There was a wad of tobacco in his cheek that made his thin face lopsided, like a jagged rock with hair on it. He shifted the wad, still smiling, and then spit over to the side.
"You tell him, Em," he said.
Emmett looked at me with his closed-up, leathery face. He stared hard as if afraid his eyes would waver. "They don't need the saddles."
Gosh swatted me playfully with the end of rope in his hand. "Want me to paint you a picture, Charlie?" He laughed and walked out through the wide entrance.
Gosh didn't have to paint a picture. Ben Templin dropped his cigarette. Lloyd and Ned and Dobie just stared at Emmett, but none of them said anything. Em stood there like a rock and stared back like he was defying anybody to object.
The boys looked away and moved about uncomfortably. They weren't about to go against Emmett Ryan. They were used to doing what they were told because Em was always right, and weren't sure that he wasn't right even now. A hanging isn't an uncommon thing where there is little law. Along the Pecos there was less than little. Still, it didn't rub right--even if Em was following his conscience, it didn't rub right.
I hesitated until the words were in my mouth and I'd have had bit my tongue off to hold them back. "You setting yourself up as the law?"
It was supposed to have a bite to it, but the words sounded weak and my voice wasn't even.
Emmett said, "You know what the law is." He beckoned to the coil of rope Gosh had hung back on the boards. "That's it right there, Charlie.
You know better than that." Emmett was talking to himself as well as me, but you didn't remind that hardheaded Irishman of things like that.
"Look, Em. Let's get the law and handle this right."
"It's black and white, it's two and two, if you steal cows and get caught you hang."
"Maybe. But it's not up to you to decide. Let's get the law."
"I've already decided," was all he said.
The stable hand crept up close to us and waited until there was a pause. "The deputy ain't here," the old man said. "He rode down to Lincoln yesterday morning to join the posse." He waited for someone to show interest, but no one said a word. "They're getting a posse up on account of there's word Bill Bonney's at Fort Sumner."
He stepped back looking proud as could be over his news. I could have kicked his seat flat for what he said.
Gosh came back with two coiled lariats on his arm and a third one in his hands. He was shaping a knot at one end of it.
Earl Roach looked at Gosh, then up to the heavy rafter that crossed above the three horses, then Jack's head went up too.
Gosh spit and grinned at them, forming a loop in the second rope.
"What'd you expect'd happen?"
Jack kept his eyes on the rafter. "I didn't expect to get caught." "Jack's always smiling into the sunshine, ain't he?" Gosh pushed Earl Roach toward his horse. "Mount up, mister."
Roach jerked his shoulder away from him. "I look like a bird to you?
You want me up on that horse, you'll have to put me up."
"Earl, I'll put you up and help take you down."
When he got to Butzy and offered him a leg up, Butzy made a funny sound like a whine and started to back away, but Gosh grabbed him by his shirt before he took two steps. Butzy looked over Gosh's bony shoulder, his eyes popping out of his pasty face.
"Em, what you fixin' to do?" His voice went up a notch, and louder.
"What you fixin' to do? You just scarin' us, Em?"
If it was a joke, Butzy didn't want to play the fool, but you could tell by his voice what he was thinking. Em didn't answer him.
Gosh finished knotting the third rope and handed it to Dobie, who looked at it like he'd never seen a lariat before.
Gosh said, "Make yourself useful and throw that rope over the rafter."
He went out and brought his horse in and mounted so he could slip the nooses over their heads, but he stood in the stirrups and still couldn't reach the tops of their heads. Emmett told him to get down and ordered Ben Templin to climb up and fix the ropes. Ben did it, but Em had to tell him three times.
Before he jumped down, Ben lighted cigarettes and gave them to Jack and Earl. Butzy was weaving his head around so Ben couldn't get one in his mouth. Just rolling his head around with his eyes closed, moaning.
Gosh looked up at him and laughed out loud. "You praying, Butzy?" he called out. "Better pray hard, you ain't got much time," and kept on laughing.
Ben Templin made a move toward Gosh, but Emmett caught his arm.
"Hold still, Ben." He looked past him at Gosh. "You can do what you're doing with your mouth shut."
Gosh moved behind the horses with the short end of rope in his hand. He edged over behind Earl Roach's horse. "Age before beauty, I always say."
Butzy's eyes opened up wide. "God, Em! Please Em--please-GCo honest to God--I didn't know they was stealing the herd! Swear to God, Em, I thought Perris told Jack to sell the herd. Please, Em--I--let me go and I'll never show my face again. Please--"
"You'll never show it anyway where you're going," Gosh cracked.
Earl Roach was looking at Butzy with a blank expression. His head turned to Jack, holding his chin up to ease his neck away from the chafe of the rope. "Who's your friend?"
Jack Ryan's lips, with the cigarette hanging, formed a small smile at Roach. "Never saw him before in my life." His young face was paler than usual, you could see it through beard and sunburn, but his voice was slow and even with that little edge of sarcasm it usually carried.
Roach shook his head to drop the ash from his cigarette. "Beats me where he come from," he said.
Ben Templin swore in a slow whisper. He mumbled, "It's a damn waste of good guts."
Lloyd and Ned and Dobie were looking at the two of them like they couldn't believe their eyes and then seemed to all drop their heads about the same time. Embarrassed. Like they didn't rate to be in the same room with Jack and Earl. I felt it too, but felt a mad coming on along with it.
"Dammit, Em! You're going to wait for the deputy!" I knew I was talking, but it didn't sound like me. "You're going to wait for the deputy whether you like it or not!"
Emmett just stared back and I felt like running for the door. Emmett stood there alone like a rock you couldn't budge and then Ben Templin was beside him with his hand on Em's arm, but not just resting it there, holding the forearm hard. His other hand was on his pistol butt.
"Charlie's right, Em," Ben said. "I'm not sure how you got us this far, or why, but ain't you or God Almighty going to hang those boys by yourself."
They stood there, those two big men, their faces not a foot apart, not telling a thing by their faces, but you got the feeling if one of them moved the livery would collapse like a twister hit it.
Finally Emmett blinked his eyes, and moved his arm to make Ben let go.
"All right, Ben." It was just above a whisper and sounded tired.
"We've all worked together a long time and have always agreed--if it was a case of letting you in on the agreeing. We won't change it now."
Gosh came out from behind the horses. Disappointed and mad. He moved right up close to Emmett. "You going to let this woman--" That was all he got a chance to say. Emmett swung his fist against that bony tobacco bulge and Gosh flattened against the board wall before sliding down into a heap.
Emmett started to walk out the front and then he turned around.
"We're waiting on the deputy until tomorrow morning. If he don't show by then, this party takes up where it left off."
He angled out the door toward the Senate House, still the boss. The hardheaded Irishman's pride had to get the last word in whether he meant it or not.
THE DEPUTY got back late that night. You could see by his face that he hadn't gotten what he'd gone for. Emmett stayed in his room at the Senate House, but Ben Templin and I were waiting at the jail when the deputy returned--though I don't know what we would have done if he hadn't--with two bottles of the yellowest mescal you ever saw to
ease his saddle sores and dusty throat.
We told him how we'd put three of our boys in his jail--just a scare, you understand--when they'd got drunk and thought it'd be fun to run off with a few head of stock. Just a joke on the owner, you understand. And Emmett Ryan, the ramrod, being one of them's brother, he had to act tougher than usual, else the boys'd think he was playing favorites. Like him always giving poor Jack the wildest broncs and making him ride drag on the trail drives.
Em was always a little too serious, anyway. Of course, he was a good man, but he was a big, red-faced Irishman who thought his pride was a stone god to burn incense in front of. And hell, he had enough troubles bossing the TX crew without getting all worked up over his brother getting drunk and playing a little joke on the owners--you been drunk like that, haven't you, Sheriff? Hell, everybody has. A sheriff with guts enough to work in Bill Bonney's country had more to do than chase after drunk cowpokes who wouldn't harm a fly. And even if they were serious, what's a few cows to an outfit that owns a quarter million?
And along about halfway down the second bottle-- So why don't we turn the joke around on old Em and let the boys out tonight? We done you a turn by getting rid of Joe Anthony. Old Em'll wake up in the morning and be madder than hell when he finds out, and that will be some sight to see.
The deputy could hardly wait.
In the morning it was Ben who had to tell Em what happened. I was there in body only, with my head pounding like a pulverizer. The deputy didn't show up at all.
We waited for Emmett to fly into somebody, but he just looked at us, from one to the next. Finally he turned toward the livery.
"Let's go take the cows home," was all he said.
Not an hour later we were looking down at the flats along the Pecos where the herd was. Neal Whaley was riding toward us.
Emmett had been riding next to me all the way out from Anton Chico. When he saw Neal, he broke into a gallop to meet him, and that was when I thought he said, "Thanks, Charlie."
I know his head turned, but there was the beat of his horse when he started the gallop, and that mescal pounding at my brains. Maybe he said it and maybe he didn't.
Knowing that Irishman, I'm not going to ask him.
Chapter 10 Three-Ten to Yuma.
Dime Western Magazine, March 1953.
HE HAD PICKED up his prisoner at Fort Huachuca shortly after midnight and now, in a silent early morning mist, they approached Contention. The two riders moved slowly, one behind the other.
Entering Stockman Street, Paul Scallen glanced back at the open country with the wet haze blanketing its flatness, thinking of the long night ride from Huachuca, relieved that this much was over. When his body turned again, his hand moved over the sawed-off shotgun that was across his lap and he kept his eyes on the man ahead of him until they were near the end of the second block, opposite the side entrance of the Republic Hotel.
He said just above a whisper, though it was clear in the silence, "End of the line."
The man turned in his saddle, looking at Scallen curiously. "The jail's around on Commercial."
"I want you to be comfortable."
Scallen stepped out of the saddle, lifting a Winchester from the boot, and walked toward the hotel's side door. A figure stood in the gloom of the doorway, behind the screen, and as Scallen reached the steps the screen door opened.
"Are you the marshal?"
"Yes, sir." Scallen's voice was soft and without emotion. "Deputy, from Bisbee."
"We're ready for you. Two-oh-seven. A corner . . . fronts on Commercial." He sounded proud of the accommodation. "You're Mr. Timpey?"
The man in the doorway looked surprised. "Yeah, Wells Fargo.
Who'd you expect?"
"You might have got a back room, Mr. Timpey. One with no windows." He swung the shotgun on the man still mounted. "Step down easy, Jim."
The man, who was in his early twenties, a few years younger than Scallen, sat with one hand over the other on the saddle horn. Now he gripped the horn and swung down. When he was on the ground his hands were still close together, iron manacles holding them three chain lengths apart. Scallen motioned him toward the door with the stubby barrel of the shotgun.
"Anyone in the lobby?"
"The desk clerk," Timpey answered him, "and a man in a chair by the front door."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know. He's asleep . . . got his brim down over his eyes."
"Did you see anyone out on Commercial?"
"No . . . I haven't been out there." At first he had seemed nervous, but now he was irritated, and a frown made his face pout childishly.
Scallen said calmly, "Mr. Timpey, it was your line this man robbed.
You want to see him go all the way to Yuma, don't you?"
"Certainly I do." His eyes went to the outlaw, Jim Kidd, then back to Scallen hurriedly. "But why all the melodrama? The man's under arrest--already been sentenced."
"But he's not in jail till he walks through the gates at Yuma," Scallen said. "I'm only one man, Mr. Timpey, and I've got to get him there."
"Well, dammit . . . I'm not the law! Why didn't you bring men with you? All I know is I got a wire from our Bisbee office to get a hotel room and meet you here the morning of November third. There weren't any instructions that I had to get myself deputized a marshal. That's your job."
"I know it is, Mr. Timpey," Scallen said, and smiled, though it was an effort. "But I want to make sure no one knows Jim Kidd's in Contention until after train time this afternoon."
Jim Kidd had been looking from one to the other with a faintly amused grin. Now he said to Timpey, "He means he's afraid somebody's going to jump him." He smiled at Scallen. "That marshal must've really sold you a bill of goods."
"What's he talking about?" Timpey said.
Kidd went on before Scallen could answer. "They hid me in the Huachuca lockup 'cause they knew nobody could get at me there . . . and finally the Bisbee marshal gets a plan. He and some others hopped the train in Benson last night, heading for Yuma with an army prisoner passed off as me." Kidd laughed, as if the idea were ridiculous.
"Is that right?" Timpey said.
Scallen nodded. "Pretty much right."
"How does he know all about it?"
"He's got ears and ten fingers to add with."
"I don't like it. Why just one man?"
"Every deputy from here down to Bisbee is out trying to scare up the rest of them. Jim here's the only one we caught," Scallen explained--then added, "alive."
Timpey shot a glance at the outlaw. "Is he the one who killed Dick Moons?"
"One of the passengers swears he saw who did it . . . and he didn't identify Kidd at the trial."
Timpey shook his head. "Dick drove for us a long time. You know his brother lives here in Contention. When he heard about it he almost went crazy." He hesitated, and then said again, "I don't like it."
Scallen felt his patience wearing away, but he kept his voice even when he said, "Maybe I don't either . . . but what you like and what I like aren't going to matter a whole lot, with the marshal past Tucson by now. You can grumble about it all you want, Mr. Timpey, as long as you keep it under your breath. Jim's got friends . . . and since I have to haul him clear across the territory, I'd just as soon they didn't know about it."
Timpey fidgeted nervously. "I don't see why I have to get dragged into this. My job's got nothing to do with law enforcement. . . ."
"You have the room key?"
"In the door. All I'm responsible for is the stage run between here and Tucson--"
Scallen shoved the Winchester at him. "If you'll take care of this and the horses till I get back, I'll be obliged to you . . . and I know I don't have to ask you not to mention we're at the hotel." He waved the shotgun and nodded and Jim Kidd went ahead of him through the side door into the hotel lobby. Scallen was a stride behind him, holding the stubby shotgun close to his leg. "Up the stairs on the right, Jim."
Kidd started up, but Scallen
paused to glance at the figure in the armchair near the front. He was sitting on his spine with limp hands folded on his stomach and, as Timpey had described, his hat low over the upper part of his face. You've seen people sleeping in hotel lobbies before, Scallen told himself, and followed Kidd up the stairs. He couldn't stand and wonder about it.
Room 207 was narrow and high-ceilinged, with a single window looking down on Commercial Street. An iron bed was placed the long way against one wall and extended to the right side of the window, and along the opposite wall was a dresser with washbasin and pitcher and next to it a rough-board wardrobe. An unpainted table and two straight chairs took up most of the remaining space.
"Lay down on the bed if you want to," Scallen said.
"Why don't you sleep?" Kidd asked. "I'll hold the shotgun."
The deputy moved one of the straight chairs near to the door and the other to the side of the table opposite the bed. Then he sat down, resting the shotgun on the table so that it pointed directly at Jim Kidd sitting on the edge of the bed near the window.
He gazed vacantly outside. A patch of dismal sky showed above the frame buildings across the way, but he was not sitting close enough to look directly down onto the street. He said, indifferently, "I think it's going to rain."
There was a silence, and then Scallen said, "Jim, I don't have anything against you personally . . . this is what I get paid for, but I just want it understood that if you start across the seven feet between us, I'm going to pull both triggers at once--without first asking you to stop. That clear?"
Kidd looked at the deputy marshal, then his eyes drifted out the window again. "It's kinda cold too." He rubbed his hands together and the three chain links rattled against each other. "The window's open a crack. Can I close it?"
Scallen's grip tightened on the shotgun and he brought the barrel up, though he wasn't aware of it. "If you can reach it from where you're sitting."
Kidd looked at the windowsill and said without reaching toward it, "Too far."
"All right," Scallen said, rising. "Lay back on the bed." He worked his gun belt around so that now the Colt was on his left hip.
Kidd went back slowly, smiling. "You don't take any chances, do you?