The Lawmen (15 page)

28

Clay looked around. “First we need more firepower. And I know just where to get it.”

He led Essex up the street to Thomas Price’s well-stocked merchandise store. Since it was Sunday, the store’s front door was locked. Clay kicked it open, and he and Essex went inside.

A terrified stock clerk stared at them as they pushed by him to the gun racks in the rear of the store. “Help yourself,” Clay told Essex.

The two lawmen began pulling pistols from the wall pegs and opening boxes of cartridges. “You can’t just take those things,” the clerk informed them.

“We’re doing it, ain’t we?” Essex said.

“What about the bill?”

“Send it to my estate,” Clay told him.

Once the ball was opened, Clay knew there would be no time for reloading; so he took three pistols, heavy .45s with plenty of stopping power. He loaded them, put one in his empty holster and the other two in his belt along with the one he’d gotten from Price in the Lucky Tiger. Essex had Vance’s bored-through Navy Colt. He took three extra pistols, loaded them, and stuck them in his belt, then he put fresh loads in his scattergun. Clay discarded the Henry repeater, took a sawed-off shotgun from the wall rack and loaded it—the shotgun was more suited for the kind of work he and Essex would encounter.

“Ready?” Clay asked.

Essex nodded. “Ready.”

The two men started for the front door. “You’re stealing!” the clerk warned them.

“Call the law and have us arrested,” Essex said.

Clay and Essex walked back up the dusty street, shotguns cradled in their arms, belts bristling with pistols. The entire town knew that Vance was free, and a few people had ventured outside, thinking the trouble was over. When they saw Clay and Essex, they went scurrying back indoors again. Word of the impending showdown spread quickly—to Alexander Cruickshank and Amos Saxon in the Lucky Tiger, to one-armed Pete McCarty and Jason Wilcox, drowning their sorrows over a bottle of Irish whiskey at the Trophy's office.

Clay and Essex paused outside the Equity. From inside the adobe saloon came laughter and merriment. Clay said, “Well . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Essex told him. “You gonna say how good it’s been working with me. We could stand here telling lies like that all day. Let’s just go in and get ourselves killed.”

Clay held out his hand.

Essex took it.  They shook.

Then they stepped up to the saloon’s bat-wing doors.

* * *

Wes Hopkins and his brothers were at the Equity bar, along with Mayor Price and the Hopkins’ lawyer, Dunleavy. The rest of the Hopkins gang were all over the saloon—drinking, laughing, playing cards. “Congratulations, son,” said Price, slapping Vance’s back. “You’ve been through a lot the last few days.”

“It’s good to have you free,” Dunleavy added.

Vance was wearing Clay’s pistol, which he had taken from Julie Bennett. His youthful face was split by a grin. “It all happened so quick,” he said. “I’d about given up hope. I tell you, for a while there I thought ol’ Julie was going to pull the trigger on me. Then all of a sudden she goes out, and she comes back with you all. Ain’t that a hell of a thing?”

Wes laughed. “I’d like to see the look on Chandler’s face when he finds out what happened.”

“I’d like to slice that look off his face,” Lee said.

Vance agreed with Lee. “Wes, I still don’t see why you made a deal with Julie to let Chandler be. ”

“What’s the difference?” Lee said. “Talk is cheap. The first dark night, you and me will—”

“No, you won’t,” Wes told them. “I gave my word.”

“Your word to a whore?” Vance pushed the dark hair back from his forehead. “Come on, Wes. Not after what Chandler and that nigger done to me. You keep your word if you want. I don’t feel bound.”

“Not going against me, are you, little brother?”

“Maybe I-”

Vance stopped. A sudden silence had descended on the saloon. The men at the bar turned, to see Clay and Essex standing in the doorway.

“What do you want?” Wes asked them.

Clay said, “We came to get our prisoner back.”

“You’re joking,” Mayor Price said.

“It’s no joke,” Clay replied. He and Essex stood side by side, each covering one half of the saloon with their shotguns. Most of Hopkins’s men were congregated near the bar or around the tables along the far wall, but there were a number in between, as well—no shortage of targets any way you cut it.

Wes didn’t understand. “We have a deal.”

“Somebody forgot to ask us about that,” said Essex.

Lee sneered. “You let the nigger do your talking now, Chandler?”

“He’s entitled to talk. He’s wearing a badge.”

“He’s wearing my six-gun, too,” Vance said. “And I want it back.”

Essex said, “Don’t forget your boots, asshole. I got them, too.”

Mayor Price tried to head off trouble. “You’re outnumbered ten to one, Chandler. You don’t stand a chance.”

“That’s our problem,” Clay said.

Slowly, Hopkins’s men spread out, hands inching toward their guns. Price said, “Chandler, as mayor of Topaz, I command you to turn in your badge—now. I command you to—”

“Be quiet,” Clay told him. To Wes, Clay said, “Now are you going to give us the prisoner, or do we have to take him?”

There was silence in the saloon. It was as though everyone was in a state of suspended animation, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

It was Vance. He was sober this time, and with a practiced quickness he pulled his pistol and fired. Clay had been ready for the move, but he still couldn’t beat it. Vance’s bullet slammed into his chest. He staggered and fired at Vance with one barrel of the shotgun. As Vance disappeared in the shotgun’s smoke, Clay fired the shotgun’s second barrel into the press of men drawing their weapons at the bar.

The room dissolved in confusion. Next to Clay, Essex’s shotgun boomed. Across from them pistols flashed and banged, there was yelling and smoke, sounds of tables being knocked over, shadowy men moving and seeking cover. Price and Dunleavy dived behind the bar for safety.

Clay dropped the empty shotgun and drew two pistols. Hit in the right side, he staggered, then righted himself. He began firing into the murk, one pistol at a time, picking targets as best he could, unable to recognize faces through the powder smoke that already filled the room. Essex was firing his pistols, as well. He took a bullet in the side, another in the left leg, and he dropped to one knee, still shooting.

The hammers of Clay’s pistols came down on empty chambers. He dropped them, drew the remaining two, and opened up. Through the smoke he saw men falling, heard yells and screams above the gunfire. Red-hot pain jolted his left shoulder, making him drop one of the weapons. Beside him Essex was hit again and again, until he slumped to the floor seemingly under the sheer weight of metal, like a ship that goes down with its guns still firing. Clay was hit in the chest, somewhere else lower down—he didn’t know where. Then his pistol was empty. He threw it down, looked for the one he had dropped, and realized he was staggering all over the floor.

“Stop!” Wes cried. “Don’t kill him!”

Strong hands pinioned Clay’s arms. He had trouble focusing his eyes. It was hard for him to breathe through the fog of acrid, bluish smoke. The groans of the wounded and dying filled his ears. There were splotches of red blood along with the spilled whiskey and broken glass on the sawdust floor.

The men who had Clay’s arms held him upright. Out of the smoke loomed Wes Hopkins, face contorted. “You son of a bitch,” he swore. Tears rolled out of his eyes and down his cheeks. Lee sidled up beside his brother, blood on his shoulder where he’d been hit by Clay’s shotgun pellets. Behind them Vance lay at the foot of the bar, eyes open, the middle part of his body tom almost in half by Clay’s shotgun blast, bits of his ribs showing white through the blood and shredded clothing.

All traces of Wes’s fancy accent were gone now. “We ain’t going to shoot you,” he told Clay. “Oh, no. We got something better for you. ”

There was a hole in Clay’s shirt, over his heart, where Vance’s bullet had struck him. “How come Vance didn’t kill you?” Wes asked. He reached into Clay’s shirt pocket and pulled out Clay’s watch, which had been smashed by Vance’s bullet. Wes stared at the watch, emotion playing across his face, then he tossed it away.

“Bad luck for you, lawman,” Lee drawled. “’Fore I’m finished, you’re gonna wish that bullet had killed you instead of your watch.”

“You talk too much,” Clay told him.

“Time for talking’s over,” Lee said. Reaching in his back pocket, Lee brought out his straight razor. He flicked it open.

Clay swallowed, and Lee grinned. “I ain’t gonna kill you, Chandler. That would be too easy. I’m gonna scar you like I done to Julie. And everybody’s gonna see it—everybody but you.” He leaned in close and laid the razor blade on Clay’s cheek. “That’s ’cause I’m gonna take out your eyes.”

Price and Dunleavy had emerged from behind the bar.  “Wes,” urged Price, “wait a minute. This is going a bit too—”

“Shut up!” Wes told him. “He killed Vance, and he’s going to pay.”

The men holding Clay pushed him onto a chair. Clay tried to turn his head away, but Wes grabbed his jaw with both hands and held him steady.

Price looked queasy. “Wes, listen to reason! You can’t—”

“Shut up, I said, or you’ll be in this chair next.”

Lee held the razor before Clay’s eyes. “All it takes is a flick of the wrist. If you want, I’ll save the eyeballs and you can wear ’em for a necklace.”

“Go to hell,” Clay mumbled through his constricted jaw.

Grinning, Lee laid the razor blade at the comer of Clay’s left eye. His wrist tensed.

There was a pistol shot. Lee cried out and straightened involuntarily, as though he had been hauled up from behind. Another shot made Lee cry again and go spinning around onto the floor.

With an oath, Wes let go of Clay, drawing his pistol. As he stepped away from the chair, a third shot plowed into his throat. Two more shots sounded in rapid succession, knocking Wes onto his back, where he twitched several times and then did not move.

Clay turned to the source of the gunfire. Essex stood before him, swaying, bathed in blood from his wounds. Essex tried to grin, but his jaw muscles failed and the grin came up all lopsided. “Now do you believe I can shoot?” he asked Clay. Then he toppled onto his face.

The room seemed to be spinning around Clay. He pushed himself to his feet, knocking over the chair. He stumbled, almost fell. He was aware of yelling, of men barging through the saloon’s doors, led by Pete McCarty and Jason Wilcox. He heard guns firing. His last thought was that they were about fifteen minutes too late. Then he fell to the floor beside Essex.

29

After the Equity gunfight, Clay and Essex were worked on by Doc Meyers, the veterinarian. There was no hospital in Topaz, and Clay had no home in town, so he was sent to Dutch Annie’s, to recuperate and be nursed by her girls. His expenses were covered by Annie, who saw the gesture as a way to promote her civic-mindedness.

No one knew what to do with Essex. It was decided just to leave him at his shack on the edge of town, even though he was feverish and unable to take care of himself; but Liz Collington, the town’s black madame, heard about Essex’s plight and—not to be outdone by Annie—had him brought to her establishment.

Clay was forced to leave Annie’s after a week. Her generosity and desire for favorable publicity were not unlimited. Clay went to the marshal’s office—he had nowhere else to go. He was weak and pale, and he’d lost weight. He wore the same clothes he’d been shot in. The people he passed on the busy street—the same ones who had shunned him a week ago—couldn’t wait to tell him how glad they were to see him. “Morning, Marshal,” they cried.

“You’re looking well.”

“Good to see you up and about.”

“Come and visit when you get the chance.”

The short walk tired Clay out. He opened his office door to find Pete McCarty inside, coming from the cells. “Marshal!” Pete beamed. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Clay said. “What are you doing here?”

The one-armed newspaperman grinned. “I’m the acting mayor, so I am.”

“What about Price?” Clay asked.

Pete jerked a thumb toward the cells. “He’s back there. Citizen’s arrest—for attempted murder, assault, and malfeasance in office. We’ll find more charges to add later. The rest of the city council got out of town before we could catch them.”

Clay looked back in the cells. Price was sitting on one of the cell cots, head down, looking miserable. “What’ll happen to him?” Clay asked.

“I don’t know, but I doubt he’ll enjoy it. ”

Clay turned away. “I feel sorry for his wife and kids.”

“He should have thought about them before he got in so deep with Wes Hopkins,” Pete said.

Clay glanced around the little office. Not much had changed. The broken window had not been fixed. “I never got to thank you for what you did—you and Wilcox. Why’d you change your minds?”

“Once I heard the guns, I—I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t helped you. I’d have felt like my balls were cut off. My home and family mean the world to me, but it’s not right that someone else should have to fight for them.”

“Did your wife leave you, like she said she would?”

 “Bless you, no. Though, mind you, she wasn’t very happy when she found out what I’d done. Made me promise to give away my gun.” He laughed. “Not much chance of that. I guess Jason Wilcox felt the same as me. He’d had enough.”

“Where’d you get the men?” Clay asked.

“They were Wilcox’s lads. He rousted them from the saloons, promised double wages to those who helped, and a hell of a funeral to anyone who got killed. Jason’s running for mayor again, by the way, in the special election we’re having to replace Price and Amos Saxon. He’s decided to stay on here even if the mine closes.”

“You running, too?”

Pete shook his head. “I just write about politics—I’ve no desire to participate. Haven’t the courage of my convictions,I’m afraid. Your job’s safe, of course. After what you did, you can be marshal here as long as you want.”

Clay snorted. “Or until enough people get pissed off at me.”

“You’ll not have to worry about the Hopkins gang, at any rate. The three Hopkins brothers are on Boot Hill, along with a number of their men. Their entire operation has been broken up. Sure, and I never thought I’d see that day come to Topaz.”

Clay didn’t say anything.

“Oh, I neatly forgot,” Pete went on. He pulled an envelope from his frock coat and handed it to Clay. “Here’s the rest of your month’s pay, plus four days’ pay for your temporary deputy. I took the money from Price’s cash box when we arrested him.”

McCarty picked up something from Clay’s desk. “I got this for you, too.” He held it out—a rounded glob of metal. “Doc Meyers pulled so much lead out of you, I had it melted down and made into a paperweight. The date’s engraved on the back.”

Clay turned the metallic lump over. On the smooth rear side was etched the date of the Equity gunfight—July 21, 1872.

“Thanks,” Clay said.

“I’ll be running along now,” Pete said. “Got a paper to put out, you know. The ‘Daily Lie,’ we call it at the office. You need anything, you let me know.”

Dutch Annie had said the same thing to Clay—until she kicked him out. “Thanks,” he repeated.

Pete shook his hand. “Good job, Clay. Hell of a job.” Then he left.

Clay sat in his chair, unsure what to do. Maybe he would go in the back room and sleep.

There was a thump
thump
, thump
thump
, thump
thump
, on the walk outside. The door opened and Essex Johnson hobbled in, a crutch under his left shoulder to support one wounded leg, limping on the other leg. He still wore the same torn clothes; somebody had washed them, but they hadn’t gotten out all the blood. The beehive-shaped wool hat had been lost somewhere.

Clay looked at Essex and laughed. “What happened—you get thrown out, too?”

Essex leaned on his crutch. “Yeah. Miz Liz decided it was time they had them a paying hero.”

“I guess that’s the going reward for heroism these days—a week’s free sleep at a whorehouse. Great country, ain’t it?” He waved a hand. “Have a seat.”

Essex shook his head. “That’s all right. I been on my ass for a week. Feels good to stand awhile.” He unpinned the shield-shaped badge from his tattered shirt. “I come to turn in my badge. Now that the Hopkins boys are dead, the job’s over.”

He handed the badge to Clay, who looked at it a moment, then put it in his desk drawer. “I have your pay,” Clay told him. He took the envelope Pete McCarty had given him and counted out greenbacks. “Here’s a dollar a day for the four days you were on the job.” He paused. “Plus I got permission from the acting mayor to pay you for the time you were healing at Liz’s—that’s another seven dollars.”

Essex flipped through the crinkled bills. “Eleven whole dollars. Think I’ll buy me a railroad somewheres—or maybe start up a cattle empire.” Folding the money, he stuck it in his trouser pocket. “What about Julie Bennett?”

“What about her?” Clay said.

“You going to go after her and bring her back here?”

 Clay stared. “How’d you know?”

“What I’d do, was I you.  She’s a good woman, and she loves you.”

Clay let out his breath. He’d thought of little else while he was mending. “Yes, I’m going to go after her.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“No. I’ll find her, though.”

“Might raise some eyebrows around town, you and her gettin’ together.”

“If people don’t like it, they can move,” Clay said.

“That mean you’re staying on here as marshal?”

Clay wrinkled his brow. “I guess it does. It’s the only thing I was ever good at.”

Essex looked amused. “Good?”

“All right—‘successful.’”

Essex said, “This is still a plenty tough town, you know.”

“I know. Just because I survived this time doesn’t mean I’ll live to be an old man. Doesn’t mean I’ll live to next week, for that matter.” Clay smiled. “There is one good thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to be rid of you. No more back-talk and smart remarks. Hell, that’s worth a hundred dollar a month raise right there. What about you—what are you going to do now?”

Essex thought for a moment. “You got a permanent deputy’s job to fill, ain’t you?”

“Yeah,” Clay said. “Why?”

Essex grinned. “’Cause I’m applying.”

The End

About the Author

Robert Broomall is the author of sixteen published novels ten under his own name and six under pseudonyms. His main interests are travel and history.
The Lawmen
was originally published by Fawcett Books in 1992.  Several years ago,  it was turned into a stage play by Joe Moore, who also played Clay Chandler.  The final chapter has been slightly revised for this Smashwords edition.

Covert Art by Susan Smerker

Connect with Bob

Blog: 
http://www.rwbroomall.com

Facebook: 
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001009624410

Bonus: Excerpt from
The Bank Robber

1

One morning in the summer of 1875, two riders drew up before a proudly lettered sign: WELCOME TO TEMPERANCE, CITY OF OPPORTUNITY.

Swede Burdette eased himself in the saddle of his powerful black horse, Dancer. He tipped his battered hat back on his head, exposing what was left of his dark, curly hair. Once Swede had been handsome, but years of hard living had turned his face craggy. His nut-brown skin was seamed with deep lines. Opening one of his canteens, Swede swished the water inside, while he studied the town that sprawled before him in a haze of West Texas dust. His eyes were gray and deep-set, eyes that were used to staring into long distances— for Indians, for game, for signs of rain.

Beside him, the Arkansas Kid read the sign and laughed. “Opportunity, huh? I hope so—it took us three days to get here. Wouldn’t want to ride all this way for nothin’.”

The Kid was shorter than Swede and wiry, with tight blond curls and merry blue eyes. In contrast to Swede’s plain clothing, the Kid was dressed like a Mexican vaquero, with a short jacket, striped pants, and silver spurs. Two pistol belts were crossed at his waist, and he sat a sturdy pinto pony.

Removing his wide sombrero, the Kid beat the dust from his clothes. “Sure is good to be working again. I like Mexico, but we been hiding out too long.”

Swede swished the canteen again and drank. “Yeah.”

A thought crossed the Kid’s face. “Say, today’s August 17, ain’t it?”

Swede did not know. “If you say so,” he drawled.

“If it is, tomorrow’s my birthday. I’ll be thirty-two years old.” The Kid laughed again. “Hell, Swede, I’m gettin’ to be an old man riding with you—newspapers won’t be able to call me ‘Kid’ no more.”

Swede gave his partner an easy grin and looped the canteen next to the two others on his pommel.

The Kid went on, “I hope the citizens of Temperance have me a nice birthday present—them and the Southwest Texas Railroad, of course. The place looks prosperous enough, and prosperity’s something we could use.”

The two men drew their pistols. Swede’s .45 seemed lost in his huge hand, while the Kid’s nickel-plated Remingtons flashed in the sun. They checked the loads and sat the weapons lightly in their well-oiled holsters.

Swede leaned over and tapped the water bag on the Kid’s horse to make sure it was full. Then he straightened and squinted at the sun. “I make it about nine. The bank’ll just be opening. Westland Bank’s in the center of town. We’ll take it straight on, like always. You ready?”

Nodding, the Kid replaced his sombrero and tightened the chin strap.

Swede pulled his hat down and kicked his black horse forward. “All right, Dancer. Let’s go.”

The two men trotted down the long slope into town. Passing an open carriage, they doffed their hats and bowed low to the young lady inside. She smiled demurely from behind her parasol.

* * *

Even at this early hour, it was hot inside the bank. Swede’s shirt stuck to his sweaty back. The bank guard and the tellers stood against the wall, Swede covering them with his .45. The only sound was the jingling of the Kid’s Mexican spurs as he moved behind the window, scooping money from the tellers’ desks.

The bank's lone customer was an old woman in a black dress, who was both thrilled and frightened by her first robbery. She thrust an ancient black cloth purse at Swede. “Don’t forget this.”

Swede grinned, pushing the purse back gently. “That’s all right, ma’am, you keep it. We got enough. Why don’t you sit on that bench there, you’ll be more comfortable. We’ll just be a minute.”

As the old woman sat, the Kid was emptying the safe,

thrusting bound stacks of bills into his saddlebags. “Look at all this! We struck the mother lode! Ha, ha, here comes the hacienda that Maria and me been—”

At Swede’s elbow, a door squeaked open. A bank guard stood framed in the dazzling sunlight. The guard’s coat was draped over his arm. He scratched his head at the frozen tableau before him. “What the—” Then he realized what was happening, and lowered his shotgun.

At this distance Swede could have killed the guard, but he shot him in the shoulder instead. The room dissolved in confusion as the other guard dived for his discarded weapon and a teller snatched a pistol from the cabinet. Showing remarkable alacrity, the old woman ducked behind a desk as the first shots rocked the office.

“Let’s go!” Swede shouted.

Swede and the Kid backed out of the bank in a hail of gunfire. Swede jumped into the street. He untied the kicking, plunging horses and held the reins securely. All around, people were shouting and running for cover.