The Way Of The West Page 12

  Swearing, Tatum rushed at Mary, knocking her down and pulling the whip from her hand. At that instant, Dane fired his gun from his pocket at the grizzled cowboy to his left, holding one of the pinning ropes. The man yelped and grabbed his arm, dropping the lariat. Dane spun toward the two men with the ropes around his neck and waist. Just that movement brought another hint of air to his crying lungs.

  He fired twice more and Hogan flew from his saddle. The lariat snaked in the air. The third cowboy threw his lariat at the ground and held up his arms. Next to him, Lecaunesse started to reach for his handgun and changed his mind.

  Dane spun back to face the stunned Tatum. “If any of your men move, you’re dead.”

  The blacksmith yanked the limp ropes from his neck and body with his left hand. Smoke slithered from the black hole in his pocket. He inhaled deeply, but the fresh air came slower than he wanted. He didn’t try to remove the gun from his pocket, not wanting to risk it getting hung up coming out.

  Raising his hands, Tatum snarled, “Nobody git stupid. Nobody move.”

  “Señor, you only have three bullets, si?” The Mexican grinned.

  Keeping his gun pointed at the wide-eyed Tatum’s nose, Dane stepped next to him and yanked the six-gun from its holster with his left hand. He cocked it and said, “Now how many bullets do I have? The rest of you, drop your guns. One at a time. We’ll start with you.” He pointed at the Mexican rider. “Do it now.”

  Grinning again, Big Juan eased his revolver from its holster. “Sí, señor. I am the peace-likin’ man.”

  “Now you.” Dane pointed at the rider to Big Juan’s left.

  Struggling to her feet, Mary saw the dropped gun of the Mexican rider, retrieved it and joined Dane, waving the gun at the remaining riders. Slowly they dropped their pistols to the ground.

  “Now your rifles. Real easy. I’m jumpy right now—and I’m going to shoot if you move too quick.” Dane motioned with both revolvers.

  “Me too,” Mary declared, and looked like she meant it.

  Dane watched the men ease their rifles from scabbards and let them fall to the ground. “You, Mex. Get rid of that pistol in your boot. And you, with the red hair, get rid of that gun stuck in your belt in back.”

  Both Cross men complied with the Mexican snarling through clenched white teeth. “There weel be a next time, señor.”

  He pointed at the downed Irishman who had held the lariat around his neck. Hogan was bleeding at his neck. “Get him back in his saddle. He’s not hurt bad.” He studied the men for any other signs of hidden weapons. “Clear out his saddle gun and belt gun.”

  Two riders dismounted and helped the wounded Hogan onto his horse. He was in shock and struggled to stay in the saddle once they pushed him into place. The shorter of the two helpers pulled his horse beside him and reached out to hold the wounded roper upright.

  “Turn around and ride out of here.” Dane motioned with both guns.

  Tatum walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. He made a wave with his hand and they turned and galloped away.

  Dane watched him go, feeling the adrenaline leaving his body. He wobbled and went to a knee.

  “Oh, my darling Jericho,” Mary whimpered, and leaned over to tend to him.

  VII

  Morning sun woke Jericho Dane from his bed. The brightness of the day told him that it was at least midmorning, maybe later. He slid his feet toward the floor and was startled to see the white-haired judge, J. R. Reicker, sitting in a chair against the wall. An unlit cigar rested in his mouth.

  Dane’s bedroom was small, one of two rooms in the wood-framed house. The only furniture in the room, besides the chair Reicker now occupied and Dane’s bed, was a dresser with one leg propped up with a thick book. Above it was a cracked mirror. The dresser top was covered with a pitcher, small basin and a well-used towel.

  “Mornin’, Marshal. Glad to see yur back wi’ us,” the older man greeted him cheerily. “Miss Tressian asked me to sit with you. Make sur ya got along.”

  Dane looked down at himself and realized he was naked. He looked up with a question on his face.

  “I got ya undressed. She didn’ think it’d be proper for her to be doin’ it.” Reicker smiled. “Ya passed out on the way home yestur’day Took quite a beatin’ from those bastards, ya did.” He folded his arms. “Heard ya also did some ri’t fancy shootin’, too. Reckon it saved yur life, boy.”

  Dane rubbed his jaw where it ached. He felt his lip and recoiled from the pain. His mouth was swollen. His stomach hurt when he moved.

  “J. R., what time is it?” Dane slowly got to his feet and tried to clear his muddy head.

  “Goin’ on noon, I reckon.” He pulled a heavy watch from his vest pocket, clicked it open and said, “Make that eleven twenty.” He closed the lid and returned the watch to his pocket.

  Dane shook his head and the movement hurt everywhere. “What happened to the buggy?”

  “Miss Tressian took back the buggy aft’a she got me,” Reicker said, cocking his head to the side. “Think she took your picnic basket with her. Not sure, come to think o’ it.”

  Frowning, Dane said, “Dammit, I forgot all about my prisoner! He’s been in that shed . . .”

  “Nope,” Reicker interrupted. “Fed’im las’ night—an’ ag’in this mornin’. Put it on the city’s tab. Let him do his business. He were real polite.”

  “I appreciate all you’ve done.” Dane tried to smile, but could only make the right side of his mouth move.

  “Think nothin’ o’ it.” Reicker grinned. “Kinda gave me a chance to make it official—ya know, takin’ care o’ the prisoner an’ all.”

  Moving his arms to determine if there was any pain in them, Dane teased, “Ever do any blacksmithing?”

  “No. Cain’t say that I have, Jericho,” Reicker said. “Oh, I’ve put on sum ‘good’ nuffs,’ ya know. Them store-bought shoes fer hosses. But nuthin’ like ya do.”

  Dane smiled. “Shoot. I was going to put you to work at the shop, too.”

  A knock on the door stopped the conversation.

  Reicker smiled and stood. “Ya’d better get yurself dressed. Reckon that’ll be Miss Tressian. She takes quite a shine to ya, boy—and she was ri’t fierce worried. Came by earlier. Jus’ aft’a breakfast. Hope ya don’t mind, I fixed myself sum coffee an’ bacon.”

  “Sure. If you’ll get the door, I’ll get washed up and dressed.”

  Reicker headed for the front door, paused midway through the main room, and looked over his shoulder. “Why don’ I tell her ya’ll come by her store in a while?”

  Dane smiled and it hurt. “That would be great.”

  He thought about their kissing yesterday and touched his lips again. It would be awhile before they could do that again. If she was interested. He certainly was. One special moment from that terrible time yesterday resurfaced in his brain. Did Mary say that she loved him? He heard her scream again in his mind: “Stop it! Let him go! I . . . love him.” It was probably just the awfulness of the attack and she was trying to get the Cross riders to leave him alone.

  Did he love her? Yes. He was certain of it. Spending life with her rushed into every corner of his mind.

  Headed for the door, Reicker moved past a handmade table and four mismatched chairs, and glanced at the cold fireplace. It would be like a blacksmith to have a good fire at his working place and none at his house, the old man thought. His own place wasn’t much different; he lived alone at the boardinghouse. He liked keeping busy, even volunteering to clerk at Mary’s store when legal duties were light; it kept him from thinking about his late wife. She had died only a handful of months ago. Pneumonia. It seemed like she had been gone an eternity. To him.

  He opened the door and Mary Tressian greeted him. Her voice at the door was both concerned and lilting. Dane listened without moving. Reicker told her the blacksmith was up and dressing and said he planned on coming by her store soon.

  “How is Jericho feeling?” Mary Tressian
asked.

  The old man chuckled. “Well, he looks like he’s bin in a fight wit’ a b’ar, but it’d tak’ a lot to hold that boy down.”

  “Please tell him I came by—and I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

  “Will do, ma’am. That news’ll make him feel a lot better.”

  “Are you coming in today, Mr. Reicker?” she asked.

  “Do ya need an ol’ man’s help today?”

  “I always need your help.” She smiled. “Unless you’ve got things that need doing.”

  “None that I know’bout. How’bout I come in after the noon hour?”

  “That would be great, Mr. Reicker.” She turned away and headed for her buggy waiting at the street.

  When Reicker returned to the bedroom, Dane was shaving.

  “Have you seen Tess today? Ah . . . Trash Tess?” he asked without turning from the mirror above his dresser.

  “Well, now that ya ask . . . no, I ain’t,” Reicker said, shifting the cigar in his mouth with his tongue. “But she’s likely to be close to Carter’s place. Gittin’ close to noon an’ all.” He studied the young blacksmith. “Why’d ya ask?”

  Dane shook his head. “Oh, I just think the town needs to take care of her. She can’t do it for herself. I keep telling myself to ask the mayor about giving her the jail shed to stay in. Never take the time to do it. I’m going to do it. Now.”

  Reicker scrutinized Dane’s reflected face as if truly seeing him for the first time. “Don’ know that ever’body thinks along them lines, Marshal. Thar’s sum think she’s a nuisance. Like they’d think about a wolf—or an Injun.” He cocked his head and his large ears wiggled. “If’n ya use the shed fer her, whadda ya gonna do for a jail?”

  “Going to use that big tree. Beside my place. Tie’em to it.”

  Smiling a wolflike grin, Reicker said, “Well, that oughta make folks think twice’bout bein’ arrested. Might git wet.”

  “Yeah, they might.” Dane finished wiping his face with a towel. “Hey, J. R., I forgot to ask. Would you like to have something to eat come noon? I’m buying.”

  “Well, o’ course.”

  Dane looked into the mirror and saw a bulge in the judge’s coat pocket. “Hey, are you carrying a gun?”

  “Yes sir, I am. Got me a fine Navy Colt.” Reicker lifted the heavy revolver from his pocket. “Did me fine in the Great War. Ya gonna tell me I should’na be carry in’ iron?”

  “Probably not something a judge should do,” Dane said, and chuckled. “But it may be a smart thing to keep it handy. I think Cross is getting ready to take control of Kill Pond. Or try. Might have some spillover trouble between him and the other ranchers. In town. Might.”

  “Yeah, I were a ‘thinkin’ the same,” Reicker said, returning the gun to his pocket. “Cleaned and reloaded it last night. Soon as Cross settles down, I’ll quit wearin’ it.” The old judge adjusted his glasses, rubbed his nose vigorously and pulled the cigar from his mouth.

  Dane tried to smile, but it hurt too much. “I’ll go see if I can catch the mayor—and I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Say, an hour?”

  “Ya got yourse’f a deal.” Reicker returned the cigar to his mouth. “An’ I’ll keep an eye out fer Tess.” He waved and headed for the door.

  “Good enough. After that, I’ll get to work at the shop. Afraid I’m behind.”

  A half hour later, wearing his long coat and hat, Dane walked into the Tressian General Merchandise Store and saw Mary helping a customer. The soreness in his stomach and face didn’t care for the walking. It hurt to smile, but he did anyway.

  Excusing herself from the older couple, Mary walked through the store toward him; her full skirt was music across the planked floor.

  “Oh, Jericho . . . how do you feel?” she asked, stepping close and studying his swollen face.

  “Probably about like I look, Mary,” he said. “I’m mighty sorry to have taken you into all that.”

  “Don’t be silly. You had no idea. How could you?” She touched his mouth and whispered, “If I kiss it, will it make it better?”

  His face reddened and he put his hand to his mouth. “It’d make me feel good.” He tried to smile, but it hurt too much.

  “I have our picnic basket,” she continued. “Maybe we could try that again when you’re feeling better.” She giggled. “I didn’t keep the food.”

  “Of course,” he said and realized everyone in the store was watching them. “I’d better go and let you get back to work.”

  “They’ll wait. It’ll give them something to gossip about.” She smiled. “You and me.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “I love it. I love you.”

  “I love you, Mary.” He touched her arm. She asked when they would see each other again and he suggested they have supper together.

  She readily agreed.

  He murmured good-bye and left the store. Instinctively, he felt for the pistol now resting in his long-coat pocket. He drew the gun and checked the loads. Someone had reloaded it from the ammunition he kept in his pocket—or maybe he had. He couldn’t remember. Dane studied the busy street and sidewalks. Townspeople were well into the day. He headed for Mikman’s Gun, Knife & Ammunition Shop. His body and face ached with the movement.

  Dane pushed open the door widely and saw Fred Mikman. His face was filled with a dark beard and mustache. The bald top of his head was shiny, almost like a mirror. Wide suspenders struggled to keep his trousers in place over an extended stomach. He stood behind a counter displaying an array of revolvers. Behind him on the wall was a long rack of rifles and shotguns.

  Born in America of German parents, Mikman was as close to a lifelong resident of Torsmill as there was. He and two other men had settled here and staked out the town when it was just prairie. One, named Torsmill, sold whiskey; the other, Abel Tressian, started the general store that Mary now owned and ran. Both had passed on years ago.

  Like Dane, Mikman had accepted the mayor’s job when no one else, except Xavier Anthony, wanted it. Oh, there was a town election, but it wasn’t close. He worked with a town council of four appointed men and seemed to enjoy the duties. Most of the time.

  Right now, he was worried and his large, expressive eyes showed it.

  “Guten Tag to you, Herr Marshal.”

  “Just plain Jericho,” Dane said as he always did.

  As usual, the great-bearded gunsmith ignored Dane’s offer of informality.

  “Du haff bin hurt, Herr Marshal,” Mikman started in. When he was nervous or excited, German words and phrases colored his conversation. “I hope it ist nicht of ze serious way.”

  Dane rubbed his sore neck and licked his swollen lip. “No, had a horse act up when I was shoeing him yesterday, that’s all.”

  Mikman studied Dane for a moment. “Du ist many gut things, Herr Marshal, but du ist nicht a gut liar.” He shook his head to support his statement. “I heard from Herr Wilson about vhat happened vit der Cross men. That ist awful. Awful.”

  “Well, it wasn’t good.”

  “Ja. Let us get a posse und go arrest these awful men. That vas attempted murder. Ja, that ist vhat it vas. Attempted murder.” Mikman’s face beyond his beard was dark red.

  Dane put a hand on the counter, glanced at the guns within. “Thanks, Fred, I appreciate that. I really do. But we have no jurisdiction outside of town. We’d be a lynch mob. No better than them.” He looked up. “Might get some good men killed.”

  “Veil, thar be nein help from der county law.” Mikman’s eyes sparkled. “Let us send a vire to der Rangers.”

  “Good idea. Likely be awhile before one gets here, though.” Dane folded his arms; the movement hurt his sore ribs.

  “Maybe ve get one like this John Checker I haff read about in der San Antonio newspaper. Ja.”

  Dane smiled, but it hurt too much to become much more than a smirk at the corners of his mouth. “I imagine it’s whoever isn’t on assignment at the time. Or closest.” He looked up at Mi
kman. “I think Cross is going to try to take over Kill Pond. That’ll bring a shooting war. Expected it sooner, with his relative as the county law. Could spill into town.”

  “Ja. I haff bin thinking der same.” Mikman turned his head slightly.

  Frowning, Dane said, “Yeah. Might be a good idea to let me appoint a deputy.” He licked his lips and felt the swelling around the cut. “If something happens to me, the town still has a lawman. Although Judge Reicker could handle just about anything.” There was no bravado in the statement, just the flatness of fact. “He helped me yesterday. I wasn’t in very good shape. He and Miss Tressian.”

  “Ja, I know du und Miss Tressian.” Mikman smiled beneath his mustache, ignoring Dane’s last comment. “Und I know of der beating du did give to Herr Stockton. Und I know about der Cross cowboy du arrested for disturbance of der peace. Und I know about der shooting du did to stop der Cross men. From murdering du.”

  Dane wasn’t certain where this was headed or if he was going to like it.

  “Herr Cross ist a powerful man.” Mikman rubbed his massive beard, then put his hands on his suspenders and pulled on them slightly. “He be gut for Torsmill—und bad.”

  Dane nodded and Mikman continued, expanding on Dane’s concern that Cross was going to press to control the whole region, after the mayor finished his thought, Dane changed the subject and began his reason for coming in: Trash Tess. He explained that he thought the town should take care of her since she could not care for herself. There should be a place for her to stay, to sleep.

  He said that he knew of Mikman’s giving Carter money to feed her. He suggested they fix up the jail shed for her. It wasn’t wonderful, but it was certainly better than sleeping in the street or in the stable. Or wherever there was room that night. A cot was already there in the shed. It needed some cleaning and a few other items townspeople would likely be willing to donate.

  Mikman listened without any reaction, then asked, “Vhat do ve do for a jail? There may be more cowboys coming to town looking for der trouble. It vould be awhile before We could build one.”