“Plenty of stage lines left, too, I’ll bet. They’ll never be wiped out, no matter what happens. Dad doesn’t like the East. He’s been there.” The wall between them was growing by the minute.
At about three, Job Thompson rode in, older of course, but his voice still had the quality of majesty. Rome exchanged a brief hello and stated his business.
Thompson thought for a moment. “All right, son. We’ll see. We’ll call a meeting at the church, and you and Bruce Gashlin can talk it out in front of everybody. I’ll make sure Drew and McMaster are there. You haven’t got a chance, but we’ll give you an opportunity to tell folks in town what you think—so you can see how damned wrong you are. How’s tonight?” he finished curtly.
“Tonight’ll be fine.”
He found himself disliking Job Thompson and respecting him at the same time.
“Make it eight o’clock,” the rancher told him.
With an even briefer good-bye than he gave to Thompson, Rome left Cathy and the house and rode out of the Circle JT. Lead-colored clouds were lowering in the north. Even the sky acted unfriendly.
Well, he might be able to get something across at the meeting. He hoped so.
But he did realize that he and Ben Hamilton were entirely alone, strangers in a strange land. The iron horse had become an enemy to a way of life. People were slow to change. Sometimes they never did. And he was losing his contact with the one woman he had ever cared about. Not that there had been much chance of starting things over, though …
As he rode slowly back toward Warknife, his eyes roamed the grasslands. The stalks were dry and brown, sun-parched and tinder-brittle. The gray clouds might bring rain, but until they did the grass was dangerous, like the situation in Warknife. Explosive. There was potential trouble in a man called Gashlin, and another called Yancey from Dodge City. …
For once he was thankful for the pistol on his hip.
He tied his horse in front of the Emporia, walked across the porch and in, conscious of the indifference of the loungers. It wouldn’t be long, though. Job Thompson had ridden out of the Circle JT behind him. Rome had watched from a distant rise. The word would spread fast.
Feeling the hunger in his belly, he made his way through the gaming tables, past the bar and up the stairs to the mezzanine. It wouldn’t look good to be seen downing straight whiskeys when he was to present his point of view at the church that evening.
A tired waiter with a pasted-down mustache sauntered over and took his order for a steak, fried potatoes, and beer. Tired, Rome leaned elbows on the table and fixed himself a cigarette. He was just putting a match to it when someone at his elbow said, “May I sit down, Mr. Rome?”
Rome glanced up, blowing out the match. The stranger was tall, of medium build, and finely dressed with a checked waistcoat. He was about Rome’s age, hard-faced and ruddy, with sharp, cold blue eyes. He smiled at Rome, his lips curling faintly as if the whole world was a freakish spectacle that he could control at will. Rome catalogued him as an opportunist.
“Sure, sit down. You seem to know my name. I can’t say the same.”
“Gashlin, Bruce Gashlin.”
News had traveled faster than he’d expected. His eyes moved briefly to the head of the mezzanine stairs. A young kid in dirty denims and sweat-stained shirt was watching him, grinning idiotically. Above the grin were eyes like stone chips. A youngster, Rome thought, taking in the well-worn holsters and pistol butts. That would be Yancey.
Gashlin fixed himself a cigarette with careless precision. “Guess you and I are going to be on opposite sides of the fence tonight,” he said as if it didn’t really matter.
“I’m going to tell them I think the railroad should come through, and why, if that’s what you mean.”
“Your buyers didn’t have much luck pushing that story.”
“That’s when I go to work, Mr. Gashlin, when the buyers don’t have much luck.”
Gashlin nodded. “You know what my business is.”
Rome laughed. “Yes, I know.”
“I’m not going to give you any line about too much progress. That’s for the people I deal with.” He waved a hand at the crowded, noisy bar below with its lush nude mural, its row of bottles. “Frankly, I’ve got a business to run. My business is essentially the same as that of the Kansas & Western—passengers and freight. It’s a good business, and I’ve worked hard to build it—cutting corners sometimes, I’ll admit. I don’t want to lose it.”
Before Rome could reply, the waiter appeared with the food. When he left, Rome stuck his fork into the steak. “I could figure most of that for myself.”
Gashlin shrugged. “Just wanted to let you know what you’re up against. I’m not planning to lose the Central Kansas Overland.”
Rome stared at him. Gashlin kept his eyes narrowed, not avoiding the scrutiny. “If you can’t keep it honestly,” Rome asked quietly, “then you’ll do it some other way?”
Gashlin nodded. “I reckon so.”
“I guess we don’t have much more to say.” Rome ate a piece of steak and swallowed some cold beer.
Gashlin made no attempt to move. “Now that the formalities are over, I can get down to business. When I heard what Job Thompson planned for tonight, naturally I didn’t like it. I’m willing to offer you a thousand dollars to stay away from the church.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Twelve hundred is my top offer. It’s a lot, but it’s worth it to me.”
Rome pushed his plate away from him in irritation. “Look, Mr. Gashlin, get something straight. I want to see the railroad come through. It isn’t a matter of my business succeeding or failing. I think the railroad will be an improvement. I don’t own any stock in the company, and I wouldn’t be more than ordinarily sore if they fired me next week, so long as they laid their track when and where they’re supposed to. You understand?”
Gashlin stood up abruptly, gesturing with one hand. “Afraid I do, Rome.” The youngster sauntered up to the table and stood behind his employer, pushing at the brim of the hat sitting crookedly on his head. “Mr. Yancey, this is Mr. Rome. You might be seeing a lot of each other.”
Yancey said nothing. He merely looked at Rome, grinning his foolish smile. But his eyes were angry and hard. Rome shivered inwardly. Yancey was the kind of gun-crazy kid who killed for the sport of it. He would be a good helper for a man like Gashlin.
Anger at Gashlin, the proposed bribe, the whole situation stacked up against the railroad in Warknife suddenly burst to the surface. He jerked a thumb at Yancey.
“Does your hired gunslinger say anything?”
“Once in a while,” Gashlin replied. “He’s quiet most of the time, except when he’s sore.”
“Then tell him I’ll be watching for him. When he thinks he’s old enough to face men, I’ll be ready.”
Yancey’s grin widened even more. Rome knew that the youngster wanted to jerk out his gun and kill him right there. His stomach went cold. He kept his hands rigid on the knife and fork, watching Yancey’s fingers moving nervously.
Yancey spoke abruptly, his voice a whine. “It’ll be soon, Mr. Rome. Real soon.”
“Get the hell out of here, both of you,” Rome said.
Gashlin didn’t say anything. He moved among the tables, down into the bar and outside, Yancey following behind.
Rome ate the rest of his meal hastily and pushed back his chair. The clock over the bar said twenty to six.
He bought some cigars and sat on the front porch of the Emporia for two hours, listening to the talk around him. There were three main topics of discussion. The first two were almost tied in importance. One was what would be said at the debate at the church, the other was the prospect of rain for the already tinder-dry grasslands. The clouds still hovered, ominously darker as night came on. But they gave no rain.
Rome couldn’t tell whether the opinions of the loungers were meaningful since they didn’t represent the town’s influential element. But the saloon crowd knew what others were talking about.
The third subject was the railroad in general. Most of the loungers thought it might be a pretty good thing. Maybe most of the people would be on his side after all, except McMaster and Drew and, of course, Job Thompson.
At quarter to eight, when the lamps were beginning to glow butter-yellow against the twilight dark, Rome made his way to the church. It was already packed to overflowing. He walked stiffly down the center aisle, looking straight ahead, conscious of the eyes on his back.
Gashlin and Yancey sat in the first pew. Rome sat in the one opposite them. Exactly on the hour, Job Thompson walked up to the platform and told the people why the meeting had been called. He and Drew and McMaster controlled the unsold portion of the right-of-way, and he wanted opinions on the subject of the railroad. His voice rolled out, sonorously rich and powerful, capable of swaying them. But his presentation was fair.
“Our first speaker, representing the railroad, will be one of Warknife’s former residents, Mark Rome.”
Mark made his way forward amid the whispers of the audience. Many of them, when he turned to face them, peered like bright-eyed birds. Job Thompson, his wife, and Cathy sat stern-faced in the second pew behind Gashlin and Yancey. Behind them in turn were two more families. The Drews and the McMasters, Rome supposed.
He didn’t like being first. Gashlin had a better chance for an effective climax. But he would do the best he could. He cleared his throat and began to speak, clearly and with all the sincerity of his convictions.
He told them of the railroad providing faster travel in more comfortable circumstances. He told them of the reduced fares possible on the Kansas & Western because of the larger turnover of freight and passengers. He told them the railroads would eventually link the oceans, whether Warknife liked it or not. That part had to be worked carefully, politely.
And then he told them of the direct shipping of cattle. No more drives to railheads. No more hiring extra hands to make the long and dangerous cross-country journey. Direct shipping.
Direct shipping.
He hammered it home with quiet, forceful tones, then sat down as a ripple of enthusiasm stirred the audience. One rough-garbed cowman started to clap but stopped with a nervous cough.
Thompson showed his partisanship when he introduced Bruce Gashlin more favorably, more glowingly. As the stage-line owner rose to speak, he smiled in an innocently boyish manner, working for audience support. Rome thought, He’ll get it, too. He’s a showman.
Gashlin’s speech was brief. “Friends, you know me, Bruce Gashlin. I run the Central Kansas Overland Company. I don’t like the railroads, and you know that, too. They won’t last. Things like this, fly-by-night schemes, don’t last long. The Central Kansas Overland has done all right working for you, transporting your goods, and I think you appreciate the fact. As for direct cattle shipping, it would mean the ruin of the industry. The drives are one of the most important parts of that industry, and, without them, men who make their living from the range, ordinary hands like many of you once were, would be out of work a good part of the time.”
He cleared his throat and smiled at them again. Then he made a pretense of pondering, and frowned. “I don’t like to say things like I’m going to say now, but I must. It may help you think this thing through. I can’t tell you about the operating methods of the Kansas & Western, but I do know they’re afraid of us. A couple of hours ago, Mr. Rome down there talked to me in the Emporia Saloon.”
His voice rose. “Mr. Rome offered me five hundred dollars of Kansas & Western money not to appear here tonight. If you want proof, Mr. Yancey was with me.”
Rome jumped up, forgetting where he was and started angrily for the platform. “You’re a liar!” Hands grabbed at him. “You’re a damn liar, Gashlin, and you know—”
The meeting exploded. People pushed out of the pews, milling, shouting. Gashlin moved easily toward a side door, with Yancey following. The youngster’s eyes watched the crowd, his hand hovering over his gun.
Job Thompson grabbed Rome’s shoulder, thundering accusations. Rome tried to argue back, unsuccessfully. Angry talk, punctuated by denunciations of Rome’s language, filled the church. Rome glimpsed a frantic Reverend Paxton standing by the far wall, bewildered by the sacrilege breaking loose.
Rome jerked away from Thompson. He wanted to find Bruce Gashlin, make him admit the lie. He had been warned: every trick available, and a few more Gashlin was probably inventing. He shouldered his way through the crowd. Some of the women struck at him.
He bumped into Cathy Thompson near the door. She stared as if he were a mortal enemy. He took hold of her arm. “Listen a minute, Cathy, I don’t want you to think—”
The crowd pushed him away from her outward, down the steps of the church and onto the plank sidewalk. Job Thompson was following close behind, still shouting questions. The crowd had turned, become a mob manipulated by Gashlin’s strategy.
The stage-line owner and his gunman stood at the edge of the crowd. Rome pushed toward them, fighting his way through. Once he dropped his hand to his hip, making sure his pistol was free.
Job Thompson caught up with him just as Rome reached the other two men. From then on, it happened very quickly, and no one but Rome and Gashlin and Yancey saw what went on. The crowd milled blindly, paying little attention. The four men at the edge of the crowd formed a tight, closed-in band with their gun hands shielded from observation.
Gashlin’s eyes widened. Rome felt a quick, terrible sense of the opportunity being instantly seized. Gashlin elbowed Yancey. The youngster reached for his holster.
Rome twisted aside, dodging low and pulling his own gun. He aimed at Yancey’s belly as the youngster drew. Just as Rome fired, Gashlin slapped his gun barrel down so that the bullet would plow into the dirt of the street. Yancey’s gun roared at the same instant.
The tight group of men stood bunched together. A woman screamed, a high, shrill sound. The noise of the crowd dropped away to silence.
Yancey had already disappeared. Rome whirled, his gun still smoking. Job Thompson was reeling unsteadily, half a foot behind Rome, his eyes closed in pain, his hands clutching the red hole in his belly. Mrs. Thompson and Cathy were pushing through the crowd while Mrs. Thompson screamed hysterically.