Smuggler's Gulch Page 4

  ‘I’ll see if Marshal Trouffant will talk to you.’ Then he disappeared into the back of the office, leaving Jake and Sarah to stare at the map on the wall, the three or four wanted posters tacked up on a board, the portrait of President Grant which was beginning to sun-fade. It didn’t take the deputy all that long. When he emerged, wiping his hands on his trousers yet again – a nervous habit, it seemed - he told Sarah:

  ‘Go on in. It’s the second room.’

  Sarah marched confidently ahead, Jake following in her wake. Bostwick gave him a scrutinizing look, his eyes briefly dropping to Jake’s holstered Colt, but he said nothing. The corridor they entered was even darker and cooler, despite the heat of the day. Walking directly to the door Bostwick had indicated, she entered. Jake sighed and tagged along.

  Inside there was a sort of bedroom with a cupboard, a dressing table, three or four wooden chairs and a rumpled brass bed on which lay a fat, uncomfortable man with a red face.

  ‘Marshal Trouffant?’ Sarah asked. She sat in one of the chairs without having been invited. Trouffant looked up and nodded. The man wore a white nightshirt, lay on his side and was in obvious discomfort.

  ‘Good,’ Sarah said, ignoring whatever private tortures the marshal might be suffering. ‘My name is Sarah Worthy, and I have come to claim the bounty on two members of the Kit Blanchard gang. That is, Lemon Jack and River Tremaine have both departed this planet.’

  ‘Lemon Jack Baker!’ Trouffant said with an eagerness passing through his eyes which then faded to reveal pain again.

  ‘The very same,’ Sarah said proudly. ‘As I said, he and River Tremaine both. They tried to waylay us out on the desert.’

  The marshal frowned. His lower lip pursed as he studied Sarah. ‘You did say your name was Worthy?’

  ‘Sarah Worthy, yes.’

  ‘I guess you’d know who they are then. Did you bring the bodies into town for identification?’

  ‘Unfortunately we had only our two horses, but as you said, I can most certainly identify them. They are dead.’

  ‘You were with her?’ Trouffant said, shifting his weary eyes to Jake.

  ‘I was,’ Jake told the marshal. ‘I’m the one that killed them.’

  ‘I see …’ the marshal grew thoughtful. He shifted slightly in his bed, but even that small effort seemed to cause him pain. ‘You see, I was with the Flagstaff posse when they were pursuing Kit Blanchard. One of the bastards got me in the side with a chance shot. The doctor says it passed clean through, but managed to nick my spine on its way. There’s a lot of nerve damage. I’m on laudanum half the time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jake said, not knowing what other comment he could make.

  ‘I wonder if it was one of those two who shot me,’ Trouffant said with bitterness. ‘Well, for now let that go. You say you saw the two dead men as well?’ the marshal asked Jake Staggs.

  ‘Yes. They are dead. As to their names, I couldn’t tell you, but Sarah was sure of their identities.’

  ‘I guess she would be,’ Trouffant grumbled.

  ‘So that’s settled. When can I expect the bounty on those two to be paid? It was a thousand for the two of them, if I recall. Seven hundred for Lemon Jack.…’

  ‘It’ll be a while,’ the marshal said interrupting her. He shifted his position and again winced with pain. ‘Would someone hand me that little blue bottle over there? I’m hurtin’ pretty bad right now, Miss Worthy; I’ll take care of this matter as soon as possible. I’ll have to at least talk to the mayor, probably send a letter to the US marshal in Yuma, but I’ll see that you get the reward money.’

  Sarah wanted to discuss matters further, but Trouffant did not. After only a sip or two from the laudanum he had at hand, his head dropped heavily and no matter that company was present, he flopped back in his bed to fall asleep.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Jake said in a harsh whisper. ‘You got his answer.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right that I should have to wait so long,’ she complained. Jake took her arm and turned her out of the room.

  ‘It won’t be that long. At least you know you’ve got your future taken care of for a while.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she said mysteriously, ‘for quite a while to come.’

  They walked out past the deputy who was again seated, boots on the marshal’s desk, struggling to decode the print on the newspaper page. He watched them with indifference, and perhaps a hint of relief that their visit had caused no problems for him.

  It was hot outside, though not searing. Mid-nineties, Jake guessed. The sky was leaden. Only a few people walked the plankwalks of town, only an occasional rider passed. Sarah stopped in the ribbon of shade offered by the porch awning of the marshal’s office. She looked up at Jake, stretched out both hands, then let them fall away without touching him.

  Her eyes were too intent, overly bright. Mad? She told Jake Staggs:

  ‘Get some rest. By the time Kit Blanchard gets back from Mexico we’ll be ready for him.’

  Jake rolled a curse around in his dry throat but it would not come to his lips. Astonishment had strangled it. Tightly, he forced a single word through his teeth:

  ‘What?’

  Sarah continued to stare up at him, and her eyes were now those of a woman you wouldn’t want to see in the front row of a jury if you were the man on trial. ‘You see how easy that was, Jake?’ she said lightly. ‘A thousand dollars for a few hours work. A thousand isn’t much – it isn’t near enough. Do you know there’s five thousand on Kit Blanchard’s head alone? And the rest of the gang – Blanco, Sizemore, Ernie Wright, Ike Sandoval … why there’s enough money on their heads to set me up for life.’

  ‘And you expect me to go back to Smuggler’s Gulch with you?’ Jake laughed.

  ‘I don’t think I’d be much help,’ Sarah said. Her expression became vengeful. ‘But you could wipe them all out one by one. You don’t know how I’ve suffered. Why? Because I was never allowed out of the canyon for fear I might give them away! I mean, even as a child, Jake! I’ve been a prisoner all of my life. Now it’s time for them all to pay for it.’

  ‘Turn them into the marshal,’ Jake said wearily. He watched an older man and woman drive past in a surrey drawn by a high-stepping sorrel.

  ‘You saw the shape he’s in!’ Sarah said. ‘Besides, lawmen can’t collect bounties. You know that.’

  Jake shook his head, looked deliberately away and said carefully, ‘I am not going to return to Smuggler’s Gulch, Sarah. Not for a million dollars in gold, not with fifty armed men at my side. No - you’ll have to find another way, one that doesn’t include me.’

  ‘I won’t!’ she exploded. Her dark eyes held fire. ‘I have everything planned out and it depends on you. Oh, you’ll help me, Jake Staggs,’ she said dangerously, ‘or I’ll make you sorry!’

  Her intent was clear in the fierceness of her words and the slashing light in her eyes, but Jake smiled crookedly, shook his head and challenged her:

  ‘How, Sarah? I helped you out of a situation and I guess I’m glad that I did, but there’s no way I’m going back down there and there’s nothing you can do to force me to.’

  ‘No?’ Her smile was pretty but deadly. ‘Where did you say that the buckskin horse you’re riding, the one with the Broken T brand on it, came from? You’re on the run, aren’t you, Jake?’ She nearly hissed: ‘They still hang horse thieves in this territory. All I have to do is tell the marshal that. Maybe you’re no better than Kit Blanchard’s men. Maybe you’re really one of the gang, and I was afraid to tell him in front of you. They can trace that horse back to its home ranch and see what the owner has to say.’

  And, knowing Bert Stiles, Jake knew that the cattleman would be perfectly happy to see him hanged.

  With that, Sarah smiled again, knowingly, turned on her heel and walked away leaving Jake to stare after the small woman in blue jeans. With another girl he might have laughed off her threat, but he was coming to know Sarah far too well. There was no telling what she might r
esort to to get her way.

  ‘I thought you might like a slice of apple pie to go with that coffee,’ the waitress said, returning to Jake’s restaurant table.

  ‘I can’t.…’ Jake objected.

  ‘You already told me that you’re low on funds. I won’t see a man go hungry if I can help it.’

  Jake nodded his thanks, but she was already gone, moving away to another table where she collected a stack of dishes and returned to the kitchen. Looking around as he shoveled bites of the thick slice of pie into his greedy stomach, Jake saw that the restaurant was filling up rapidly. He couldn’t sit there nursing his coffee forever; there were others who wanted the table. He managed to catch the little waitress’s eye as she whisked past again, her arm burdened heavily with trays. He held up his lone nickel for her to see, placed it beside his empty plate and rose from his chair. Before he had taken one step he heard her voice behind him.

  He turned and watched her slide up behind him. ‘Listen, come around to the back of the restaurant in an hour. I’ll see that you get a real meal.’ She smiled, reached into her apron pocket and said a little more loudly, ‘You’ve forgotten your change, sir.’

  A small hand pressed two nickels into his open palm, and before Jake could respond, she had whirled away again, rushing to take an order from two cattlemen in their Sunday best.

  Outside the glare of the sun off the glass in the shops along the street was fierce. He did not even glance skyward. The desert sun would be a white ball in the white sky. A yellow dog in the shade of the awning opened its eyes to look at him, wag its tail feebly and go back to sleep. Jake looked at his hand again. The two nickels glinted dully. He had ten cents and an hour to kill. He hoped that the going price in Lewiston was still a nickel for a glass of beer. His parched cells had not yet fully recovered from his long desert trek and the temperature, now over a hundred degrees, was drawing still more moisture from his body. A beer would help. Or two! Hell, he was a rich man for the moment.

  It wasn’t hard to find a saloon. There were two sitting side by side a block up the street and another opposite. He chose the one on his side of the street to avoid having to leave the band of shade the buildings offered.

  Stepping inside the low-ceilinged, musty-smelling building he found a crowd of twenty or so men standing along the bar and another dozen scattered around the tables spaced across the floor. A few were playing cards; others just sat and stared.

  One of them was staring directly at Jake Staggs.

  It was Blanco.

  Jake had never really gotten a good look at the bearded bandit. Most of their time together had been spent with Blanco standing behind him, prodding Jake in the back with the muzzle of his gun, but he recognized Blanco, and if he hadn’t, Blanco certainly recognized him. Had he been sent to track Jake down? That could be, since Blanco was the one Kit Blanchard had entrusted to watch Staggs. Either that or Lemon Jack and River Tremaine’s bodies had been found. There had been a lot of shooting; someone might have heard it.

  Blanco sat alone at the small round table, an empty mug of beer folded between his thick hands. There was absolutely no expression on his dark face which was more unnerving than a flicker of anger or hate would have been. He simply stared, and Jake considered trying to ease his way out of the saloon. No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than a trio of laughing, taunting cowboys came through the batwing doors. In their high spirits they saw nothing wrong. They stood there, blocking the doors. One of them knocked another’s hat off and they scuffled good-naturedly for a while as Blanco rose from his table and walked toward Jake Staggs on heavy legs.

  ‘What did you call me!’ Blanco roared, and heads turned. The cowboys in the doorway dispersed and stood aside. Jake said nothing. There was no possible answer. Blanco was sketching a thin alibi of self-defense. Jake could only brace himself and wait for the inevitable. Every man in the shabby saloon knew that Blanco was in a killing mood, but since it seemed to be a personal matter, no one tried to stop it.

  What Blanco obviously wanted now was to goad or frighten Jake into drawing first. Then, with the combat between two men both unknown to the locals, all they could do was testify that they had heard Blanco object to being called a name and that Jake was the first to go for his gun.

  And the temptation to do just that was there. Jake Staggs was not a gun hand. Was Blanco quick to shoot? He did not know that either. All he could do was watch as Blanco stalked him. One voice did speak up saying, ‘Take it outside, boys,’ but everyone knew it was already too late for that.

  Jake licked his dry lips. His eyes briefly unfocused and then locked in on the bulky, bearded man, fixed on his right hand hovering near his holster. Blanco was three strides away when he drew his Colt revolver.

  Jake Staggs shot him dead.

  Blanco roared in frustration; in pain he threw both hands to his chest where he had been hit and then to his throat where blood was surging up from his ruptured heart, strangling him. Shakily, Jake backed away from the man as he took one staggering step and fell face first to the wooden floor. His leg twitched twice and then the bearded outlaw lay still. The doors behind Staggs swung open again and he looked that way to see the slender Deputy Bostwick, shotgun in his hands, and on his heels Sarah Worthy.

  ‘You got another one!’ Sarah cheered, clapping her hands together. ‘Deputy, the dead man is Eduardo Blanco, one more of Kit Blanchard’s gang, and there’s five hundred dollars reward for him!’

  Sarah was beaming. Thrilled. She now was dressed in a black velvet dress with red trimming at the hem, cuffs and throat. A tiny matching black and red hat was pinned to her hair. Bostwick, doubtful as ever, lowered his shotgun slightly and told Jake.

  ‘We’d better talk to Marshal Trouffant again.’

  Outside, Sarah said, ‘You are brilliant, Jake. I knew I’d made the right choice this time.’

  ‘I think his front sight must have gotten snagged in his holster,’ Jake muttered.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Another five hundred dollars!’ She hooked her arm around his as they made their way toward the marshal’s office, a worried Bostwick trailing.

  ‘How’d you get the new hat and dress?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got money,’ she shrugged. ‘There was plenty in the house. I knew where they had it stashed.’

  Fine. If Kit Blanchard had had no other reason to come after Jake and Sarah, he had one now. She had raided the outlaw gang’s treasury.

  ‘You know that I have only two nickels to rub together, Sarah.’

  ‘That will all change soon,’ she promised. ‘Once the reward money starts rolling in.’

  If he lived that long, Jake thought. But she did not offer him any money just then.

  If things continued the way Sarah Worthy hoped, she would die a wealthy woman, but a lot of men would die broke along the way.

  Marshal Sam Trouffant was still in his bed when they reached the jail, but he looked slightly better.

  ‘I managed to sit up this morning,’ he announced proudly. ‘Twice, as a matter of fact.’ Now his perpetual frown returned, ‘The doctor says I’ll never ride a horse again, but,’ he shrugged, ‘Lewiston’s all right with me. I like it as well as I’m liable to like any other place. I’ll just stay where I am. Now, tell me about the shoot-out.’

  Jake related it simply, because in reality there had been nothing dramatic about it. He still believed that Blanco’s front sight must have gotten hung up in his holster: the reason many known gunmen filed them off, being of no real use on a handgun anyway.

  ‘Well, at least you did this one the right way,’ Trouffant said, shifting again in his bed to try to ease his discomfort. ‘I know Blanco’s reputation. I’ve got a circular on him somewhere out in the office – did you find that poster, Bostwick!’ he shouted at the deputy, who had not followed them to the marshal’s bedroom.

  ‘Where was I?’ Trouffant continued after settling into a more comfortable position on his back. ‘Yes, you did this
one right, Staggs. You see we’ve got the body right here and he can be identified. Makes the reward claim easier to prove. You might keep that in mind in the future.’

  Jake started to interrupt, to assure the marshal that there would be no future bounty claims, not if he could help it. Trouffant didn’t give him a chance. He lifted a fat red hand to silence Jake.

  ‘Here is what I am going to ask you to do, son,’ he said. ‘Bostwick!’ The put-upon deputy appeared at the doorway. ‘Give it to me,’ the marshal ordered.

  Staggs assumed that it was the wanted poster that he had asked for, but now the gaunt deputy stepped forward, opened his hand and revealed a shiny deputy marshal’s badge like the one pinned to Bostwick’s own blue shirt.

  ‘The thing is,’ Trouffant said, studying the badge, ‘there’s already three men dead by your hand, Staggs. People are going to start to wonder if you’re not a murderer, some sort of hired killer. So I want you to pin this on before you go after the rest of the gang. That way we’re all protected, you see, and we don’t have to worry about jailing you for some offense if you have to break the letter of the law to deliver justice to the Kit Blanchard gang.’

  Again Jake started to object. Sarah stood by beaming. Deputy Bostwick frowned deeply. Maybe he felt that his authority was to be infringed upon. Trouffant told Jake:

  ‘You don’t have to worry about maintaining order here in Lewiston. Bill here knows the people, and he’s good enough at his job,’ the marshal said, offering Billy a lagniappe. ‘No, just wear this badge around here so that people know you’re not some outlaw that should be tried for murder. I’ll make that appointment retroactive. Then there won’t be anything for anyone to get nosy about. You can’t know how badly I want to see Kit Blanchard hanged or shot down.’ The marshal rubbed his back. ‘Look what the bastard did to me! That’s your only job, Staggs. Find him and bring him in or shoot him down where he stands, it’s all the same to me.