Three-Ten to Yuma and Other Stories (10 page)

“Don't do it, Frank!” Brennan had dropped the scattergun and now Billy-Jack's revolver was in his hand. He saw Usher's gun coming in line, and he fired, aiming dead center at the half-reclined figure, hearing the sharp, heavy report, and seeing Usher's gun hand raise straight up into the air as he slumped over on his back.

Brennan hesitated. Get him out of there, quick. Chink's not deaf.

He ran out to Frank Usher and dragged him back to the hut, laying him next to Billy-Jack. He jammed Usher's pistol into his belt. Then, “Come on!” he told Doretta, and took her hand and ran out of the hut and across the clearing toward the side where the horses were.

They moved into the denser pines, where he stopped and pulled her down next to him in the warm sand. Then he rolled over on his stomach and parted the branches to look back out across the clearing.

The hut was to the right. Straight across were more pines, but they were scattered thinly, and through them he could see the sand-colored expanse of the open grade. Chink would come that way, Brennan knew. There was no other way he could.

Chapter Seven

Close to him, Doretta said, “We could leave before he comes.” She was afraid, and it was in the sound of her voice.

“No,” Brennan said. “We'll finish this. When Chink comes we'll finish it once and for all.”

“But you don't know! How can you be sure you'll—”

“Listen, I'm not sure of anything, but I know what I have to do.” She was silent and he said quietly, “Move back and stay close to the ground.”

And as he looked across the clearing his eyes caught the dark speck of movement beyond the trees, out on the open slope. There he was. It had to be him. Brennan could feel the sharp knot in his stomach again as he watched, as the figure grew larger.

Now he was sure. Chink was on foot leading his horse, not coming straight across, but angling higher up on the slope. He'll come in where the trees are thicker, Brennan thought. He'll come out beyond the lean-to and you won't see him until he turns the corner of the hut. That's it. He can't climb the slope back of the hut, so he'll have to come around the front way.

He estimated the distance from where he was lying to the front of the hut—seventy or eighty feet—and his thumb eased back the hammer of the revolver in front of him.

There was a dead silence for perhaps ten minutes before he heard, coming from beyond the hut, “Frank?” Silence again. Then, “Where the hell are you?”

Brennan waited, feeling the smooth, heavy, hickory grip of the Colt in his hand, his finger lightly caressing the trigger. It was in his mind to fire as soon as Chink turned the corner. He was ready. But it came and it went.

It went as he saw Chink suddenly, unexpectedly, slip around the corner of the hut and flatten himself against the wall, his gun pointed toward the door. Brennan's front sight was dead on Chink's belt, but he couldn't pull the trigger. Not like this. He watched Chink edge slowly toward the door.

“Throw it down, boy!”

Chink moved and Brennan squeezed the trigger a split second late. He fired again, hearing the bullet thump solidly into the door frame, but it was too late. Chink was inside.

Brennan let his breath out slowly, relaxing somewhat. Well, that's what you get. You wait, and all you do is make it harder for yourself. He could picture Chink now looking at Usher and Billy-Jack.
That'll give him something to think about. Look at them good. Then look at the door you've got to come out of sooner or later.

I'm glad he's seeing them like that. And he thought then: How long could you stand something like that? He can cover up Billy-Jack and stand it a little longer. But when dark comes…. If he holds out till dark he's got a chance. And now he was sorry he had not pulled the trigger before. You got to make him come out, that's all.

“Chink!”

There was no answer.

“Chink, come on out!”

Suddenly gunfire came from the doorway and Brennan, hugging the ground, could hear the swishing of the bullets through the foliage above him.

Don't throw it away, he thought, looking up again. He backed up and moved over a few yards to take up a new position. He'd be on the left side of the doorway as you look at it, Brennan thought, to shoot on an angle like that.

He sighted on the inside edge of the door frame and called, “Chink, come out and get it!” He saw the powder flash, and he fired on top of it, cocked and fired again. Then silence.

Now you don't know, Brennan thought. He reloaded and called out, “Chink!” but there was no answer, and he thought: You just keep digging your hole deeper.

Maybe you did hit him. No, that's what he wants you to think. Walk in the door and you'll find out. He'll wait now. He'll take it slow and start adding up his chances. Wait till night? That's his best bet—but he can't count on his horse being there then. I could have worked around and run it off. And he knows he wouldn't be worth a damn on foot, even if he did get away. So the longer he waits, the less he can count on his horse.

All right, what would you do? Immediately he thought: I'd count shots. So you hear five shots go off in a row and you make a break out the door, and while you're doing it the one shooting picks up another gun. But even picking up another gun takes time.

He studied the distance from the doorway to the corner of the hut. Three long strides. Out of sight in less than three seconds. That's if he's thinking of it. And if he tried it, you'd have only that long to aim and fire. Unless…

Unless Doretta pulls off the five shots. He thought about this for some time before he was sure it could be done without endangering her. But first you have to give him the idea.

He rolled to his side to pull Usher's gun from his belt. Then, holding it in his left hand, he emptied it at the doorway. Silence followed.

I'm reloading now, Chink. Get it through your
cat-eyed head. I'm reloading and you've got time to do something.

He explained it to Doretta unhurriedly—how she would wait about ten minutes before firing the first time; she would count to five and fire again, and so on until the gun was empty. She was behind the thick bole of a pine and only the gun would be exposed as she fired.

She said, “And if he doesn't come out?”

“Then we'll think of something else.”

Their faces were close. She leaned toward him, closing her eyes, and kissed him softly. “I'll be waiting,” she said.

Brennan moved off through the trees, circling wide, well back from the edge of the clearing. He came to the thin section directly across from Doretta's position and went quickly from tree to tree, keeping to the shadows until he was into thicker pines again. He saw Chink's horse off to the left of him. Only a few minutes remained as he came out of the trees to the off side of the lean-to, and there he went down to his knees, keeping his eyes on the corner of the hut.

The first shot rang out and he heard it whump into the front of the hut. One…then the second…two…he was counting them, not moving his eyes from the front edge of the hut…three…four…be ready…. Five! Now, Chink!

He heard him—hurried steps on the packed sand—and almost immediately he saw him cutting sharply around the edge of the hut, stopping, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily but thinking he was safe. Then Brennan stood up.

“Here's one facing you, Chink.”

He saw the look of surprise, the momentary expression of shock, a full second before Chink's revolver flashed up from his side and Brennan's finger tightened on the trigger. With the report Chink lurched back against the wall, a look of bewilderment still on his face, although he was dead even as he slumped to the ground.

Brennan holstered the revolver and did not look at Chink as he walked past him around to the front of the hut. He suddenly felt tired, but it was the kind of tired feeling you enjoyed, like the bone weariness and sense of accomplishment you felt seeing your last cow punched through the market chute.

He thought of old man Tenvoorde, and only two days ago trying to buy the yearlings from him. He still didn't have any yearlings.

What the hell do you feel so good about?

Still, he couldn't help smiling. Not having money to buy stock seemed like such a little trouble. He saw Doretta come out of the trees and he walked on across the clearing.

S
TAN
C
ASS, HIS
elbows leaning on the edge of the rolltop desk, glanced over his shoulder as he said, “Take a look how I made this one out.”

Marshal John Boynton had just come in. He was standing in the front door of the jail office, one finger absently stroking his full mustache. He looked at his regular deputy, Hanley Miller, who stood next to a chair where a young man sat leaning forward looking at his hands.

“What's the matter with him?” Boynton said, ignoring Stan Cass.

Hanley Miller put his hand on the back of the chair. “A combination of things, John. He's had too many, been beat up, and now he's tired.”

“He looks tired,” Boynton said, again glancing at the silent young man.

Stan Cass turned his head. “He looks like a smart-aleck kid.”

Boynton walked over to Cass and picked up the record book from the desk. The last entry read:

 

NAME: Pete Given

DESCRIPTION: Ninteen. Medium height and build. Brown hair and eyes. Small scar under chin.

RESIDENCE: Dos Cabezas

OCCUPATION: Mustanger

CHARGE: Drunk and disorderly

COMMENTS: Has to pay a quarter share of the damages in the Continental Saloon whatever they are decided to be.

Boynton handed the record book to Cass. “You spelled
nineteen
wrong.”

“Is that all?”

“How do you know he has to pay a quarter of the damages?”

“Being four of them,” Cass said mock seriously. “I figured to myself: Now, if they have to chip in for what's busted, how much would—”

“That's for the judge to say. What were they doing here?”

“They delivered a string to the stage line,” Cass answered. He was a man in his early twenties, clean shaven, though his sideburns extended down to the curve of his jaw. He was smoking a cigarette and he spoke to Boynton as if he were bored.

“And they tried to spend all the profit in one night,” Boynton said.

Cass shrugged indifferently. “I guess so.”

Boynton's finger stroked his mustache and he was thinking: Somebody's going to bust his nose for him. He asked, civilly, “Where're the other three?”

Cass nodded to the door that led back to the first-floor cell. “Where else?”

Hanley Miller, the regular night deputy, a man in his late forties, said, “John, you know there's only room for three in there. I was wondering what to do with this boy.” He tipped his head toward the quiet young man sitting in the chair.

“He'll have to go upstairs,” Boynton said.

“With Obie Ward?”

“I guess he'll have to.” Boynton nodded to the boy. “Pull him up.”

Hanley Miller got the sleepy boy on his feet.

Cass shook his head watching them. “Obie Ward's got everybody buffaloed. I'll be a son of a gun if he ain't got everybody buffaloed.”

Boynton's eyes dropped to Cass, but he did not say anything.

“I'm just saying that Obie Ward don't look so tough,” Cass said.

“Act like you've got some sense once in a while,” Boynton said now. He had hired Cass the week before as an extra night guard—the day they brought in Obie Ward—but he was certain now he would not keep Cass. Tomorrow he would look around for somebody else. Somebody who didn't talk so much and didn't have such a proud opinion of himself.

“All I'm saying is he don't look so tough to me,” Cass repeated.

Boynton ignored him. He looked at the young man, Pete Given, standing next to Hanley now with his eyes closed, and he heard his deputy say, “The boy's asleep on his feet.”

“He looks familiar,” Boynton said.

“We had him here about three months ago.”

“Same thing?”

Hanley nodded. “Delivered his horses, then stopped off at the Continental. Remember, his wife come here looking for him. He was here five days because the judge was away and she got here court day. Pretty little thing with light-colored hair? Not more'n seventeen. Come all the way from Dos Cabezas by herself.”

“Least he had sense enough to get a good woman,” Boynton said. He seemed to hesitate. Then: “You and I'll take him up.” He slipped his revolver from its holster and placed it on the desk. He took young Pete Given's arm then and raised it up over his shoulder, glancing at his deputy again. “Hanley, you come behind with your shotgun.”

Cass watched them go through the door and down the hall to the back of the jail to the outside stairway, and he was thinking: Won't even wear his gun up there, he's so scared. That's some man to work for, won't even wear his gun when he goes in Ward's cell. He shook his head and said the name again, contemptuously. Obie Ward. He'd pull his tough act on me just once.

 

P
ETE
G
IVEN OPENED
his eyes. Lying on his right side his face was close to the wall and for a moment, seeing the chipped and peeling adobe and smelling the stale mildewed smell of the mattress which did not have a cover on it, he did not know where he was. Then he remembered, and he closed his eyes again.

The sour taste of whiskey coated his mouth and he lay very still, waiting for the throbbing to start in his head. But it did not come. He raised his head and moved closer to the wall and felt the edge of the
mattress cool and firm against his cheek. Still the throbbing did not come. There was a dull tight feeling at the base of his skull, but not the shooting sharp pain he had expected. That was good. He moved his toes and could feel his boots still on and there was no blanket covering him.

They just dumped you here, he thought. He made saliva in his mouth and kept swallowing until his mouth did not feel sticky and some of the sour taste went away. Well, what did you expect?

It's about all you deserve, buddy. No, it's more'n you deserve.

You'll learn, huh?

He thought of his wife, Mary Ellen, and his eyes closed tighter and for a moment he tried not to think of anything.

How do I do this? How do I get something good, then kick it away like it's not worth anything?

What'll you tell her this time?

“Mary Ellen, honest to gosh, we just went in to get one drink. We sold the horses and got something to eat and figured one drink before starting back. Then Art said one more. All right, just one, I told him. But, you know, we were relaxed—and laughing. That's hard work running a thirty-horse string for five days. Harry got in a blackjack game. The rest of us were just sitting relaxed. When you're sitting like that the time seems to go faster. We had a few drinks. Maybe
four—five at the most. Like I said, we were laughing and Art was telling some stories. You know Art, he keeps talking—then there's a commotion over at the blackjack table and we see Harry haulin' off at this man. And—”

And Mary Ellen will say, “Just like the last time,” not raising her voice or seeming mad, but she'll keep looking you right in the eye.

“Honey, those things just happen. I can't help it. And it wasn't just like last time.”

“The result's the same,” she'll say. “You work hard for three months to earn decent money then pay it all out in fines and damages.”

“Not all of it.”

“It might as well be all. We can't live on what's left.”

“But I can't help it. Can't you see that? Harry got in a fight and we had to help him. It's just one of those things that happens. You can't help it.”

“But it seems a little silly, doesn't it?”

“Mary Ellen, you don't understand.”

“Doesn't throwing away three months' profit in one night seem silly to you?”

“You don't understand.”

You can be married to a girl for almost a year and think you know her and you don't know her at all. That's it. You know how she talks, but you don't know what she's thinking. That's a big differ
ence. But there's some things you can't explain to a woman anyway.

He felt a little better. Facing her would not be pleasant—but it still wasn't his fault.

He rolled over, momentarily studying the ceiling, then he let his head roll on the mattress and he saw the man on the other bunk watching him. He was sitting hunched over, making a cigarette.

Pete Given closed his eyes and he could still see the man. He didn't seem big, but he had a stringy hard-boned look. Sharp cheekbones and dull-black hair that was cut short and brushed forward to his forehead. No mustache, but he needed a shave and it gave the appearance of an almost full-grown mustache.

He opened his eyes again. The man was drawing on the cigarette, still watching him.

“What time you think it is?” Given asked.

“About nine.” The man's voice was clear though he barely moved his mouth.

Given said, “If you were one of them over to the Continental I'd just as soon shake hands this morning.”

The man did not reply.

“You weren't there, then?”

“No,” he said now.

“What've they got you for?”

“They say I shot a man.”

“Oh.”

“Fact is, they say I shot two men, during the Grant stage holdup.”

“Oh.”

“When the judge comes tomorrow, he'll set a court date. Give the witnesses time to get here.” He stood up, saying this. He was tall, above average, but not heavy.

“Are you”—Given hesitated—“Obie Ward?”

The man nodded, drawing on the cigarette.

“Somebody last night said you were here. I'd forgot about it.” Given spoke louder, trying to make his voice sound natural, and now he raised himself on an elbow.

Obie Ward asked, “Were you drinking last night?”

“Some.”

“And got in a fight.”

Given sat up, swinging his legs off the bunk and resting his elbows on his knees. “One of my partners got in trouble and we had to help him.”

“You don't look so good,” Ward said.

“I feel okay.”

“No,” Ward said. “You don't look so good.”

“Well, maybe I just look worse'n I am.”

“How's your stomach?”

“It's all right.”

“You look sick to me.”

“I could eat. Outside of that I got no complaint.” Given stood up. He put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his body. Then he raised his arms straight up, stretching again, and yawned. That felt good. He saw Obie Ward coming toward him, and he lowered his arms.

Ward reached out, extending one finger, and poked it at Pete Given's stomach. “How's it feel right there?”

“Honest to gosh, it feels okay.” He smiled looking at Ward, to show that he was willing to go along with a joke, but he felt suddenly uneasy. Ward was standing too close to him and Given was thinking: What's the matter with him?—and the same moment he saw the beard-stubbled face tighten.

Ward went back a half step and came forward, driving his left fist into Given's stomach. The boy started to fold, a gasp coming from his open mouth, and Ward followed with his right hand, bringing it up solidly against the boy's jaw, sending him back, arms flung wide, over the bunk and hard against the wall. Given slumped on the mattress and did not move. For a moment Ward looked at him, then picked up his cigarette from the floor and went back to his bunk.

He was sitting on the edge of it when Given opened his eyes—smoking another cigarette, drawing on it and blowing the smoke out slowly.

“Are you sick now?”

Given moved his head, trying to lift it, and it was an effort to do this. “I think I am.”

Ward started to rise. “Let's make sure.”

“I'm sure.”

 

W
ARD RELAXED AGAIN.
“I told you so, but you didn't believe me. I been watching you all morning and the more I watched, the more I thought to myself: Now there's a sick boy. Maybe you ought to even have a doctor.”

Given said nothing. He stiffened as Ward rose and came toward him.

“What's the matter? I'm just going to see you're more comfortable.” Ward leaned over, lifting the boy's legs one at a time, and pulled his boots off, then pushed him, gently, flat on the bunk and covered him with a blanket that was folded at the foot of it. Given looked up, holding his body rigid, and saw Ward shake his head. “You're a mighty sick boy. We got to do something about that.”

Ward crossed the cell to his bunk, and standing at one end, he lifted it a foot off the floor and let it drop. He did this three times, then went down to
his hands and knees and, close to the floor, called, “Hey, Marshal!” He waited. “Marshal, we got a sick boy up here!” He rose, winking at Given, and sat down on his bunk.

Minutes later a door at the back end of the hallway opened and Boynton came toward the cell. A deputy with a shotgun, his day man, followed him.

“What's the matter?”

Ward nodded. “The boy's sick.”

“He ought to be,” Boynton said.

Ward shrugged. “Don't matter to me, but I got to listen to him moaning.”

Boynton looked toward Given's bunk. “A man that don't know how to drink has got to expect that.” He turned abruptly. Their steps moved down the hall and the door slammed closed.

“No sympathy,” Ward said. He made another cigarette, and when he had lit it he walked over to Given's bunk. “He'll come back in about two hours with our dinner. You'll still be in bed, and this time you'll be moaning like you got belly cramps. You got that?”

Staring up at him, Given nodded his head stiffly.

At a quarter to twelve Boynton came up again. This time he ordered Ward to lie down flat on his bunk. He unlocked the door then and remained in the hall as the day man came in with the dinner tray and placed it in the middle of the floor.

“He still sick?” Boynton stood in the doorway holding a sawed-off shotgun.

Ward turned his head on the mattress. “Can't you hear him?”