Gambling Man (14 page)

Old Seth Lewellen, leaning heavily on an oak root cane, shouldered through the swinging doors. “You hear about Costain?” he asked Surratt. “Doc Shipley says he'll pull through. Takes more'n bullets to kill a drayman, it looks like.”

Bert nodded. “Phil's a tough one,” he agreed.

The old man waited expectantly, hoping the news would bring a round on the house. When Bert made no move, Lewellen went out again, mumbling to himself.

Surratt yawned. Mac Butler, the blacksmith, and Forrest Slater were playing low-stake stud with a pair of grangers. Two men from Big Hat nursed their drinks at the far end of the bar. A slow night.

The new saloon down the street, the Green House, had taken part of the cowhand business, but Bert wasn't worried. When things were lively there was plenty of business to go around. Then the batwings swung open and Jeff Blaine came in.

Blaine nodded at a whisky bottle and the saloonkeeper slid it up the bar, a glass after it. Jeff poured one and could not control the shudder that went through him as he downed it.

Pretending to watch the wheel of fortune, Surratt studied Jeff from the corner of his eye. He didn't like the boy any better than he had liked his pa—they both carried the smell of trouble about them. Anyway, Bert had little use for fuzz-faced kids who toted guns and tried to act like men. He didn't like selling them whisky, either, but what could you do when that was your business? One of these strutting kids could give you more trouble than the whole Cross 4 after roundup.

But there was something about that tense face and those angry eyes that made a man think before he started something with Jeff Blaine, even if he was just a kid. That second-hand Colt's could kill you just as dead as a man's gun....

Now Surratt turned his gaze frankly on the kid. “Hear about Costain?” he asked tentatively.

Jeff nodded shortly, but said nothing.

Bert slid a new bottle down to the Big Hat men at the other end of the bar. For a moment he focused his attention on the stud game, but there was little there to interest him. He mopped the bar and continued his silent study of the Blaine boy.

At the moment Jeff turned his attention to the stud game. It was about his size; he was smart enough not to get in with professionals. But the anger that came with talking to Wirt was still in him, and he knew that he was in no condition to study cards.

Then they heard the horses enter the far end of the street. Surratt cocked his head with interest.

“Maybe that is Elec's posse coming back with Somerson,” he commented.

Jeff didn't care who it was. His nerves were taut; he felt at loose ends and all alone. He poured another glass of fiery whisky, hating the green taste of it but swallowing it in the hope that it would relax him.

Now they heard the tramp of boots on the plank walk outside the saloon. Jeff turned and saw Elec Blasingame and his deputy standing in the doorway, the other members of the posse behind them. Kirk Logan's face was drawn with anger, but the marshal himself was the picture of rage.

All eyes in the saloon were focused on the dirty, sweat-stained men in the doorway. The saloonkeeper cleared his throat uneasily. “You find Somerson, Marshal?”

Blasingame made no show of hearing. He came into the room, his anger directed at Jeff. The marshal was no longer young; he had grown fat and he was not as quick as he had once been, but he was still regarded as the most dangerous man in Plainsville. And he had never looked more dangerous than he did at this moment.

Instinctively, Bert Surratt backed away from the bar. The Big Hat men downed their drinks and drifted toward the far wall. Jeff stayed where he was, watching Elec and the deputy, prepared for whatever was to come. He abandoned all caution. His nervous tension and frustration suddenly became an urge for violence.

He set his whisky glass on the bar. “You looking for me, Marshal?”

Kirk Logan made an ugly sound and started to move in. The marshal stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Stay out of it, Kirk!” He turned to Jeff, his voice hoarse. “Are you proud of yourself, Blaine? Thanks to you, a killer got away free!”

Jeff was surprised, exhilarated at the confidence that had taken control of him. He said coolly, “I don't know what you're talking about, Elec.”

“You know, all right!” the marshal snarled. “That rider you saw—you knew he was headin' west, not east.”

Jeff shot a glance around the room, but said nothing.

“Don't waste your breath on him,” Kirk Logan growled.

Jeff wheeled on the deputy. “Maybe you've got some ideas of your own you'd like to try!”

“That's enough!” Elec snapped, holding his deputy at bay with angry eyes. His fat jowls shook as he wheeled on Jeff. “Son, you better take that chip off your shoulder,” he said with forced calm. “You keep looking for trouble hard enough and you're bound to find it—more than you can handle, maybe.”

“I'll take my chances,” Jeff said coldly.

Elec's anger got away from him. A big clawlike hand shot out and grabbed the front of Jeff's shirt. Before the action was half completed, Jeff grabbed his Colt's and rammed the muzzle hard into Blasingame's soft belly.

Jeff felt every muscle in his body quiver, every nerve taut and singing. He watched grayness replace the flush of anger in the marshal's face. Jeff Blaine had never known an excitement so intense; he had never dreamed of such power as he held in his own right hand at that moment.

If there was ever a doubt as to whether Jeff Blaine could handle a gun, it had now vanished. Even Kirk Logan, in his amazement, lost the keen edge of his anger. Bert Surratt's breath whistled between his teeth as he waited tensely.

Slowly, very slowly, the tension began to relax.

Jeff heard his own voice saying, “Turn loose of me, Elec. Don't ever touch me again.”

Very carefully the marshal withdrew his hand. He stood perfectly still, recovering from his first shock, as Jeff shot the revolver back into its holster. The silence in the room was as hard as steel.

At last Elec Blasingame shook his head. “I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. But if you ever take another notion to throw down on me, be sure you pull the trigger. Next time I'll know what to expect.” He nodded stiffly to Logan and the two of them turned toward the door.

On that day Plainsville took on the aspect of a farming town, grangers outnumbering cowhands three to one. All the stores were busy, clerks run ragged; tempers flared, but it was all a part of the day and no one would have missed it. Cowhands prowled the sidewalks and haunted the saloons, arrogant as always, staying aloof and to themselves. Elec Blasingame and his deputies were kept busy settling arguments, stopping fights, trying to clear the street for traffic.

Not long ago Wirt Sewell had enjoyed these days of excitement and clamor; he had felt a part of it. Once he had had more orders than he and Jeff could fill—now there was not enough business to keep only himself busy. Only the tin shop, of all the stores in Plainsville, was empty of customers.

But Wirt no longer worried about the shop. He could think only of his wife, and of Jeff.

He told himself that he was still a young man with many good years left before him, but he felt old and empty. He listened for a moment to the bawling from the cattle pens, and then realized that people were watching him. An old man warming himself in the sun, he thought. He went back into his empty shop.

From his window he saw Amy Wintworth and her mother going into Baxter's store. He smiled faintly, unable to understand how everything had gone so wrong so fast. He had thought about it until his head swam, but there seemed to be no answer. All Beulah's regrets couldn't undo the damage she had caused.

Things will never be the same again, he thought hopelessly. Beulah and I might as well get used to it.

Then he saw Amy come out of Baxter's. The beginning of a new idea began working in Wirt's mind as he watched her pick her way across the dusty street. On impulse, he hurried back to the sidewalk and called to her.

“Amy! Can I talk to you a minute?”

Surprise was in her eyes, but not the disgust that he had seen so often in others. Wirt took her hand and helped her up to the walk.

They found privacy inside the shop. “Amy,” he said awkwardly, “how long has it been since you saw Jeff?”

She dropped her glance. “Yesterday, Mr. Sewell. We went out to Stone Ridge.”

“Yes,” Wirt said heavily. “I heard he had some land out there. Did he—say anything about his aunt?” Sudden color appeared in her cheeks, and Wirt murmured, “Yes, I guess he did.” Then he steeled himself and asked bluntly, “Amy, do you love him?”

She looked up quickly, startled. But when she saw the gray weariness in his face, she felt more at ease.

“I don't know, Mr. Sewell. I used to be so sure of every-thing, but now— My father has forbidden me to see him again.”

Wirt said quietly, “I guess I can't blame Ford for that.” He moved a hand aimlessly over his face, forcing a smile. “Well, thank you for stopping, Amy.”

Wirt turned slightly, gazing emptily at the dust clouds that rose over the cattle pens. “It's a funny thing,” he said, “but I guess Beulah and I didn't know how much the boy meant to us until he went away. Or maybe Beulah did know—because she did that thing for what she thought was his own good. Amy, does he hate us as much as he thinks he does?”

Her silence was her answer.

Wirt sighed. “Well, I guess he has the right to hate. But so did Nathan, long ago, when he was Jeff's age. Jeff's pa wasn't a bad boy at all. Oh, Nathan was a little wild, maybe, but a hard worker and not really bad. He worked in the stables before your own pa came to Plainsville; made his own living and took some hard knocks while doing it. So Nate was bitter on this town, like Jeff is now. He married Beulah's baby sister, but his wife died that first winter. Pneumonia, right after the boy was born. Nate blamed it on the town, because it wouldn't trust him for money to buy medicine and rations.”

Now Wirt turned from the window and faced Amy. “I guess I'm scared,” he said evenly. “I watched Nate's anger grow to a thing of destruction, just the way Jeff's is growing now. I saw the violence mount in Nate until there was no holding him, until he was bound to kill somebody before he was through.” Slowly he shook his head. “Amy, I am scared. I can see it happening all over again in Jeff, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I think Nate saw it in his son, too, and was scared by it.”

Amy stood as straight as a lance, her face pale. “Mr. Sewell, is there anything I can do?”

“No—not if you don't love him.”.

“I didn't say that.”

Wirt smiled faintly and nodded. “I know. But Ford Wintworth can be a strong-willed man when he's riled. I guess he's heard that Jeff threw down on the marshal last night.”

“I can handle my father,” Amy said firmly.