Hell Town

Chapter 13

With Gates Tucker and Dagnabbit Dabney both dead, the woman called Hannah had moved in with Jory Pool. She had been with Pool at times before, and she figured that getting her back was one reason Pool had gunned down the other two men—besides sheer, cussed meanness, that is, which Pool had plenty of.

With the interest Pool had shown in hearing about Buckskin, Hap Mitchell and Lonnie Beeman had supposed that he intended on raiding the town right away. Considerable time had gone by since then, however, and the gang was still tucked away in its canyon hideout. They were starting to get restless, running short of supplies, cash, and patience. Everybody had a hankering to pull another job.

Nobody questioned Pool, though, because none of them had a hankering to die swiftly and violently. They grumbled about the delay amongst themselves, though.

When the boss outlaw sent for them one night, Mitchell and Beeman thought maybe he was getting ready to plan the attack on the town. They went to Pool’s cabin, where Hannah opened the door to Mitchell’s knock.

“Come on in, boys,” Pool called from inside the cabin.

As they entered the room, they saw Pool sitting at a rough table with some greasy playing cards spread out in front of him in a solitaire hand. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat close at hand. Pool waved his visitors over and told them to have a seat on the other side of the table.

Hannah came to stand beside him. He reached up and caressed her meaty rump, digging his fingers in. “Get the boys something to drink,” he ordered.

She nodded and said, “Sure, Jory honey,” then fetched another bottle and a couple of tin cups. She poured whiskey in the cups and slid them across the table to Mitchell and Beeman.

Each of the men sipped the fiery liquor, then Mitchell said, “You wanted to see us, Jory?”

“Yeah.” Pool moved a red seven onto a black eight. “I been hearin’ talk about how we need to go out on another job.”

“The boys are anxious,” Mitchell admitted with a shrug. “They’re eager to get out there and show you what they can do.”

“I know what they can do. And I know the time’s not right yet. Buckskin’s a boomtown. It’s gonna keep growin’ for a while yet. The more it grows, the more loot there’ll be for the taking when we do hit it.”

“That makes sense,” Beeman said. “But the more people there are in the settlement, the more of a fight they’ll be able to put up, ain’t that right?”

Mitchell glanced with slitted eyes at his friend. What Beeman had just said was logical enough, but it might be taken as arguing with Jory Pool too, and that was never a wise thing to do.

“If we strike at just the right time, it won’t make any difference how many people are in the settlement. They won’t put up a fight. It’s just a matter of waitin’ for the proper moment.”

“Well, I reckon you’d know better about that than we would, Jory,” Mitchell said, shooting another glance at Beeman and hoping he’d take the hint to keep his piehole shut.

“Damn right I know better.” Pool picked up the bottle and downed a slug of whiskey. “I’ll tell you what else I know,” he went on as he thumped the bottle back down on the table. “I don’t want to be hearin’ a lot of whisperin’ and complainin’ behind my back because we haven’t ridden out yet. That makes me think you fellas don’t appreciate all I done to put this gang together and make sure it’s run right.”

Mitchell shook his head. “Now, Jory, it ain’t like that at all—”

“Tell you what,” Pool said as if Mitchell hadn’t spoken. “If there’s anybody who don’t like the way I run things, he can speak up, right out in the open. If you boys want somebody else to be the boss, why, he can challenge me. I like to run things fair and square.”

Despite the calm, rational words Pool spoke, Mitchell saw a crazy light flickering in the man’s eyes. Pool was smart and cunning and one hell of a leader, but he was also a man it paid not to cross. They all knew that, so Mitchell started to say, “Nobody wants to—”

“There’s just one thing,” Pool broke in. “I don’t take it too kindly when I feel like you boys don’t appreciate me.”

“I swear, Jory, that ain’t the way—”

Pool looked up at Hannah as she stood beside him and said, “Kiss me, honey.”

She smiled. “Why, sure, Jory.” She bent down to kiss him, resting one hand on the table beside the cards to steady herself as she did so. She gave him a long, sensuous kiss, so passionate in its intensity that it made Mitchell and Beeman squirm a mite in their chairs.

With his lips still locked to hers, Pool brought his other hand out from under the table with his bowie knife clutched in it. Moving so fast that it took everyone by surprise, he brought the blade down and drove the razor-sharp steel through Hannah’s hand so that it was pinned to the table like an insect on a display board. She jerked upright, threw her head back, and shrieked in agony.

Pool kept his hand on the knife, bearing down on it so that Hannah couldn’t free her hand. As she slumped forward and collapsed onto the table, whimpering in pain, Pool said to Mitchell and Beeman, “I love this gal. She’s mighty precious to me. So if I’d do this to somebody I love, what do you think I’d do to somebody who crossed me and tried to stir up hard feelin’s against me over this Buckskin business?”

“N-nobody’s gonna do that, Jory,” Beeman said, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

“Damn right,” Mitchell added. “You’re the boss, Jory. What you say, goes. Always has and always will.”

Pool nodded. “All right then. Go on back to the boys and tell ’em what you saw here tonight. Tell ’em I don’t want to hear any more grumblin’ behind my back. You’ve got my word, we’ll hit Buckskin when the time’s right. When I’m damned good and ready.”

The two men scraped their chairs back, nodded, and turned to hurry out of the cabin. Mitchell heard the sound of Pool pulling the bowie knife out of Hannah’s hand. She let out another groan as the blade came free.

But neither Mitchell nor Beeman looked back, and as they closed the door behind them, they heard Pool saying in a tone of genuine affectionate concern, “That hand don’t look so good, darlin’. You’d better tie a rag around it or somethin’.”

Frank spotted Clint Farnum at the bar of the Silver Baron when he walked into the saloon that evening. Farnum was talking to the bartender, Johnny Collyer, and Johnny was laughing. Farnum had an easy way about him that made most folks feel like his friend, even though they might have known him for only a short time. He inspired trust.

Frank didn’t trust him. He knew better. But Farnum had never double-crossed him, so he was willing to give the little gunfighter the benefit of the doubt—for now—although he was going to be wary about it.

Farnum grinned at Frank and said, “Ready to have that drink now, Marshal?”

Frank gestured toward Farnum’s empty glass. “Give a refill on me, Johnny.”

“You’re not drinking, Frank?”

“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

“Yeah,” Farnum said, “I recollect now that you were never much of a whiskey man. That’s probably why your nerves have stayed so steady over the years.”

“Might have something to do with it,” Frank allowed with a faint smile.

Farnum picked up the glass Johnny had filled with amber liquid again. He inclined his head toward the rear of the room, where there were several empty tables, and said, “Sit down with me for a minute, Frank? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Curious what Farnum could have to discuss, Frank took the coffee cup Johnny handed him and nodded. “All right, I reckon I’ve got a few minutes before I start my evening rounds.”

They walked back to one of the tables and sat down. Keeping his voice pitched low so that no one could eavesdrop on the conversation, Farnum said, “This town of yours looks to be growing mighty fast.”

Frank nodded. “It’s like any other town where there’s been a gold or silver strike. For a while, it tries to bust wide open at the seams. But in time, it’ll settle down, and if the ore holds out, it’ll grow into a mighty nice place one of these days.”

“Right now, though, I’ll bet you’ve got your hands full. A boomtown’s nothing but trouble. And you’ve got to deal with other problems on top of it…namely young bucks like Charlie who want to gun you down and make a name for themselves. I’ve heard that hardly a week goes by without somebody like that showing up.”

“Who told you that?” Frank asked, his jaw tightening. He knew he was probably the subject of gossip around town, but he didn’t have to like it.

Farnum shook his head. “Doesn’t matter who told me. The word’s all over town. These folks like you, so they’re willing to put up with it. Got to be hard on you, though, trying to keep the lid on and not get killed at the same time.”

“That’s the chore any lawman faces. I pinned the badge on. I’ll do the job.”

“Sure you will. But all you’ve got for a deputy is a broken-down old-timer.”

Frank laughed. “Go and tangle with Catamount Jack and then come back and tell me how broken down he is. I think you’ll find that he lives up to his name.”

“Maybe so. It still seems to me like you could use another deputy. Somebody who knows how to handle trouble.” Farnum smiled. “Maybe because he’s started so blasted much of it in his time.”

Frank stared at the other man in surprise. He couldn’t help it. After a moment, he asked, “Are you saying that you want a job as my deputy, Clint?”

An uncharacteristically solemn expression appeared on Farnum’s normally jovial face. He leaned forward and said, “I know I’ve spent a lot of time in my life riding some dark and lonely trails, Frank. I’ve heard the owl hoot many a night. But so have you.”

Anger welled up inside Frank. “I’ve lived by the gun, and I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of. But I haven’t spent one day of my life as an outlaw.”

“Maybe not, but those are the stories people tell about you.”

“‘Stories’ is right. There’s not a lick of truth to most of them.”

Farnum waved a hand. “I won’t dispute that. Reckon you’d know about that better than anyone else. But my point is, you put all that behind you. You stopped drifting, settled down, pinned on a badge, of all things. You know of any reason I couldn’t do that too?”

Frank knew of several, including some bank robberies and stagecoach holdups that Farnum had been in on.

But on the frontier, the line between lawman and outlaw was sometimes a mighty thin one, and Frank knew that quite a few respected star-packers had come from shady backgrounds. Of course, it sometimes went the other way too. More than one outlaw had started out carrying a badge before turning crooked. The Dalton brothers were prime examples, having served as deputy U.S. marshals in Indian Territory before taking up the owlhoot trail.

So maybe Farnum deserved a chance, but Frank would need some more convincing first.

“Why do you want to be a deputy?” he asked.

Farnum shrugged. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Hell, none of us are. I’ve spent too many nights on the cold, hard ground. I’ve got a hankering for a job where I can go home at night and climb into a real bed.” He leaned back and toyed with his glass, turning it in circles. “And it wouldn’t be so bad to have a job where people look at you with a little respect, like you’re something better than a no-good owlhoot.”

Frank knew that feeling. He had seen the fear in people’s eyes when he was around. In other places, he had seen mothers grab their children and hustle them to the other side of the street when he came along, as if they thought a gunfight was going to break out any second. And there was some truth to that too. He never knew when somebody was going to force a showdown with him.

It was a little different in Buckskin. The townspeople knew of his reputation, of course, and they had seen for themselves that he attracted would-be killers like honey drew flies. But as Farnum had pointed out, they knew him and liked him, and they wanted him to be their marshal despite the baggage he brought with him. Hell, the town had fallen into disrepair and disrepute for a long time, and now it was taking on a new identity. By accepting the job as marshal, maybe he had been trying to do the same thing. Maybe Clint Farnum deserved that same chance.

Frank looked across the table at him and asked in a harsh voice, “Are you on the dodge?”

“You know damn well there’s paper out on me in some places,” Farnum replied without hesitation. “But I’m not wanted anywhere in Nevada, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“So nobody’s after you? You don’t have trouble dogging your trail? You’re not looking for a place to hide out for a while?”

“No to all those questions. I’m shooting straight with you, Frank. Maybe I’m a mite old for it, but what I really want is to settle down and make something of myself.”

Frank didn’t hear anything in Farnum’s voice or see anything on his face except sincerity. He thought about it for a long moment, then said, “I don’t know that the town could pay you much of a wage. We could probably come up with a place for you to stay, though, and maybe you could eat at the boardinghouse or the café.”

“That’d be enough for now,” Farnum said with an eager bob of his head.

“I suppose I could talk to the mayor about it and see what he says.” Frank took a sip of his coffee, which had cooled off while he and Farnum were talking. “The way the town’s growing, another deputy was going to be needed sooner or later.”

Farnum grinned. “Might as well get me started while you’ve got the chance then.”

“Yeah, I reckon. You’d better not be lying to me about this, though, Clint.”

Farnum held up his hand like he was taking a pledge and said, “You’ve got my word on it—”

At that moment, a man slapped the batwings aside and hurried into the saloon, almost running. He went to the bar and asked Johnny Collyer if the marshal was there. Frank heard the question and looked around to see Johnny pointing him out. The man who had just come in was one of the prospectors who had flocked to Buckskin to search for silver. Frank had seen him around the settlement quite a few times, but didn’t know his name.

The man came over to the table now and said, “Marshal, you’d better get down to Rosie’s place. I think there’s about to be a killin’ there.”

Frank glanced at Farnum and asked, “You ready to start earning your keep, such as it is?”

The little gunfighter pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s go to work, Marshal,” he said.