uncomfortable for him, but that makes it more fun for you.”

Through his gag Vance cursed, eyes glaring, long hair flopping over his face with the force of his movements.

“See,” Essex said, “a regular pussycat.”

Julie got the little hideout pistol from her effects on top of the chest. “No,” Clay said. “Use this—it’s heavier.” He pulled his revolver, twirled it, and handed it to Julie butt first. “If he gives you any trouble, hit him over the head with this. It works like a charm. I’ll be back for him as soon as I can.”

“And if you don’t come back?”

“I’ll be back,” he promised, smoothing her disheveled blond hair. “I’ve got to go now, before it gets light. I don’t want anyone knowing we’ve been here.”

Julie looked at him like she was seeing him for the last time. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

She turned to Essex. “Good luck, Mr. Johnson.”

Essex touched the brim of his old wool hat. “Thanks, Miss Julie.” Then he and Clay left.

While Essex returned the two remaining rented horses to the stables, Clay went to his office, sneaking in the back entrance, hoping everyone would think that he had Vance locked in a cell once more. By then the sun was coming up. The town was quiet, even for a Sunday morning. The office had been ransacked by Wes’s men when they broke in before, and Clay busied himself straightening up and making coffee until Essex rejoined him.

“Coffee’s ready,” Clay told the deputy.

“Thanks,” Essex said.

“What did you do with the other four horses?”

“Turned ’em loose. Let Wes catch ’em.”

Clay said, “I ain’t got a replacement for that six-gun I gave Julie. Why don’t you let me have the Henry—I’m a better shot. You can have the shotgun and your pistol.”

“You’re a better rifle shot,” Essex corrected. “Remember, I got them two fellows with the pistol.”

“Sure you did,” Clay scoffed. “You couldn’t blow out your brains if you held the gun to your head.”

“What I got to do to prove it to you?”

“Shooting Wes Hopkins would make a good start.”

“I ought to shoot you, is who I should shoot.”

Essex gave Clay the rifle. He took the shotgun, feeling its heft. Then he looked out the window. “Sure quiet out there, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” Clay said.

At that moment hoof beats sounded on the bridge, the noise carrying in the still air. Clay and Essex stepped outside and looked up the street.

Five riders had crossed the bridge. They turned down a side street so that they would not have to pass in front of the jail, but there was no doubt who two of them were.

Wes and Lee Hopkins were back in town.

25

Wes and Lee Hopkins rode down Lincoln Street, followed by three of their gunmen. The last man led the spare horses. The riders were dusty and grim. The early morning sun slanted their shadows across the deserted street.

Wes and Lee had started after Chandler as soon as the first of the stampeded horses had been recovered, leaving the rest of the gang and the wounded to follow when they could. Wes had hoped to catch Chandler and his deputy in the open, before they could reach Topaz and fort up in the jail. If the deputy—Wes didn’t even know his name—hadn’t stolen those horses, Wes would have been successful. As it was, he had come up short by a couple of hours. Now he and his men gave the marshal’s office a wide berth. They didn’t want to get potshotted while riding by.

As the five men passed the office of the Topaz Trophy, one-armed Pete McCarty stepped outside to watch. Pete had been setting ad type for tomorrow’s edition. He didn’t have to be here at this hour on a Sunday morning, but he didn’t like being at home anymore. He felt guilty at home. He felt unclean. Only work could keep his thoughts from the way he had betrayed Clay Chandler. Pete knew that Chandler and Vance Hopkins were back in town. Everybody knew. Pete tried not to think about that, either.

Wes and his men didn’t even glance at Pete. He was no threat to them—not anymore. Footsteps sounded on the wooden planking beside him. “Like a bad dream, isn’t it?” a voice said.

Pete turned to see Jason Wilcox, the chunky, weathered mine superintendent. Pete nodded agreement. “That it is.” He paused, then said, “What brings you out so early then, Jason?”

“I’m used to getting up early. Old habits are hard to break, I guess.”

“Sure, and I remember when Sunday was like any other day for you—work ’round the clock, the smokestacks going, the ore wagons rumbling. It’s only about a month since you eliminated the Sunday shifts.”

“A month exactly,” Wilcox said. Then he added, “That isn’t all I’ve eliminated. I just laid off fifty men at the mill. If the hard rock boys don’t start bringing up more ore, I’ll have to lay off another fifty within the week. There just isn’t work for them.”

“Bad news,” Pete said, shaking his head. “I’ve been this town’s biggest booster, as you know, but between the lack of work and the lack of the law, I’m beginning to think Topaz won’t make it.”

“It won’t be the first town I’ve seen that went belly up,” Wilcox said.

“Me, either. But the way it’s happening leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

Wilcox looked around. “Yeah. I kind of like it here, too. I’ll hate to leave Topaz.”

Pete grunted. “I’m wondering if I want to stay here in any case. I’m wondering if I can live with myself here, if I can live with my conscience.”

“It’s a lousy feeling, isn’t it? Everything’s going to hell, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

* * *

Wes and his men turned back onto Tucson Street. They halted at the edge of the Triangle, in front of the Equity Saloon. They dismounted and hitched their horses to the rails, then they pushed through the Equity’s bat-wing doors, spurs jingling, chaps flapping dust.

Inside the dark saloon the early-shift barkeep was scrubbing down the bar. “Aw, Wes,” he said, “you know we ain’t open yet. ”

“You are now,” Wes told him.

The barkeep swallowed and went back to work.

Wes’s men piled weapons and saddlebags in the chairs. One of them slid over the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass. As he raised the bottle to pour, Wes snatched it from his hand and threw it into a comer, smashing it. “No booze,” Wes said. “Not till we get Vance back.”

“You want to go after him now?” Lee asked his brother.

“No. We’ll wait for the rest of the men to get here. When we hit them, I want to hit them hard—with everything we’ve got. No more games. This time Chandler and his dark friend won’t walk away.”

Wes turned to the barkeep. “Go to Lee Fong’s. Have him bring us some food and coffee—and plenty of it.”

“Sure, Wes,” the barkeep said. He put down his rag, took off his apron, and hurried out.

Wes sat at a table with his hands folded in front of him. There was a bloody bandage on his ear where Chandler’s bullet had nicked him. His men began playing cards or pool. Lee settled in a comer. He brought out his whetstone and began sharpening his razor with long, smooth strokes.

* * *

At the north end of Tucson Street, Mayor Price was meeting with his friends at the Green Cloth. They talked in low, urgent tones.

“There’s no telling what Wes’ll do if something happens to Vance,” said Dunleavy the lawyer, puffy-eyed from his night at Francie’s.

Cruickshank, the red-haired banker, looked nervous enough to jump. “Should we hire someone, like we did the last time?”

“No,” Judge Saxon said. “We can’t afford any more failures.”

“You’re right, Amos,” Mayor Price said. “Whatever we do, we have to do it ourselves.”

* * *

On the Line, Julie Bennett sat in a wicker chair, pointing the big Colt .44 that Clay had given her at Vance. Julie was on pins and needles. On one hand, she expected the Hopkins brothers to break into her house at any moment. On the other hand, she kept waiting for—and dreading—the sound of gunfire from the marshal’s office.

Vance stared at her with those blue eyes that once had seemed so charming. Every once in a while he muttered through his filthy gag, but Julie ignored him. She hated Vance. She hated his brothers. It was all she could do not to pull the trigger. She wished there was a way out of this.

* * *

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the heat in the marshal’s office intensified, until the small building seemed like an oven. Now and then there were hoof beats from the bridge as more and more of Wes’s men reached town. Essex looked out the broken window. “Bringing the wounded in now. That must be the last of them—those that’s coming back.”

He ran a thumb along a barrel of the sawed-off shotgun. “When do you think the party will start?”

“I don’t know,” Clay replied. “I don’t think they’ll wait long, though.” He pulled out his watch to check the time, but the watch had stopped. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot to wind it.” He thought about getting rid of the watch, then changed his mind and slipped it back into his shirt pocket.

“Well, we beat Wes’s deadline,” Essex said. “At least we accomplished something by all this.”

“Did we?” Clay wondered. “Or did we just postpone the inevitable?”

“Sometimes postponin’ the inevitable ain’t such a bad thing. If nothing else, we pissed Wes off.”

“Wonderful. That’ll be something to put on our headstones—‘They pissed off Wes Hopkins.’”

“Ain’t nobody in this town going to buy us no headstones,” Essex pointed out. “Popular as we are, we’ll be lucky if they even bury us.” He looked at Clay more closely. “What’s wrong with you? It ain’t all that bad. Hell, everybody’s got to die sometime.”

“It’s not that, “ Clay said.4‘It’s just that I feel like a failure again. I thought this time would be different, but it’s the same. It’s always the same.”

The office door opened. Clay and Essex turned with their guns leveled, but it was only Jeff Harding, a young clerk who worked at Thomas Price’s store. “Marshal,” he gasped, breathless. “The Lucky Tiger—something’s happened.”

“What?” Clay said. “What happened?”

The young man could barely get it out. “Some men. They were drinking—miners, teamsters, I don’t know—it was crowded. One man said another one stepped on his toe— something stupid like that. The other man said something back. Then the first one broke a bottle against the bar and ground it into the other’s one’s face. His face is—Christ, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Clay and Essex exchanged looks. Clay let out his breath. “Where’s the one with the bottle now?” he asked Harding.

“He’s still in there drinking, like nothing happened.”

“How’s the other one?”

“I don’t know. We sent for the vet, but there’s so much blood. I don’t know if he’s going to live or die. Please, Marshal, you’ve got to do something. ”

Swearing, Clay started for the door, but Essex beat him to it. “I’ll go,” Essex said. “You stay here in case Wes comes— you bein’ the world’s greatest rifle shot and all.”

Clay hesitated. “Think you can handle this?”

“You mean, can I arrest a white man? Damn, I been waiting for this all my life.”

“All right,” Clay said after a second. “But get back here as quick as you can.”

“I will.”

Essex nodded to Harding to go first, and he followed him from the office. The streets were eerily deserted. Topaz was like a ghost town, though Essex knew that there were scores of people behind the closed doors and shuttered windows.

They reached the Lucky Tiger, yet another saloon in the Triangle. Essex heard no noise from inside—he’d expected the victim to be screaming in pain. Likely the fellow had either died or passed out.

“In here,” Harding said, leading the way.

Essex followed the clerk through the swinging doors. Inside the saloon was a crowd of men, many of them well- dressed. Essex looked around. He saw no injured man, no sign of any trouble.

“What the hell—” he said.

At that moment somebody smashed a bottle against the side of his head.