Gunhawk Page 2

  ‘Try another one,’ shouted Crocker, nodding to another of his buddies. ‘Make it somethin’ a sight more mushy, can’t you?’

  ‘Sure, Ted, sure!’ A nervous-looking fellow answered.

  ‘Lay off me! Quit it!’ howled Sam, his right hand sneaking to his gun.

  ‘Helloa! So you are a gunfighter!’ exclaimed Ted Crocker, his eyes seeming to glisten. ‘Draw it!’ he suddenly hissed, extending and clenching his fingers in anticipation. ‘What’s the matter? Is it paralysis? Draw your gun, filth!’

  Sam noticeably trembled as he lay there, with a mixture of beans and blood running down his shocked face. Gradually his hand crept away from his weapon.

  All this sideshow failed to affect Jeff Rand. He seemed to be indifferent to the deadly silence now in command. He sidled through the small gathering of indignant miners, a couple of squaws carrying water-pots on their heads, and a cowering group of open-jawed kids, some peeping over the sidewalk. Rand was just stepping by Sam, gingerly picking his way between slithery pieces of food, when that cocksure and now outraged-looking young man gripped his arm.

  ‘Hey you! I’m Crocker. Where’s your manners, stranger?’ he purred sinisterly.

  Rand felt the tough fingernails cutting into his flesh. He halted, calmly turned his head, and lazily said:

  ‘How-dee!’

  ‘What yuh mean, how-dee? I said where’s your manners?’

  Rand looked to left and right, as if seeking privacy, then putting his face close to Crocker’s, he confidentially said:

  ‘Sh! I sold ’em. Try someplace else, mister.’

  Before the astounded fellow fully recovered and understood, Rand had viciously cut himself free with a flat-handed stroke and walked on.

  A more tensed silence gripped the gathering. Crocker seemed to swell with wrath as he stood there, holding his smarting wrist, glaring at the limping stranger’s semi-bent back.

  ‘Rat-face!’ he suddenly roared, adopting an aggressive posture, ready to use those protruding guns. ‘Stop! Come back here, rat-face!’

  The stranger limped onward.

  ‘Why, I’ll be a dawg! He is a sham!’ Crocker burst into sneering laughter; and his companions chuckled nervously.

  It was then Rand halted and lazily turned around.

  At last Mister Crocker had a full view of him. The smirk dropped from his face, replaced by deep gravity as he looked up and down that skinny and travel-stained figure of a desert-drifter. He noted the careworn face and the pitying look that fanned his own rage into fiercer flame. Finally his gaze rested on the black Forty-fives. They were tied down. The leather looked soft, well used. Crocker strove to smirk again, yet all he said was:

  ‘I don’t like smart-talk.’

  Rand nodded understandingly. Everybody could see he sympathised with Crocker’s dislike. He turned to go.

  ‘Just a minute!’ Crocker’s rage was boiling higher.

  ‘Steady on, Ted,’ whispered one of the man’s buddies. ‘He ain’t no sham.’

  ‘You shut your jaw! I know a sham when I sees one!’ bellowed Crocker, obviously in a state of frustration with his pride. ‘So you’re a great big awful gunfighter, eh, Mister! Come back, I said. Hey!’ He was almost beside himself with rage as Rand again moved away, hurrying. ‘Just look at him, fellas! I was right. He moves off like a scared jack-rabbit. He’s a no-good sham!’

  Sure enough Rand hastened out of sight, restlessly rubbing his hands together. In fact his behaviour as he vanished through the eating-house doorway, appeared to be sufficient evidence for the onlookers. Loud guffaws arose from the hoodlums, led in volume by Crocker. Even the poor kids broke out in derisive giggles, and whispered the word ‘sham’.

  The sham placed himself at a table and bowed his head in his hands. The laughter presently dwindled away and a tinkling of spurs passed down the footwalk. Peaceful silence reigned, only disturbed by a pleasant hissing of steam from behind the counter. Fifteen minutes must have elapsed before the owner entered, wearing a bandage round his pale face.

  ‘How-dee, Mister! Thought you woulda rode on by now.’ he mumbled in self-pitying tones. ‘Guess you must be real hungry to hang around after what happened. What’s your order?’

  ‘One square meal like it said on your board.’ replied Jeff, not raising his head.

  ‘Yeah, my board. It took me a whole day to write up that board, rooting out the words from old books and whatnot.’ Sam looked mournfully at Jeff. ‘You did wise not to tangle with Crocker. Let him have his way, stranger. He’s fast with a gun. He’s after a big name.’

  ‘Black coffee, please.’ said Jeff.

  ‘Coming up,’ sang out Sam. ‘Naturally we don’t stand a chance agin expert devils like Crocker. Confidentially, neighbour, he has this place scared stiffer than corpses. But don’t you worry. His likes always get an early coffin.’

  ‘Black coffee, please.’ said Jeff.

  ‘Coming up,’ sang out Sam; who continued mumbling to himself as he prepared the meal, saying: ‘This gent’s sure a gloomy cuss. He ain’t got no call to be unsociable, cos I took the beating. Like they sez, he’s only a sham.’

  ‘Black coffee, please.’ said Jeff raising his eyes and giving him a piercing look.

  Sam jumped guiltily and spilt the coffee. He gaped in astonishment at the dark and emotionless visitor now hunched over a very savoury square meal.

  Yes, the food was right good and the charge was fair for a mining town. When Rand left that hash-house he felt a deal better inside and out, having also had a free bath in Sam’s tub. He crossed over to the grocery store for some tobacco, called at the livery-stable to settle his account in advance, then counted out his remaining coins. He could buy two drinks, but no more. Sadly he strolled past Crazy Bill’s Saloon, a place well patronised to judge by the drone and murmur of voices, and considering the size of Vulch City. Irritably, Rand searched his pockets again. But no; two drinks, then he was broke. He gazed down the parched main street and onward across the plain of brown, shrivelled weeds. He sighed heavily, recalled his attention to nearby, and saw a mongrel noisily lapping from a water-pot, stood beside a sleeping dry-skinned squaw. Rand made his decision. Sullenly he pushed his way through the batwing doors.

  The saloon was mercifully cool. Taking his two glasses to a remote table, he sat with his back to the wall. There he rolled tobacco, drank slowly and brooded on his poverty, half-wishing he had remained at Miller’s Mine and, as poor Jim advised, kept digging gold.

  ‘Sham!’

  Jeff Rand heard his new-earned nickname and recognized the voice of Ted Crocker, although he continued to drink and ruminate, secretly fearing to lose the little peace he was enjoying.

  ‘Stand up, sham! Let everybody see you.’

  The noise in the saloon gradually died down. All eyes turned to Crocker, whose fun-making accents held a distinct note of wickedness.

  ‘This, gents, is a sham. You all know what a sham is, I hope. But has anyone seen the inside of a sham? Well, folks, you’re in for a treat. I’m a-going to break this one open, and show you.’

  The speaker stood with feet astride in the centre of the floor. He was full of pride and confidence, wore a contemptuous sneer, and slid his hands behind his gunbelt.

  ‘Is it an animal or a shell-fish?’ asked one of his companions, a thin half-drunk youth who lounged close by at a table, trying to look grim and frightening.

  ‘Let’s have no trouble, Mister Crocker. It’s time we were riding out,’ said another fellow at the table, who smoked a cigar, was dressed in a lawyer-like fashion and had strangely white hair.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mister Sturdy. This demonstration ain’t going to take long,’ growled Crocker. ‘Well, sham, I reckon I need an apology. Do I get it, or do I take it?’

  At these words the crowd began to laugh nervously.

  Three times the young man demanded an apology; each time its importance grew greater with him as he found it harder to get. Three times Rand sipped delicately from his
glass, then softly said:

  ‘I apologize, neighbour. I’m real sorry, being a right down awful jackass.’

  Somebody in the crowd chuckled. Then everybody chuckled. Pleased by the entertainment he was giving, Ted Crocker also chuckled, but in evil anticipation.

  ‘Hear what he said!’ roared some drunken fool at the bar. ‘He said he’s a – a – a low-down nasty-mannered cuss-pig!’

  ‘Crocker sure understands fellas.’ some hidden person yelled. ‘His sham wears good-for-nothin’ guns, looks hard-skinned, but is mushy underneath, like a tomfool turtle, by hellows-bellows!’

  ‘Thanks Mellons. You’re dead right. That’s a perfect definition of a sham,’ Crocker praised. ‘But somehow I figure this one needs a lesson to remember.’ he added with a surly growl. ‘It’s a human insult, his getting rigged up thataway. It’s like a soldier wearing a general’s coat.’

  There came a loud murmur of appreciation at this clever remark.

  ‘Generals work hard and suffer. We just can’t have no-account bums insulting their dignity.’ shouted Crocker.

  ‘Hear, hear, by damn!’ yelled several voices together.

  ‘What’s more, I have a special sense of loyalty, and cain’t bear to see soft-bellied shams wearing a man’s twin guns.’

  ‘You leave me alone.’ begged Rand, glaring disappointedly at the crowded doorway, and at all the accusing faces that had somehow found a grievance. ‘Just leave me alone, everybody. I said I apologised to you, Crocker,’ he mumbled, secretly admiring the man’s cunning tongue. ‘Just let me go in peace.’

  ‘Let him ride away, Ted. You’ve won.’ said the important looking man with the white hair, who had let his cigar go out as he stared with peculiar intent at Jeff Rand.

  Crocker was intoxicated, however, by more than the emotion he had produced in that saloon.

  ‘Fight me, tin-ribs!’ he invited Rand, slamming a fist into his palm. ‘Let’s see how tough you can be.’

  Rand declined the offer and took another much-needed drink.

  ‘Then blast you!’ bawled Crocker, at last losing his patience, and giving way to his intense hatred. ‘Was there ever such a living streak of yolk!’ He took a step forward: the crowd pushed back further, its laughter dying. ‘All right, Mister Gunslinger, so you won’t fight, huh? Then I’m a-coming for your irons.’

  Thereat Rand stiffened. His face grew long and sad.

  ‘Not another step with that intention, sonny!’ he warned him, gently. ‘Go your way. Forget all this. Enjoy life – short enough.’

  Ted Crocker looked stupefied. Every man present was visibly shaken, and thrilled by fresh alarm; some guilty ones crouched behind their companions.

  Unable to utter another word, such was the angry passion which followed his surprise, Crocker deliberately took another forward step. His face contorted in a killing frenzy. He dived for his weapon. Rapidly he drew it.

  But Rand – he did not move; he just sipped from his glass. Yet his right hand was loaded, was squeezing the trigger of a black gun, and stunning the room by a mighty explosion of shots.

  Down fell Crocker, writhing in agony: several bullets had torn into his chest. His watch and chain slipped from his waistcoat: the time was four-thirty p.m.

  The awful deathly silence that followed seemed to hold everybody spellbound. Rand woefully shook his head, stared bitterly at the remainder of his liquor, then slowly poured it out upon the floorboards. His weapon had been returned to its holster by a secretive, reflex action. The shocked citizens continued to gape at the body. Jeff Rand quietly departed, now really wishing he had not forsaken Miller’s Mine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Vulch City had looked deserted before the shooting, but now it looked as empty as an ancient tomb. In fact an air of sinister expectation seemed to envelop that skeleton town.

  When Rand left Crazy Bill’s Saloon, his manner was downright lazy; but as soon as he reached the sidewalk he moved swiftly. He leapt along the creaking boards, reached the livery-stable and dived inside. He began to saddle up, not finding the ostler present. He knew Crocker had dangerous friends: there was only one thing to do, flat-broke as he was and out of provisions, and that was to ride like blasting wind.

  Moisture trickled down his face and hands as he worked at the reluctant animal. Flies whined round him, revelling in the stench of sweating horse-flesh and mouldy grain. The heaving and panting of the beasts, the log walls creaking under the sun’s heat, suggested that the place might burst into flames at any moment. At last he was ready. He turned with his mount towards the open double-doorway, and halted abruptly. There, standing feet astride in the blinding light, was Crocker’s partner, the white haired legal-looking fellow from the saloon – and he calmly levelled two six-guns.

  ‘Leaving us already?’came the gentle inquiry.

  Rand relaxed and bowed his head, though his eyes, never once directly regarding the weapons, fixed themselves on those of the man before him.

  ‘I don’t believe even Jeff Rand could beat a drop like this,’ went on the amiable stranger. ‘No, siree; not even the infamous Rand himself.’

  No surprise betrayed itself on Rand’s face, although he knew he had never before encountered this person. His first and persistent thought was – how much did the man know of him and the old days?

  ‘The face puzzled me at first,’ drawled the other, conversationally. ‘But your gunwork clinched my suspicions. I know only four men who draw thataway. Two are dead; one other is a wild fellow named Wyatt Earp who rules Tombstone, and the fourth is …’

  ‘The move’s yours, Mister Tongue-flapper,’ breathed Rand.

  ‘Yes. That’s true. No sense in you getting unpleasant, however,’ pointed out the mysterious stranger, waving his right gun. ‘This is Smily Merrick,’ he added; whereat his grinning companion, who had been considerably sobered by the gunfight, stealthily materialised round the doorpost. ‘You see, Rand, it’s like this. By killing Crocker, who was naturally a fool, you are responsible for us being a man short in our business. Therefore we invite you to join us.’

  ‘What’s the business?’ Rand bluntly inquired.

  ‘There’s grub aplenty, which it seems you need, and the pay’s real high.’

  ‘What’s the business?’ Rand repeated.

  ‘We ain’t a-wanting no trouble with you, Mister Rand.’ explained Smily Merrick, looking awed by the long and dust-smeared desert-drifter before him. ‘Like Mister Sturdy sez, we don’t pack no grudge agin you. Crocker got his desserts, fair and square. We just make you a friendly offer.’

  ‘What’s the business?’ Rand asked once more, looking bored, almost asleep.

  ‘I’m not in a position to divulge that at the moment,’ Sturdy candidly admitted. ‘If you need grub and money, then ride with us. The proposition will be set before you when we reach camp. I reckon you owe us something for Ted’s death, anyhow. Confidentially speaking, Mister Rand, I have also a personal admiration for you. I need you privately. Well, what’s your choice?’

  Jeff studied them in a long and unnerving silence. Both were the desperado type, versed in cunning and bloodshed. He could kill the man Sturdy – he knew that by Sturdy’s unbalanced gun-grip. Yes; and he might even bring down Smily, who was scared. But the chances of surviving were disappointingly slim. Rand looked cold, without expression on his face as he forcibly restrained himself, feeling that accustomed thrill of gambling with death. He started to think of that food, and the money he needed to continue his search for the gold, and once more concluded with the same question: how much did Mister Sturdy know? Another thing; was there any hope here of a clue to the raid on Jim Miller’s Mine?

  ‘What’s your decision?’ prompted Sturdy, smiling with extraordinary patience.

  ‘Yes, Mister Rand; are you with us?’ Smily hoarsely asked.

  ‘Death,’ said Rand slowly and impressively, ‘seems a mighty hard alternative to following two lousy saddle-bums.’

  ‘Fine,’ chuckled Mister
Sturdy, spitting out the stub of his cigar. ‘Then we have a long day’s ride ahead of us. If we leave this stenching pit straightaway, we’ll avoid further disturbance and enjoy the cool night hours.’

  Mister Sturdy relaxed with a long sigh and hid his guns under his low black coat. Smily Merrick laughed.

  Three riders cantered out of town. Upon reaching the high bankside – Vulch City being situated in a dead river course – the tallest rider looked back, thereat glimpsing the white-aproned saloon keeper angrily leading two bartenders across the street. The bartenders carried a plank between them, whereon rested an ominous shape bound in calico.

  This is getting too much like the old days, brooded Rand. Killings and hard riding, so that a fella can’t call his will his own no more.

  He could remember too clearly how it all began with the avenging of his own murdered kinfolk. That had led to his ending the terrorising career of the Jagger Gang, by beating the notorious Bill Jagger to the draw, a man better remembered as the Prescott Kid. Afterwards had come the life of a hunted beast, wherein either one of the gang or some gun-happy youngster sought to inherit his miserable fame. Sure enough, old Jim Miller had been right. When Jim had given him sanctuary after that cruel foot injury, then offered him a partnership in the mine, he had said:

  ‘Hang up your guns. You’re a stranger in this territory, Jeff Rand. Nobody will jump yuh, nobody will give yuh a second look without them guns. You’re as safe as Old Man Poverty, and that’s me I guess. You and your irons look too close related, and an open challenge for some tomfool upstart. Slap on those guns anywhere, and I warn yuh, Jeff – it’s hell-fire.’

  The three riders rode steadily onward into the sunset. The sun, as if illuminating a seascape, spread a mighty arrowhead of crimson across a plain of dried brown weed, dotted here and there with grassy islands. Rand’s companions maintained a watchful yet amiable silence. Owing to a feeling of being a captive led to some mysterious place of execution, Rand tightened his grip on the reins and rode in the rear.

  ‘Hope you ain’t riled with us, Mister Rand,’ said Smily.