Rogue Law Page 7

  SIX

  I was in and then I was out. One minute Judge Plank was pleased I was at the courthouse and, as I waited, Mayor Jefferson, also pleased to see me came in, shook my hand and disappeared into the judge’s chambers. The next minute Plank’s court clerk came up and told me that the judge was in an emergency session, he would be pleased to see me at a later time.

  Shrugging, I rose, put on my hat and sauntered toward the courthouse door. I brushed past a tall stranger who wore a long dark flowing mustache. He assessed me with keen gray eyes, looked for a moment as if he would speak to me and then passed on. I saw the clerk wave him along to the judge’s inner office. Apparently the stranger was involved in the emergency session, whatever it was about.

  I sloughed off the snub. It was only a minor inconvenience. Indio was in no hurry to be arraigned, and he was secure where he was. I simply shuffled my schedule a little and decided that since I was now free of my obligations to the town, I might as well proceed to take care of my own.

  There was an eerie silence across the land. It was clouding up a little, not much, but the wind was beginning to gust and crackle through the brush. I glanced northward, thinking that it might soon be raining dust. It didn’t happen often, but now and then at this time of the year the weather shifted so that the north wind carrying thin clouds with it would drift across the desert and while scant rain was falling from the skies, sand was picked up by the stronger winds below and you would get a sort of a moist dust storm falling from the sky.

  I passed two freight wagons, creaking slowly along across the yellow land. These at least were not carrying more of Matti’s furniture to the Rafter L, but sawn lumber. I reined up at my turn-off to watch them, but they passed the Rafter L road and continued on. They had to be going to the Hatchet ranch, then. That figured – Reg Kent was the only rancher around who could afford such material. I had to wonder what he planned to do with all that wood, but I knew he would answer my questions about the time ice invaded the lower regions.

  I found Matti on the front porch, broom in hand, industriously sweeping as if anything could keep dust from coating it again just as thickly within an hour. I wondered again why she, any woman, would wish to live out in this sorry corner of nowhere.

  I didn’t see Virgil around, and his little blue roan was missing from the corral, so he was probably upcountry, looking over the herd. My herd. If anyone was looking after them it should have been me. If anyone was crazy enough to sweep off the porch, that should have been me as well. It was my porch. My house. I waited until that little flare-up of anger subsided before I kneed the sorrel forward toward Matti.

  I drew up and sat my pony, hands crossed on the pommel, watching her work. She did not glance up at me. Wearing a blue-checked calico dress and a white bandanna, she looked every bit the range wife – a very pretty range wife. When I had had enough of us ignoring each other, I spoke.

  ‘Good morning, Matti.’

  She turned, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Lang.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. What are you trying to accomplish out here. Or is it that there’s simply no room left for you inside the house?’

  ‘I have all the room I need,’ she shot back, ‘and it’s certainly much more comfortable in there than it was when you lived here. As for what I’m doing – I am trying to keep everything neat which is something else you could stand a lesson or two at.’

  ‘Why so touchy?’ I asked.

  ‘You!’ she said. ‘Am I paying you to work here or not? Where have you been, Lang?’

  She had not noticed the badge I was wearing so I tapped the silver shield and watched her expression change. ‘I took your advice, Matti. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?’

  She stepped toward me, one measured stride only, the broom held loosely in one hand. She tried to smile mockingly, gave that up and decided to look across my shoulder at the low clouds now beginning to settle over Arapaho Peak.

  After watching her maneuver through so many layers of expression, searching for one that was meaningful, I decided that she could not answer the question I had asked because she did not know what she wanted at all. Perhaps not for me alone, but for herself as well.

  ‘They told me—’ she said, and then her jaw clamped shut and she shook her head.

  Frowning, I swung down from the sorrel and walked toward her. With one boot on the steps, I looked up and asked, ‘What did they tell you, Matti?’

  She shook her head again. Her eyes were still fixed on the approaching hard weather. Arapaho Peak had its head lost in the dark underbelly of the clouds, heavy shadows moved toward us as if pushed by the rising wind.

  ‘Is it going to rain?’ she asked me.

  ‘Only a little,’ I answered, not bothering to explain all about the unusual weather. ‘Just enough to make you think it has.’

  ‘Are you supposed to be here?’ Matti asked.

  ‘Do you mean can Montero get along without me?’ I smiled lopsidedly. ‘I would say that in general folks are happier there when I’m not around.’

  ‘It’s a rough town, isn’t it?’ she asked, and I thought I detected the barest hint of concern in her voice.

  ‘Rough enough,’ I agreed. I had been in more violent frontier towns, but there was a darkness about Montero. As if it bred a special sort of violence, the secret, stealthy kind. You could feel it in the air even if you could not see it. That, I thought, was something people like the town doctor who had just packed his bag and slipped away could sense about the town, the reason people didn’t stay long or ever feel really comfortable there. There was nothing I could do to change that sort of evil.

  ‘I felt a raindrop,’ Matti said, ‘you’d better come in until this blows over.’

  It was the first time I had ever been invited into my own house, although when I entered the old cabin I saw that it didn’t resemble my shack anymore. I looked at everything twice, my eyebrows drawing together as Matti walked to the stove and poured us each a cup of coffee.

  There were curtains hung over both windows – two pairs. One sheer set next to the glass and heavier, brownish-orange drapes facing in. These were drawn back, cinched at the waist by velvet ropes of the same burnt-orange shade. There was a braided rug on the floor and on this two yellow plush sofas faced each other across a low oval table of dark wood. A vase with artificial flowers sat on it. Through the doorway to the bedroom I could see a made bed with a checked quilt, the corner of that heavy bureau with a mirror attached.

  ‘Did you do this all yourself?’ I asked, accepting a cup of coffee.

  ‘The movers helped me shift some of the heavy pieces around. And Virgil helped me hang the drapes and roll out the carpet. He pretended that that sort of work was beneath him,’ Matti said with a smile, ‘but I think he liked doing it in a way.’

  Of course he would, I reflected. Being around a woman like Matti, watching the grace of her movements, aware of the feminine scent of her, her eyes bright with pleasure as she found the perfect place for some item.…

  ‘Do you like it?’ Matti asked me.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the way I’d have done it.’

  She laughed, ‘Well we know how you would do it!’

  I smiled in return, but she wasn’t exactly right. The way the cabin had been – well, it was like that because I was dirt poor and the money seemed better spent on other things. Besides, there had never been anyone around to fix things up for. The dusty rain was beginning to slap against the window panes and the walls of the cabin. It was darker outside and the driving wind set the cabin to trembling.

  ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ Matti asked. She had a coffee cup – a tiny one – in one hand. With her other she patted the cushion of the yellow sofa.

  ‘I’m not staying long,’ I told her. I turned my back on her and watched the whip and swirl of the storm. Leaves from my lone oak tree scuttled and cartwheeled across the yard. ‘Matti … what did they tell you? And who
were they?’

  Her eyes were innocent, but I thought her lip trembled a little as she sipped from her coffee cup. ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Lang.’

  ‘Outside,’ I reminded her. ‘You said something about someone telling you something.’

  ‘That’s rather vague, isn’t it?’ She laughed again and replied, her eyes away from me, ‘I really can’t remember what I was going to say, Lang.’

  I didn’t prod her. We are all allowed our secrets. Only this secret seemed to concern me, and I didn’t like being kept in the dark.

  ‘The storm’s already letting up,’ I said, bending to peer out through the window. ‘These things don’t usually last long. I’m afraid you’ll have to sweep your porch again, though. The wind just blew back everything you swept off.’

  ‘That’s the way things are out here, isn’t it, Lang?’ she asked, rising.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Do you think you will ever get used to it, Matti?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe not. But it doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. I am here to stay, Lang, and no one is going to run me off.’ More sharply, she repeated, ‘No one!’ Her eyes were fierce; her hands had formed small, determined fists.

  ‘No one’s trying to, Matti,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be going now.…’ I waited, but my words did not prompt a reply. She simply nodded and turned away. I opened the door and stepped out into the lingering shadows of the dying storm.

  Virgil still had not returned. Probably he had sheltered up during the spate of rain and wind. That suited me just then. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Virgil or anyone else at the moment. I swung aboard my sorrel and waited a moment, glancing at the window to see if Matti was there, watching me go, but the curtains did not move, the door remained firmly closed. I heeled my horse a little too roughly and started the desolate ride back toward the diseased town of Montero.

  Cal had been long alone in the jailhouse and his face flushed with pleasure when he unlocked the door and let me in.

  ‘Anything happen?’ I asked my thin deputy, replacing my Winchester in the rack.

  ‘A man snuck up to the window and tried to hand Indio something through the bars.’ I waited for the rest of it. ‘I loosed off a bullet from my rifle and he changed his mind,’ Cal said with a grin.

  ‘Too bad you missed him,’ I commented, settling behind my desk.

  I told Cal that I had purchased the bay horse for him and, as he was so excited, I let him go off and try to find a saddle. A used one – my contribution to thrift.

  About two o’clock I heard the snap of reins and the call of the stage-coach driver and I stepped outside to watch it begin its Santa Fe run. Bill Forsch was at the window on my side, his face dark with concern. I lifted a hand, but there was no response as the coach raced out of town, lost in its own dust cloud.

  Closing the door I turned to find Cheyenne Baker sitting up on his cot, holding his wounded shoulder with his good hand. His eyes were black embers when he lifted them to mine. He lowered his arm and flexed the fingers of his gun hand.

  ‘You got me in the wrong arm, Lang,’ he said, raising his right threateningly.

  ‘Careless of me,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll show you just how careless!’ Cheyenne Baker roared, coming to his feet, though the sudden movement must have caused him pain. ‘As soon as I’m out of here, Lang, you’re dead. I’ll be there standing over your grave to remind you just how careless you are.’

  I sat in my chair, tilted back, hands resting easily on the wooden arms. I gave him a reckless smile and said, ‘You’re never getting out of here, Cheyenne. Only long enough to put on some chains and climb aboard the prison wagon.’

  ‘Yeah, Indio’s told me what you’ve been saying,’ Cheyenne said in an ugly tone. ‘Told me what you thought you heard.’

  ‘I was there, Cheyenne. Kent said he was through with the three of you.’

  Cheyenne Baker gave me a smile in return, every bit as challenging as my own. His voice was hoarse with emotion when he advised me, ‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Lang. You’re playing a game you don’t even understand. And one of the rules is that the loser dies.’

  He had exhausted himself, it seemed, for he sat down on his bunk again and then lay back, staring at the ceiling. Indio continued to cling to the bars of his cell like an excited little ape, watching for my reaction. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I tilted back, propped my boots up on the desk and closed my eyes.

  Maybe I had given no indication of it to the prisoners, but Cheyenne’s words did give me pause for thought. Reg Kent had been quick to say that he had fired his three top hands, currying favor with the politicians, it seemed. Maybe Kent was just biding his time and there would be an attempted breakout when I least expected it. If he was going to do it, though, why not now? Before the two had been arraigned before Judge Plank? It wasn’t a question I could solve, but I could make sure I was ready if anything did happen. I said nothing more to my prisoners, and they did not seem to be watching me when, after a few minutes, I rose, took a twelve-gauge shotgun from the gun rack and began cleaning it.

  The passing storm had left the skies bathed in a lurid, blood-red light at sundown. The streets were silent as I walked them, alert for any trouble. I could still feel it in the air – this sense that something was hovering over Montero, ready to fall with a violent impact. Cal had posted the signs announcing the new ordinance here and there, and whether the law against discharging firearms was the cause or not, there was no rowdiness to speak of on this evening. I passed the alley between the courthouse and the feed store and caught two men in a fist fight, but they seemed evenly matched and equally drunk and so I let them proceed with their entertainment.

  Glancing in the saloons I saw nothing riotous, but hostile eyes lifted as the men gathered there became aware of my presence. I stopped at the Coronet Restaurant to grab some supper. I couldn’t take another meal in the jailhouse with Indio’s remarks and Cheyenne Baker glowering at me. The waitress posted me at a corner table in the back of the restaurant and slapped a menu down before turning her back and strutting away. Two men at the front of the place who had not finished their plates pushed them aside, looked poisonously in my direction and went out.

  My popularity continued to grow.

  It was nothing new. A lawman is only popular with those he cozies up to. If it’s not to their mutual benefit, the man with the star is the unwanted interloper, interfering with the natural right of the citizens to enjoy themselves and exploit their neighbors.

  The waitress poured my coffee, spilling a little on the tablecloth. Another man got up to leave. A cook in the back dropped a pot and cursed.

  And the guns exploded out on the streets of Montero.

  I leaped to my feet, tipping the table. I threw my napkin aside and grabbed for my Winchester. No one made way for me as I rushed toward the front door of the restaurant. One man even tripped me – intentionally or not, I could not tell and could not pause to discuss. By the time I reached the plankwalk in front of the building, more than a dozen shots had been fired.

  They came from the direction of the jail.

  Men pushed their way through the doors of the saloons to crowd the porches. Others ran up the street to witness the battle. I fought my way past them, shouldering men aside. The next shot fired had the heavy report of a shotgun. Two pistol shots answered. They had the front door to the jail broken in, I saw now, and I jogged that way, levering a cartridge into the Winchester’s breech.

  I was spotted then. Three, four shots were fired in my direction and I flung myself aside, taking shelter behind the corner of the saddlery adjacent to the jailhouse. Bullets tore jagged splinters from the wall inches from my head. I ducked, tried to find a target, but had to withdraw again.

  There was another flurry of shots and then a shout. I heard horses racing away up Main Street and took the chance. Rising, I stepped into the street and fired five shots after the retreating horsemen, working the lever of m
y rifle as rapidly as possible. I hit nothing. The horsemen never slowed their escape into the desert darkness.

  A jeering cheer went up from the gathered crowd as I pushed a bullish man out of my way and raced on to the jail. It was worse than I had hoped. Beyond the shattered door I saw the two jail cell doors standing open … and Cal lying face down in a pool of blood, shotgun in his limp fingers. A lone man had followed me to the jail and he now stood in the doorway gawking. I cursed and then shouted at him.

  ‘Find Mama Fine! Make it quick!’

  He hesitated fractionally, but then took to his heels as I lifted Cal by his shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him into Indio’s cell, placing the bleeding deputy onto the bunk vacated by the fleeing outlaw.

  ‘There was too many of ’em, Marshal.…’ Cal murmured.

  I shushed him and cursed again, blaming myself. I had been given every warning that a breakout was in the offing. Cheyenne Baker had as much as told me so, and yet I had left the office to wander the town, even seated myself in a restaurant when I belonged here with the inexperienced Clarence Applewhite. The kid was nothing more than a displaced sodbuster, unused to situations like this, ill-equipped to handle them, and yet I had allowed him to guard the prisoners unassisted – probably the very situation the gang had been waiting for.

  While I waited for Mama Fine, I filled the loops in a bandolier with cartridges and slung it across my shoulder. I took a box of twelve-gauge shells from the supply cabinet and a box of .44.40s. I didn’t know where I was riding, but I knew there was going to be a small war at the end of the trail.

  I left Mama Fine laboring silently over Cal and walked toward the stable, a Winchester in one hand, shotgun in the other. My face must have looked as grim as I felt because the men in the street weren’t slow in clearing a way for me now. I found Ike Kimball standing in the open double doorway to his stable and told him, ‘I need somebody over at the jail. They shot Cal.’

  ‘The kid? Is he all right?’ Ike asked with genuine concern.