The Smoking Iron (5 page)

Pat nudged Ezra and pulled him on a few steps to the deep shadow cast by a pepper tree. Baines closed the door and came down the path to the street, went briskly toward his livery stable.

“Damned ol' pryin' coot,” Ezra muttered under his breath. “He's been in puttin' the sheriff onto us, Pat.”

Pat said tranquilly, “I reckon he has.” He moved away from the pepper tree and up the path to the sheriff's office with Ezra following him dubiously. He knocked once on the wooden door, then turned the knob and stepped over the threshold.

The room was lighted by two kerosene lamps in wall brackets. There was a table in the center of the room, and a bulky man sat behind the table. He had a pile of old “
WANTED
” circulars in front of him and was industriously studying them as Pat walked in. He had a square jaw and cold eyes, but his face and body looked flabby.

He stared up at Pat from under bushy gray brows and barked, “Well, Mister. What do you want?”

Pat tipped his hat back on his forehead and stepped aside to let Ezra enter behind him. He said mildly, “You ain't going to find us in that list, Sheriff. No matter what Joe Baines has been telling you.”

The sheriff glanced down at the circulars uncertainly, then he gave a little start of surprise as he saw Ezra's one-eyed and scarred visage. He leaned back and hooked broad thumbs in his belt and said truculently, “So you're the two hombres that just hit town in a plumb hurry to get on south.”

Pat said, “That's right.” He hooked the toe of his boot under a straight wooden chair and pulled it forward, sat down and nodded to Ezra. “Rest yourself,” he said, “while we put the sheriff straight.”

“I'd just as lief straighten him out with my fist in his face,” Ezra muttered sourly. “He ain't got no call to look at me like that.”

The Marfa sheriff swallowed hard and shifted his gaze to Pat Stevens.

“Thought we'd better drop in to keep you from makin' a bad mistake,” Pat told him easily. “Seems like yore brother-in-law got the wrong idee about us tonight.”

The sheriff said, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Happens we ain't dodgin' no posse. We're headin' into the Big Bend on a stock-buying trip.”

“Killin' hawses to get there?” sneered the sheriff.

“We ain't killed any yet.” Pat paused to roll a cigarette. “You know the Katie spread near Hermosa?”

The sheriff's eyes flickered from Pat to Ezra's impassive face, then back again. “Sure,” he said gruffly. “Everybody in Texas knows the Katie outfit. That Rollins gal has been givin' me fits ever since her old man died last year.”

Pat lit his cigarette and flipped the match away. It lit, still burning, on top of the pile of old circulars on the desk.

The sheriff brushed it off hastily and glowered at Pat.

Pat shifted his position so his gun-belts were comfortable and asked, “What kinda fits?”

“Wantin' perfection from rustlers. Like as if I didn't have nothin' to do but send deputies out to guard the K T. Never had no trouble like that when her daddy was alive.”

“You the law all down through the Big Bend?”

“What there is of it. This here's the only county that's organized.”

“So the K T is havin' trouble with rustlers,” mused Pat.

“Other folks don't squawk when they lose a few head of stock,” the sheriff said aggrievedly.

“What time does the stagecoach leave for Hermosa?”

“This ain't no information bureau,” the sheriff growled. “I don't know who you think you are, Mister, but I still got my suspicions about you and yore tough-looking pardner.”

Pat said, “I don't give a damn what you suspect. When does the stage leave?”

The sheriff hesitated. He caught his lower lip petulantly between his teeth and worried it. “Midnight. If the El Paso stage is on time.”

“Midnight? That's a hell of a time for a stage to take out.”

“It's when it makes connections with the El Paso stage,” the sheriff told him stiffly.

Pat nodded and got up. “It's been a right nice talk, Sheriff. Don't burn yore fingers helpin' out yore brother-in-law's graft at the livery stable. An' I don't want no trouble to come to Dusty Morgan on account of he spoiled a deal for Baines,” he went on harshly. “Me an' Ezra, we'll take it personal if anything happens to Dusty.” He turned and strode out of the sheriff's office with Ezra behind him.

This time he offered no opposition when the one-eyed man again wistfully mentioned a steak. They went directly to the restaurant across from the Topaz Saloon. There was a long wooden counter crowded with hungry men, with a row of oilcloth-covered tables along the other wall. One of the rear tables was vacant, and Pat and Ezra took chairs at it.

A waiter approached and listlessly rubbed at some grease-stains on the oilcloth with a dirty rag, asking, “What'll it be, gents?”

“Two steaks,” Pat ordered. “The biggest in the house an' not too cooked.”

“With plenty of fried pertaters,” Ezra added hastily.

The waiter called over his shoulder toward the kitchen, “Slice two rumps and let the blood run, an' grease the spuds on two.”

Pat settled back and folded his arms across his chest with a little sigh of anticipation. Ezra blinked his one eye after the waiter and then asked, “Why'd you ask the sheriff all them questions about the K T? You figgerin' on buyin' some heifers from the gal?”

“Maybe she'll sell 'em cheap,” Pat suggested. “Before the rustlers get 'em all.”

“That's right. An' the rustlers might sell 'em cheap,” Ezra observed shrewdly. “Did you know about that setup when you come down here?”

“Sort of. But the rustled stuff mostly goes over the river, I reckon. Not much chance of makin' a deal there.”

“I dunno,” argued Ezra. “Stock ain't worth much in Mexico. I reckon they'd smuggle 'em back purty cheap.”

Pat shook his head disapprovingly. “It'd be downright crooked to buy stuff a man knew was smuggled.”

“I don't like that sheriff,” Ezra announced suddenly. “Way he kep' lookin' at me you could tell he was willin' to bet there was a reward out for me. Why didn't you spring yore Colorado sheriff's star on him, Pat?”

Pat looked surprised. “I'd just as lief keep that a secret. Even a Colorado sheriff mightn't be too popular down in the Big Bend.”

“Why'd you ask him about the stage?” Ezra pursued. “We ain't gonna ride it, are we?”

“I just wondered,” Pat hesitated while the waiter came and dropped some knives and forks in front of them and slopped down two glasses of water. “Bartender over to the Topaz told me that the dance-hall gal named Rosa is the sheriff's sweetie.”

Ezra frowned at him in bewilderment. “That so? What of it?”

“Rosa,” Pat reminded him, “is the name of the gal that Dusty Morgan was lookin' for.”

“Shore. But what of it?”

“The sherriff,” Pat said patiently, “don't take good to the idee of his sweetie honeying up to another man. I figger Dusty's stickin' his neck into trouble … an' I wanted to judge how bad the trouble might be.”

“You mean that's why you went an' talked to the sheriff … to find out what Dusty'll be up against a-courtin' Rosa?”

“Mostly. Dusty did us a good turn at the stable,” Pat went on slowly. “I'd hate to see him in trouble without tryin' to help. He seems like a nice young feller.”

“Yeh. In a crazy sort of way,” Ezra agreed. “Feelin' his oats, that's what he is. Jest honin' fer a chance to use that hawg-laig he's got strapped on him.” Ezra paused to chuckle heavily. “Reminds me of you before you learned some sense. The way Sam an' me usta pull you outta scrapes you'd got into because you was so danged hard-headed.”

The waiter came with their steaks and fried potatoes and interrupted Ezra's reminiscences. The steaks were hefty hunks of meat hot on the outside and raw in the middle. The potatoes were thick and soggy. Both men attacked the food voraciously.

Ezra topped his meal off with three slabs of apple pie and two cups of coffee, while Pat was satisfied with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

The big man sighed gustily and patted his stomach when he was done. “Now that was real man's food,” he beamed. “Sticks to the linin' of a feller's belly. Different from what Kitty dishes out. Not that she don't try hard,” he went on hastily, “but she jest don't know what sorta vittles a man craves. Plenty good fer a little shrimp like Sam, but I stay hongry all the time no matter how much I eat.”

Pat nodded sympathetically. “Now that you got yore belly well lined, what say we mosey down to the hotel an' see can we line up a bed to sleep in?”

Ezra paused outside the restaurant and stared across at the Topaz Saloon. “A couple more of them bar glasses of whisky would mix mighty good with that pie.”

Pat started to dissent but changed his mind as he saw a bulky figure going through the swinging doors of the saloon. It looked like the sheriff. He said, “Let's go,” and surprised Ezra by his hurry in getting across the street.

The Topaz was crowded by this time. A solid line of men stood at the bar and the tables in the back were all occupied. There was a Mexican string quartet at the rear, and a girl stood in front of them on a low table singing a Mexican song. She wore a crimson gown that left her shoulders and most of her bosom bare but had a full skirt that swirled about her lithe calves and thighs. She wore a red rose hi her black hair, and her lips were redder than the rose. With her hands planted on her hips, she swayed and stamped with the rhythm of the music, and there was a barbaric exotic appeal hi the husky voice that spoke pleadingly of love to the roomful of men.

Pat spied the sheriff standing at the end of the bar, and he shouldered up and made room for himself beside the county official.

The sheriff held a glass of whisky in his right hand and his gaze was fixed on the figure of the singer. His hand shook a little, and some of the whisky slopped over the edge of the glass and dripped from his fingers. He didn't notice. His eyes had a glazed look and there was a fatuous expression of satisfaction on his broad face as though he believed the words of the song to be directed solely to him.

There was a burst of applause from the room as Rosa finished singing. The sheriff set down his drink and started forward. Pat caught his arm and said casually, “Ain'tcha forgettin' yore drink, Sheriff?”

The sheriff frowned as he recognized Pat.

“Not,” Pat admitted judicially, “but what a gal like that is enough to make any man forget his drink. But yo're sorta old to be makin' them kind of eyes at her, ain'tcha?”

The sheriff wet his lips. “Think I'm too old, eh?”

“She wouldn't look at you twicet.”

“Want to bet anything on that?” The sheriff's florid face was a deep crimson.

Pat Stevens shrugged his shoulders. “A gal like that needs a young man,” he observed unemotionally. “A feller like you or me is just ridin' for a fall if he thinks different.”

Rosa had stepped down from the table, and the quartet had swung into the lively strains of a dance tune. Over the sheriff's head, Pat saw the girl go like a homing pigeon into the arms of Dusty Morgan and the two twirled onto the dance floor.

“Speak for yourself,” the sheriff snorted angrily. “Rosa won't look twice at any of the young bucks. And,” he added belligerently, “they all know I'll kill any man that comes between her an' me.”

Pat said, “That's a plumb piece of foolishment. Drink up an' I'll buy one.”

The sheriff picked up his drink and boasted, “Stick around and I'll show you what I mean.” He lifted his glass and turned his gaze past the end of the bar again.

Pat saw his bulky body stiffen. The edge of the glass rattled against his teeth and the liquor dribbled down is chin. He dropped his glass and started forward, brushing his coat back to get a grip on his holstered gun. Men saw him coming and got out of his way.

Pat Stevens followed closely behind him.

Dusty Morgan and Rosa went on dancing, oblivious of the sheriff's approach. One of the girl's bare arms was about Dusty's neck and she was bent back with her face turned up toward his. Her eyes were closed and her red lips were parted. She danced with her pliant body molded against his, and Dusty's arm was tight about her slim waist.

The music stopped and Rosa was held for a moment in his embrace. Then her arm tightened about his neck and she pulled his head down to hers, seeking his mouth with her lips.

An audible murmur swept over the crowded room. The sheriff stopped on widespread legs not more than ten feet from the couple. He drew his gun, and his angry voice rumbled out like the bellow of an infuriated bull, “Come outta that kiss a-shootin'.”

Rosa relaxed away from Dusty with a little cry of fright. The youth turned slowly and the sheriff's gun swept up in an arc to fire.

Pat drove his shoulder into the sheriff's right side. He grabbed his gun hand and they stumbled aside together. As he wrenched the weapon away from the infuriated lawman, Ezra stepped up nimbly and flung both arms about the sheriff's bulky figure, pinioning his arms to is side.

Pat calmly broke the six-shooter and emptied it. He told Ezra, “Turn him loose now,” and offered the sheriff his empty weapon, butt first.

The sheriff was wheezing with rage and a red vein stood out along his forehead. Between clenched teeth, he promised, “You'll regret this.” And to Dusty, he promised in the same labored voice, “I'll kill you if you're still in town by midnight.”

Rosa sprang forward with a high-pitched squeal and threw her arms about the sheriff's neck. She cuddled his head against her bare bosom and began crooning in his ear.

Pat turned away in disgust and told Ezra, “Let's get a drink.”