to Tame a Land (1955) (13 page)

We got down and tied our horses and went inside.

Mustang went through the door first with me right behind him, my head down.

There were four people in the restaurant: the woma n who ran it, old Mason, who sat at a table alone, and tw o cow hands in from the forks of the creek.

Four people besides Burdette. He was sitting behin d a table facing the door.

When we got three steps inside the door Mustang sides tepped and I was looking into those mean, slate-gra y eyes of Ollie Burdette's.

He was surprised. That was plain. And he never go t a chance to get over it. I walked right up to his tabl e because he didn't like it close up. I walked right up, an d I had only two steps to make to get there, and then I s poke up, loud and clear.

"Burdette, you murdered Hetrick. That old man neve r packed a gun in his life. And you told it around that yo u had run me out of town. That's why you killed him, because he knew you were a liar. He saw you take water tha t time."

He hadn't no time to get his mouth open. Me, I jus t kept shoving it at him, and when he started to drop hi s hand, I slammed against the table and smashed him bac k against the wall. And then I slapped him twice across th e mouth, once with each hand.

Suddenly I was mad. I was mad clean through, bu t not killing mad. I just wanted to destroy everything h e was or thought he was.

It had been a complete surprise, shocking to Olli e Burdette, and my lunge against the table had pinne d his gun holster.

But suddenly I jerked the table away and steppe d in. He grabbed for his gun, but I hit him. He staggere d and I swung a boot from the floor and kicked his gu n loose. It fell, and as he grabbed for it, I hit him in th e face.

He put his hands up and rushed at me, but he wa s a man who had trusted to guns. Big as he was and h e was heavier than me he was no fighter. I hit him i n the belly, then on the side of the face. That last blow cu t deep and knocked him around, smashing his head agains t the edge of the table.

He got no chance at all from me. No more than h e had given some of the men he killed. I grabbed him b y the collar and back-walked him to the door, slappin g him across the face at every step. Then I shoved him ou t of the door and into the street.

He fell in the dust, and fell hard. Then he lunge d to his feet, but he didn't know which way to turn. He wa s caught without a gun, and without a gun he was nothing. He started to backup, and I went after him.

Walkin& him back across the street, I slapped him. H
e tried to fight back, striking at me, trying to knock m y hands down. A time or two he hit me, but he had bee n sitting around taking it easy while I had been riding , working, roughing it.

In front of the saloon, with fifty men looking on, I k nocked him down. He got up and rushed me, and I hi t him in the mouth, smashing his lips into his teeth. H
e backed up, bloody and beaten. I walked up to him an d throwing one from the hip, knocked him down again.

Then I picked him up and tossed him bodily into th e water trough. Then I fished him out and stood him u p against it.

"You murdered Hetrick. You might as well have murdered his wife. You bragged around that you run m e out. You're just a two-bit bad man in a four-bit town."

He couldn't talk. His wind was gone and his mout h was all blood and torn lips.

"You got a horse?" I looked around at Old Man Mason, who had followed us. "Where's his horse?"

"I'll get it." The voice was familiar, and I looke d around. It was Kipp.

Burdette stood there, soaked to the hide and shivering.

He shook his head like a wounded bear. It had all happened so fast that he hadn't no time to get set for it. Righ t then I don't think he had realized yet what was happening to him. Too long he had lorded it around, doing i t all on the strength of his gun. And now he had no gun.

When Kipp came up with the horse, I told Burdett e to get into the saddle. "Now ride. And don't stop ridin g until the week is gone."

"I got property," he protested, able to talk at last "I g ot stuff at the house."

"You lose it," I said, "like Hetrick lost his ranch."

He stared at me, and those poison-mean eyes wer e shocked and dull. "Don't I get a gun? Without a gun m y life ain't worth a plugged nickel."

"No more than the lives of some of those you killed.

You get no gun."

He never said anything more. He just walked his hors e off down the street and out of town. Somebody gave a halfhearted cheer, but not much of one. Trouble was , they were shocked, too.

"Kipp," I said, "Where'd Liza go?"

"Don't know, Rye. She wouldn't take any help. Afte r her ma died she aimed to take care of herself. She didn'
t get much out of the ranch. After Hetrick was killed, th e horse thieves stole them blind. All I know is, she bough t a ticket for Alta. She would have had about forty dollar s left when she got there."

Mustang and me, we mounted up and rode out o f town that night. There was nothing at the Crossing fo r me now, and Mustang, he just seemed to want to sta y along with me. And no man had a better friend.

We never talked any about being partners. We neve r said much of anything to each other. We just rode together and shared together, and that was the way of it.

Alta was a boom mining town, half across the state o f Utah. It wasn't a Mormon town, being populated mostl y by gentile miners from Nevada or Colorado. Many ha d been working on the Comstock Lode and some had com e down from Alder Gulch, Montana.

I'd been hearing about Alta. It was a sure-enoug h mean town, where they killed 'men every night and mostl y every day. The mines were rich and the town was booming. It was wide open and ararin'.

Never before had I had much of any place to go, o r any purpose in life. Now I had one. I was going to fin d Liza. I was going to make sure she was doing all right.

It wasn't right for a girl of seventeen to be traipsin g around rough country on her own. No telling what ha d happened to her.

Right then I thought some mighty fierce thoughts, an d I angered up some, just thinking things that might hav e happened to her.

It was snowing when we rode into town and stable d our horses. The first thing to do was to find a place t o sleep, but I left that to Mustang and started for a saloon.

The saloon was the club, the meeting place, the clearing house for information. In a mining camp or a co w town the same rule held true, and often enough th e company would include many who drink little or nothin g at all.

The snow was falling fast, and except in the street , churned into mud by the passing of men, horses, an d heavy wagons, the ground rapidly grew white. Huge or e wagons dragged by, their shouting drivers bundled u p against the cold, their huge horses or oxen leaning int o the harness as they strained against great loads.

A music box was going up the street, and in the feebl e light of a lantern behind a saloon a man was splittin g wood.

When I pushed open the door of the Bucket of Bloo d I was met by a wave of hot air, thick with tobacco smok e and the sour odor of bad whisky. At least a hundred me n crowded the small room, standing three deep at the bar.

Bearded men loafed along the walls, leaning or squattin g and watching for a favorable moment to grab a chair.

This was a familiar scene, and I had known it before , in other towns. There were even familiar faces, me n whose names I didn't know, but whom I had seen in Denver, Santa Fe, or Mason Crossing. There was even on e I knew from New Orleans.

Moving through the crowd, I was lucky enough to ge t close to the bar. Beside me two men talked Norwegian , and down the bar I heard a man order in German, an d the bartender replied in the same language. This was th e West, a melting pot, a conglomeration. These were har d tough, reckless men from all over the world, following th e lure of a wild new country and quick riches in the mines.

No telling what had happened to Liza here. Maybe sh e had seen the place and what it was like and had gon e on. Certainly this town was no place for a pretty gir l alone.

Two hours later I was no closer to finding her. True , I wasn't asking questions. I was listening, drifting fro m place to place, keeping my eyes open. The stage statio n was closed, so I couldn't check there.

Snow kept falling. The Gold Miner's Daughter wa s jammed when Mustang found me there.

"Got a place," he said, "and it wasn't easy. This tow n is crowded."

We drifted around the tables. We had a drink, and I p layed a little roulette and lost fifteen dollars, then wo n five of it back.

Turning toward the door, I saw a man stop and tak e another look at me, then walk on. He knew me fro m somewhere.

All of a sudden, somebody swore, men jammed back ou t of the way, and a gun blasted.

It was that quick, and all over. A man in diggin g clothes was backing up slowly, both hands holding hi s stomach. He sat down and rolled over, moaning softly.

The gambler with the gun in his hand walked aroun d the table and stood over him. Coolly he lifted his pisto l for another shot.

Me, I don't know why I did it, but I stepped from th e crowd.

"He's dying. Leave him alone."

The gambler was in his shirt sleeves and vest. He wa s a tall, pale man with a mustache. His eyes held suc h cruelty as I've never seen before. He looked coolly at me.

"You're making it your business?"

He held a derringer in his hand. It was one of thos e short guns with two barrels, each holding a .44 cartridge.

"I am."

He looked at me. His gun was in his hand, half lifted.

Mine was in my holster. Yet he had one shot left, an d if he did not kill me with that shot, he was a dead man.

He shrugged. "He'll die, anyway. No use to shoo t again."

The man on the floor coughed heavily and stared at th e gambler. "Cheat . . . You cheat . . ." and then he sagge d back on the floor and died.

He wore a gun, all right, but it was buttoned unde r his coat. He'd had no chance at all.

"He lies," the gambler said contemptuously. "He jus t couldn't take losing."

"He sure didn't have that gun where he could use it,"

I said.

The gambler was turning away, but now he swun g around to face me, his face livid. "You keep your mout h shut!" he shouted. "I've taken all I'm going to."

"If I was the law in this town," I said, "you'd be o n the first stage out. And you'd never show your face i n town again. This was murder. He had no chance, non e at all."

The derringer started to lift, coming up slowly. An d just when I was going to take my chance and draw, I h eard Mustang's voice.

"His gun ain't drawed, mister . . . but mine is!"

And it was. The gambler didn't like that big six lookin g at him. He shrugged and turned sharply away.

"You push your luck, stranger," a miner said quietly.

"That's Key Novak. He's killed three men in the past tw o months."

With Mustang at my side I turned away and walke d out, leaving the Gold Miner's Daughter and starting u p the street. We had taken only a few steps when a doo r closed behind us and we heard footsteps on the walk.

Flattening into a doorway with my gun in my hand , I watched three men coining down the walk. Mustang wa s standing on the other side, half behind a water troug h and an awning post. A frozen water barrel offered adde d protection.

The men drew abreast and in the light from a nearb y window I recognized the man who had appeared to recognize me in the saloon. They stopped, and this ma n spoke. "Tyler, you don't know me, but I used to see yo u around Kansas City. Heard about you from Billy Dixon."

"So?"

"I heard you were the man who killed Rice Wheeler?

And Leet Bowers?"

"That's right."

"Tyler, we want a marshal in this town. One who wil l clean out the crooked gamblers and the thugs. We ha d two knife killings last night. We don't know who di d them. We had a miner killed last week. The crooks ar e running the town. We'll give you two hundred and fift y a month to clean up for us."

This was a surprise. I'd never fancied myself as th e law before. On the other hand, there would be no bette r way to look the town over for Liza.

"All right," I said, "but I want Mustang as deputy."

"As you like." He hesitated. "My name is Murdock.

I own the general store. This is Eph Graham, agent fo r Wells Fargo. Newton here has the hardware store and th e mining supplies. We're the town council."

"All right."

"One thing . . . the present marshal is John Lang. He'
s the Texas gunman. He has to be fired."

My eyes went over the three of them. A wagon wa s passing in the street and the clop-clop of the heavy hoof s in the stiffening mud was loud. "I fire him?" I asked.

Newton looked uneasy, and Murdock shifted his feet , but Graham nodded.

"He's dangerous . . . and we think he's with the crooks.'