the Strong Shall Live (Ss) (1980) (4 page)

Sweat dripped into his eyes, dimly he remembered eyes in the back of his head. On that other occasion Hickok had turned suddenly and fired ... dead center.

The Rid let go of his gun as if it were red hot.

Yet he could still make it. He was a pretty good shot... well, a fair shot. He could--

Two men emerged from the livery stable, each carrying a shovel. Tom and Joe, to dig a grave ... his grave?

He crossed the street, almost running, and jerked loose the tie-rope. He missed the stirrupwith his first try, made it on the second, and was almost crying when he hit the saddle. He wheeled the horse from the hitch-rail and left town at a dead run.

His saddle was hot from the sun, but he could feel it. The wind was in his face ... he was free! He was riding, he was living, and there were a lot of other towns, a lot of country.

Brady turned from the window. "He's gone, Else. Malone did it."

"Mason's leaving, too," she added.

The door opened behind them and Stephen Malone stepped in, removing his hat, then the wig and the mustache. "That's one part I never want to play again!"

"Here's your money, son. You earned it."

"Thanks."

"What would you have done, Malone," Cooley asked, "if the Kid had called your hand?"

"Done? Why this--!"

His draw was surprisingly fast, and he fired at Cooley, point-blank. Cooley sprang back, shocked. His hands clutched his abdomen.

His hands came away and he stared at them. No blood. No--I

Malone was smiling.

"Blanks!" Cooley exclaimed. "You faced the Kid with nothing in your gun but blanks!"

"Well, why not? It was all part of the act"

*

Jim Bostwick was packing a grouch, and he didn't care who knew it. The rain that began with a cloudburst had degenerated into a gully-washing downpour that for forty-eight hours showed no indication of letup. Bostwick, riding a flea-bitten cantankerous roan, was headed for the mountains to file a claim.

Rain slanted dismally across the country before him, pounding on his back and shoulders, beating on the yellow slicker until his back was actually sore. Under a lowering gray sky the rain drew a metallic veil over the country, turning the road into a muddy path across what had been desert two days ago and would be desert again within two hours after the rain ended.

Bostwick swore at the roan who merely twitched his ears, being familiar with cowhands and their ways. He knew the cussing didn't mean anything, and he knew the man who rode him took better care of him than any rider he'd had.

Bostwick swore because he wanted breakfast, wanted a drink, because he hadn't slept the night before, because he needed a shave and his face itched, and he swore on general principles.

His boss on the Slash Five had given him five days off in which to file on his claim, get drunk or whatever he pleased, and it looked like it would rain the whole five days, which Bostwick took as a personal affront

Bostwick was a cowhand. Not a top hand, just a good, six-days-a-week, fourteen-hours-a-day cowhand who could handle a rope or a branding-iron, dig pestholes, mend fences, clean water holes, shoe a horse, and play a fair hand of bunk-house poker.

He was twenty-nine years old, had never married, and he made forty dollars a month. Several times a month he managed to get good and drunk. And every drunk began or ended with a fist-fight. To date he was breaking even on the fights.

He wore a gun but had never drawn it in anger in his Me. He had killed only one man he knew of, an Indian who was trying to steal his horse. That was when he was sixteen and coming West in a covered wagon.

At five eleven and weighing one hundred and seventy pounds his method of fighting was simple, to wade in swinging until something hit the dirt, either him or the other fellow. He fought because he enjoyed it and never carried a grudge that lasted longer than the headache.

The rain-blackened lava flow on his left ended and the trail curved around it into a huddle of nondescript buildings, for the most part unpainted and weather-beaten. This was the town of Yellow jacket.

The main street was empty, empty except for a covered wagon whose off wheels were on higher ground, giving a precarious tilt to the wagonbed. A man in a tattered slicker stood before the wagon talking to a girl whose face was barely revealed through the parted canvas.

"He doesn't plan to give them back, Ruthie," the old man was saying. "He doesn't aim to ever give them back. He says we owe him because he fed them."

The thin, querulous voice carried through the rain to Bostwick who turned his eyes to them. There was something about the large dark eyes and the thin child's face that disturbed him. As he drew abreast of them the old man looked upat him out of faded blue eyes, then back to the girl.

"You'd better get into the wagon, Granddad. We can't do anything until the storm breaks."

Bostwick rode to the livery stable, stripped the gear from the roan and rubbed the horse reasonably dry with handfuls of hay, but the ungrateful beast nipped at his elbow and as he departed the stall, took a playful kick at him that he evaded more from habit than attention. Without looking back he slogged through the mud to the saloon. There was no sound from the wagon as he went by.

The Yellowjacket Saloon was a bar fifteen feet long with a row of bottles behind, mud mixed with sawdust on the plank floor and a potbellied stove glowing ruby red like an expectant boil. Behind the bar there was a big man with a polished face and a handlebar mustache. His hair started midway on the top of his head and was Jet-black. He had big, square fists and his hands and arms were white as a woman's.

A man dozed in a chair against the wall, his hat over his eyes, another slept with his head on a card table. At the other table four men played a lackluster game in a desultory fashion with a dog-eared deck of cards. From time to time one or the other of them would turn his head to spit at a box of sawdust, and from time to time one of

them hit it.

Bostwick removed his hat, slapped the rain drops from it with a blow against his leg and said, "Gimme a shot of rye." The bartender glanced at Jim's broken nose and poured the drink.

A man in a Mackinaw who sat near the glowing stove took his pipe from his mouth. "Just the same, I think it's mighty mean of him to take their horses. How are they going to get out of

here?"

A man with a streaked blond mustache glancedcynically at the first speaker. "You know Pennock. He doesn't plan for them to leave, not a-tall!"

"He seen that girl," the man in the Mackinaw said. "Ain't many women come to Yellowjacket. Besides, that old man was all set to file on Squaw Springs, and Pennock figures that's his'n."

Jim Bostwick downed his drink. Squaw Springs? That was the claim he'd planned to file on.

He let the bartender refill his glass. "He filed on Squaw Springs?"

"Pennock? Why should he? Who's going to butt in when he says it's his'n? They say that gun of his packs seven notches, or could if he wished it."

"It could," the bartender said. "We all know two notches that could go on it. Sandy Chase tried Pennock's game and came up a loser."

"Ought to be a law against killin' when the ground's all froze up. Grave diggin' no pleasure any time, but in frozen ground?"

"Makes for shallow graves," somebody said, "better when Judgment Day comes."

"That girl ain't no more'n sixteen or seventeen. It's a damn shame."

"You go tell that to Pennock."

Nobody replied to that. Well, it was none of his fuss. Besides, they planned to file on his claim, as did Pennock.

"Where's the grub-pile?" he asked.

"Two doors down." He glanced again at the broken nose. "You a fighter?"

Bostwick buttoned his slicker. "Only when I'm pushed."

He started for the door and heard the man in the Mackinaw say, "He killed Chase over a woman. What was the other one about?"

"Feller aimed to file on Squaw Springs. Pennock brought some sort of a charge against him, and the feller got riled. Figured he was a tough case and maybe in his home country he was."

"He was too far from home, then. I'm mot hunting any beef with Cap Pennock!"

Jim pulled his hat low over his eyes. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he slopped through the mud to the light already showing from the boardinghouse window. The covered wagon was directly across the street and, as he glanced over, he saw the girl getting down from the wagon. Averting his eyes he ducked into the door.

A big-bosomed woman with a red, Irish face pointed at the mat. "Wipe your feet, an' wipe 'em good!"

Meekly, Bostwick did as he was told. Taking off his hat and slicker he hung them from pegs near the door and seated himself at the long table.

"You're early, stranger," the Irish woman said, "but you look hungry, so set up. I'll feed you."

Bostwick looked up as the door closed. It was the girl from the wagon. She had dark hair and large dark eyes. Her face was oval and quite pretty. She had a coffeepot in her hand. She looked at him, then turned hastily away as if she had seen too many of his kind. Bostwick flushed.

"Ma'am? Can I buy some coffee? Grandad's having a chill."

"I shouldn't wonder, sloppin' around in the rain like he's been doin'. You two goin' to pay Cap Pennock what he asks?"

Her lips, delicate as a rose petal, trembled. "We can't. We just don't have it."

The woman filled the coffeepot and waved payment aside. "You take it along, honey. I wouldn't know what to charge for that little dab of coffee."

"But I--! I do want to pay."

"You go along now. It's all right."

When the girl had gone, she brought food to Bostwick. "It's a shame!" she said. "A downright shame!"

Jim Bostwick helped himself to a slab of beefand some mashed potatoes. "Who is this Pen-nock?" he asked, without looking up.

The woman turned to look at him, seeing only the tangled hair, the blunt, wind-carved unshaved features and the broad, powerful shoulders tapering to narrow hips, shoulders clad in a cheap coat and a wool shirt.

"He's the town marshal. More, he's the boss around here, and folks know it."

"Nobody stands against him?"

"Some tried. Things happened to them. Cap Pennock is a hard man."

He was getting bored by that repeated comment. "When did those folks get here?"

"Yesterday. Pennock took their horses, impounded them for being in the street all night. Back when the mining boom was on, the town council passed that rule because the streets were so crowded at night a body couldn't get through. After the boom died people forgot about it until Pennock was elected marshal, then he dug into the town laws and dug up a lot of regulations, all of which show profit for him."

The door opened and the man in the Mackinaw came in followed by his blond-mustached friend. Jim was aware of their attention.

"Howdy, Kate!"

"Howdy, Harbridge! How are you, Grove? How's Emma doin'?"

"Ailin'," Grove replied cheerfully.

The bartender came in and behind him, another man. Talk around the table died and Bostwick looked up. The newcomer was a big man, heavy-shouldered with bold black eyes. Instinctively, Bostwick knew this was Pennock. The man sat down near him and instantly Bostwick felt the stirring of an inner rebellion. There was something deep within him that deeply resented such men.

Bostwick was, as many an American has been before and since, a man who resented authority.

He knew its necessity and tried to conform but when that authority became domineering, as this man obviously was, Bostwick's resentment grew.

More than that, very big men who used their size to overawe others, irritated him. That fact accounted for the fact that he had lost as many fights as he had, for he was always choosing the biggest, toughest ones. Large men puthim on edge, and he was on edge now.

"Stranger in town?" Pennock asked abruptly.

"No." Bostwick could not have told why he chose to deliberately antagonize the man. "I been in town more'n an hour."

Pennock did not reply, but Bostwick was aware of a subdued stir down the table. He reached over and took the coffeepot almost out of Pennock's hand and filled his cup. The big man's eyes hardened, and he studied Bostwick carefully.

"Don't look at me," Jim said, "I put my horse in the barn."

Somebody snickered and Pennock said, "I didn't ask about your horse. Seems to me, stranger, you're somewhat on the prod."

"Me?" Bostwick looked surprised. 'I'm not huntin' trouble. I'm not expectin' trouble, either. Of course, if I was an old man with a pretty young daughter I might feel different."

Pennock put his cup down hard. "I don't like that remark. If you're huntin' trouble you're sure headed right at it."

"I ain't huntin' trouble, but there's no law against a man thinkin' out loud. I'm just of the opinion that a town that will make trouble for a sick old man and his daughter is pretty small stuff."