The Violent Peace (5 page)

IT was mid-afternoon before Bishop's eyes stinging with the squeezed-out sweat of his own body, discerned a fast-riding horseman racing through the haze towards the ruined house. As he crossed the property boundary, he veered his mount to one side to follow exactly the line of approach adopted by Steele. More charred remains from the fire were puffed up by thudding hooves.

Bishop waited with mounting anticipation for the newcomer to draw near and relieve his sweating discomfort. But when the rider halted his horse before the stoop, the deputy experienced a pang of apprehension. He was not from the law office, nor even from town. And he was the kind of stranger in the kind of mood to make Bishop hate Steele with a greater intensity for rendering him helpless.

“He's been and he's gone, right?” the man asked, eyeing Bishop's predicament with scornful disdain.

He was a big man of about fifty. He had a mean, cruel mouthed, hard-eyed face that was very pale against his black frock coat and black derby hat. The coat was open to show a revolver in a holster hanging from the front of his belt, butt turned towards his left.

The young deputy struggled against revealing his nervousness to the still mounted man. “Who's asking?”

“Lovell, Washington Police Department.” 

The sudden smile that decorated the deputy's face was a sign of how much strain Lovell's menacing appearance had placed on him. As the city policeman swung down from the saddle, he jerked a leather billfold from his shirt pocket and negligently, showing a silver star.

“You're Deputy Bishop,” he said, coming up the steps. “I talked to the sheriff in town. Told me you came out to get Steele.” Lovell's voice and expression spoke volumes for his low regard of the country lawman. Then he pivoted slowly, surveying the scene of destruction from close range. A slight upturning of the corners of his mouth indicated his enjoyment of what he saw.

“No pa and no home,” he murmured. “He must be feeling real mean about now.”

Bishop looked down at the ropes binding him to the rocker. “I was Adam Steele's best friend,” he said, his tone a mixture of misery and hate.

“Glad you said
was,”
Lovell replied, returning his scornful attention to Bishop. “I'm his worst enemy.” Bishop squinted up at him.

“I guess you're here on official business, Mr. Lovell.”

Lovell put a hand under his coat, as if he intended to scratch his armpit. But it came away fast, clutching a knife. Bishop had come to realize that the mean look in the man's eyes was a permanent fixture, but he still could not control a shiver. It chilled the sweat on his body and set the chair rocking back and forth. The Washington policeman tested the sharpness of the knife against the ball of his thumb.

“Official, deputy,” he confirmed, stepping up close to the swaying rocker. “Steele killed a man in cold blood inside city limits. Police Department takes an official view of that.”

He twisted his wrist so that the knife was pointed towards Bishop. The deputy rocked back. His eyes grew wide and his on the mean eyes of Lovell. The knife point pinged against the badge on the deputy's chest. Bishop stopped rocking. A sigh rasped from his dry throat as Lovell laughed and began to saw through the ropes.

“Of course, we lawmen are human,” he said easily. “Even on official business, we got our personal feelings. And when a man comes to the law after being a bounty hunter, it's hard to lose, some of the old habits. Bringing them in dead is easier than the other way.”

The final bond was severed and as Lovell stepped back, Bishop moved quickly from the chair. He spent only a few moments in flexing stiffened muscles, then reached for the hanging gunbelt and buckled it on. He immediately felt better. More so when Lovell had replaced the knife in its shoulder sheath.

“But with Adam Steele, it won't be just habit, uh?” Bishop asked.

Lovell's eyes came up and locked on the other man's face again. “I told you, deputy. I got personal feelings about him.”

“What—”

“Personal and private!” Lovell barked.

He continued to out-stare the other man for a moment, then whirled and went down the steps. He hoisted himself smoothly into the saddle, exhibiting his familiarity with horses.

“I've got my orders, same as you,” Bishop said sharply.

Lovell showed his parody of a smile. “But I talked to a guy who knows where Steele is headed. I only swung down this way because I figured he'd bury his pa first.”

Bishop was good with a gun, his left hand only fractionally slower than the right. Armed with the Colts he feared no man. He showed his confidence now, as he descended from the stoop and halted less than three feet from the man who sat with such quiet menace in the saddle.

“I can ride with you, or behind you,” Bishop said. “No man gets away with what he did to me. Especially not a friend.”

Lovell looked disdainfully down at Bishop, unprovoked by the young deputy's self-assurance.
“Was
a friend,” he reminded.

Bishop nodded. “Right.”

“Personal with you, too?”

“Right again.”  

Lovell pondered a moment, then shrugged. “Something else I learned when I was bounty hunting in the south-west. Two against one is better odds than even steven.”

“I'll get my horse,” Bishop said hurriedly. “It's out back.”

He started to turn away, but Lovell's threatening voice halted him.

“One thing?”

“What's that?” Lovell's voice was as cold as his eyes. “I never split rewards.”

Bishop was puzzled. “There's no bounty on Adam.”

Lovell raised a hand and pointed his index finger to touch his forehead and heart. “Not in dollars,” he said softly. “But here and here is where I'll enjoy my reward. And seeing Steele dead won't be enough. It'll have to be me that kills him.”

Bishop frowned, then nodded. “All right, Lovell. What he did to you must have been worse than the trick he pulled on me. I'll be happy just seeing him get what he deserves.”

Lovell touched his hat brim in acknowledgement, then watched Bishop go from sight around the blackened ruin of the house. He waited only a moment before clucking to his horse and wheeling it. He held the animal to a walk as he picked up the tracks left by Steele's gelding and started out across the parched fields. He didn't turn around as he heard Bishop cantering to catch up with him.

“He's got better than three hours start,” the deputy said as he drew level with the city policeman.

“So let's do some whittling!” Lovell yelled, and thudded his heels hard against the flanks of his horse.

A black cloud billowed out behind the galloping riders.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AN evening quiet hung lethargically over the single street of Foothills, disturbed only by the shuffling gaits and low-voiced conversations of a few strollers. It had been a hot day and most of the hard-working citizens were too tired for riotous activities. Not that there was much opportunity in this community for any but the simplest pleasures. Most of the frame buildings lining the street were private dwellings, but there was a business section at the centre of town, flanking a small plaza. Here was the bank, a saloon, a livery stable and blacksmithy, a few shops supplying essentials, a church and the Foothills Hotel. It was the only part of town which boasted sidewalks and on the raised planking before the hotel was a living tableau advertising the town's main pleasure. Lounging in weathered chairs dragged from the lobby was an overweight and over painted woman in her fifties and three young whores. They fanned themselves wearily with cheaply ornate fans and eyed the strollers with bored and scornful stares. For most of the citizens taking the evening air were either women or men escorting women. The few lone men who did enter the plaza always headed for the saloon, showing their preference for a cool beer rather than a professionally warm woman.

But suddenly the heavy-jowled face of the madam broke into a smile and she eased her ample frame up from the chair. The girls and several of the people on the plaza heard the same sound which had attracted her attention, and turned to look towards the east. The hoofbeats of many horses grew in volume and after a few moments a troop of cavalrymen came into sight at the side of a hillock.

The madam broadened her smile as she swung around to look at the girls. “Action stations, ladies,” she said. “Prepare to surrender to boarders.”

Riding at the head of his troop; Lieutenant Carey glanced gratefully at the town marker and slowed the pace to a walk as he moved between the silent facades of the first houses on the street. There were twenty men at his back, dusty and saddle sore as they rode in ranks of two formation. Eighteen were enlisted troopers, besides a sergeant and a corporal. All were just as happy to see the town marker as was the officer. And eyed the women outside the hotel with an equal amount of interest. Not a single man in the detachment noticed the sign BINNS' DRAPERY above the store next door to the livery on the opposite side of the plaza.

“Halt them, but keep them mounted, sergeant,” Carey instructed as the head of the column drew level with the hotel entrance with its blatant display of goods for sale.

“Troooop, haaaalt!” the fat faced sergeant yelled, his right hand raised. The strollers regarded the horse soldiers with distaste and hurried out of the plaza. Foothills was in the state of Tennessee and had lost many fathers and sons to Union bullets. The sight of blue uniforms in the plaza was not therefore welcome – except to the madam and her girls who were interested only in the color of men's money.

Carey's eyes showed distaste as he regarded the women, then concern as he detected a murmur of low excitement from the men. He turned in the saddle to look at the troopers. They were surveying the smiling women with either embarrassment, amusement or outright lust. The madam beamed and the whores, at a discreet signal from her, rose from the chairs and adopted sensuous postures, leaning against the wall and doorway, hanging smiles of invitation on their harshly pretty faces.

“Welcome to Foothills, lieutenant,” the madam greeted. “And to your men. The hotel and everything in it is at your service.”

A red-haired trooper tilted his forage cap to a jaunty angle and whispered to the red-faced youngster beside him: “Reckon we're the ones to do the serving, eh, Fred?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Hold your tongue, trooper,” he rasped.

The soldier grimaced as Carey touched his cap visor. “Obliged, ma'am,” the lieutenant said. “But we don't have the time to rest up. We're on the trail of four men we believe headed this way. One of them farms locally, His name is Edward Binns.”

“Ed Binns used to be a regular at the hotel, lieutenant,” the madam replied as the girls continued to pose beguilingly for the benefit of the soldiers. “Until he upped and stole one of my entertainers. Married her, would you believe? They farm a place ten, maybe twelve miles out in the hills.” She pointed a well-manicured finger down the street in the direction the troop was headed, towards the scarlet sun dipping over the peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains.

“Did Binns and three other men come through town today, ma'am?” Carey asked.

The madam shrugged, heaving her immense bosom. “I wouldn't know, lieutenant. You're in Tennessee now. Lots of folks hereabouts didn't much mourning on account of what happened to the President. We've been rushed off our feet all day.”

Two of the girls pulled faces at the lie, but quickly rearranged their features as the madam shot them a warning glance.

“Off their feet and on their backs,” the red-headed trooper muttered.

The sergeant treated him to another piercing look and the soldier avoided meeting the non-com's rebuking eyes.

“Well, I guess we'd best push on to the Binns farm, sergeant,” Carey said.

The sergeant sighed silently and nodded. “I think that's wise, sir,” he said with a side-long glance at the preening whores.

“Move them out,” Carey instructed.

The sergeant gave a hand signal, then yelled: “Troooooop, fooorwaaard!”

The officer urged his mount along the street, choosing to ignore an angry-looking man of middle years who lounged in the saloon doorway and spat pointedly into the street. The column of troopers moved off into the dust raised by the leading horse. With the exception of the red-headed man, who placed a finger to his lips as the soldiers behind him were forced to swerve around his horse.

“You're nuts!”
one of the two back-markers mouthed at the man.

His only response was to grin broadly towards the women in front of the hotel. They had dropped their phony attitudes of allure as they watched the departure of the soldiers. But when the madam called their attention to the man who had stayed behind, their bodies and faces began to emanate voluptuous promise once more. But no words were spoken until the horse soldiers were hidden in the cloud of their own dust, cantering clear of the town limits. Then, grinning, the red-headed man slid from his horse, leaving the animal to its own devices as he climbed up on to the sidewalk. He halted in front of the madam and doffed his cap.

“Right ill-mannered of the lieutenant to refuse the hospitality of your house, ma'am.” he said. “I was brung up different to him.”

Up close, he could see that the madam's smile did not extend to her eyes. They surveyed him with glinting avariciousness.

“When were you last paid, soldier?” she wanted to know.

“Less than a week ago, ma'am,” he replied, having to make an effort to keep looking at the madam as the girls watched him with eager eyes. “And I still got last month's pay. Been saving up for a day like this.”

“Which one do you like?” the madam invited.

Released so that his eyes could wander at will over the smiling faces and thrusting bodies of the girls, the soldier shrugged. “I ain't one to show favoritism, ma'am,” he said. “Money ain't all I been saving up.”

The madam nodded knowingly. “Seems like the army's learning something from the navy,” she said, ushering the soldier into the murky shade of the hotel lobby.

The girls moved hurriedly in his wake. The madam stood on the sidewalk for a moment more, staring with a steely gaze into the settling dust behind the soldiers. Then she worked a great deal of saliva into her mouth and spat it forcefully into the horse tracks of the street.

The man in the saloon doorway laughed. “And I thought you was a lady!” he called.

She glared hatefully across the plaza at him: “Why don't you come on over and prove you're a man?” she invited.

The man hoisted his glass of foaming beer. “I got six kids to prove it,” he said. “I don't want no clap. Just cheers.” He drank thirstily as the madam whirled and stormed into the hotel lobby.