Gun Play at Cross Creek (10 page)

Chapter 18

AS TOM WAS PUSHED
toward the jail, prodded in the back by Kinkaid's gun barrel, he kept glancing over his shoulder. The crowd seemed confused by what was happening. McKay stood on the front edge, holding his face in his hands and shaking. Some of the others took a few tentative steps after the marshal and his prisoner, but Kinkaid whirled on them, waved the pistol, and shouted, “You all go home.”

He pointed the big Colt first at one, then another, and then a third. No one wanted to die. And no one on the street, least of all Tom Atwater, doubted that Kinkaid would shoot. The marshal was very close to the edge, and a single footstep might send him over the edge. If he went, and everyone seemed to understand this, he would drag others with him. He couldn't kill them all, they knew that, but no one wanted to be the first.

Tom was looking for Morgan. He had lost sight of him as he went down, and never did see him again. Then, when Henessey bulled his way through the crowd, Tom saw Morgan's limp body suspended like a side of beef and he stopped. Kinkaid saw it and he turned.

When he turned back, he smiled. “Your old man don't look so high and mighty now, does he?”

Tom stared at him, and Kinkaid stuck his face forward, “Does he?” There was some indescribable hatred in Kinkaid and it was reflected in every muscle and sinew and tendon. It was as if a human skin had been shed and something venomous and ugly had been born.

Knowing what Kinkaid wanted to hear, he shook his head gently. “No,” he said, “he doesn't.”

“Funny, ain't it, how he come back here and I come here, and now lookit what's happened. We are gonna have to settle this, you know. Me and him.” Kinkaid shook his head, as if in amazement. “We surely are gonna have to settle it. Almost enough to give a man religion, you know that?”

Tom couldn't help himself. “Religion? You must be joking.”

Kinkaid lashed out with the pistol. The gun caught Tom on the cheek under the left eye, and the lead sight opened a gash an inch long. He fell to his knees, but wouldn't give Kinkaid the satisfaction of reaching up to touch the wound.

“Get up!”

Tom struggled to his feet. He stumbled and fell, then got up again. Kinkaid kicked him and Tom rolled over, then scrambled to his feet. He started to charge Kinkaid, saw the gun, and looked into the black hole of the barrel. He was trembling. He wanted to kill Kinkaid, and wanted to run as far and as fast as he could.

But he could do neither. Again he looked up the street. The crowd had thinned, and the handful of onlookers just stood mute as statues staring after the marshal.

“Don't be lookin' for help, Atwater,” Kinkaid said. “There ain't no help. You think anybody in this shithole of a town is going to come and save you? No way.”

He poked Tom in the ribs with the gun, and for one rapturous second, Tom saw himself grabbing the gun and turning it on his tormentor. But it would never work. And he thought of his mother. Who would help her? Morgan? Maybe, and if Kinkaid killed him, then what?

He stumbled backward toward the jail. Every couple of steps he felt the hard barrel of the Colt slam into his spine. It was like Kinkaid
wanted
him to run, or to strike back. At the entrance to the marshal's office, Kinkaid brought the barrel down hard on Tom's shoulders. Something cracked, like a dry branch snapping off, and searing pain flashed all through the shoulder. His arm went limp.

“Up, watch your step, sonny boy. Don't want you to get hurt.” Kinkaid laughed, shoving him toward the boardwalk. He missed the step and fell, rolling his body to the side to avoid landing on the injured shoulder. The impact was enough. He cried out and rolled onto his back. Kinkaid grabbed him by the bad arm and pulled him to his feet. Tom thought the arm was coming off, it hurt so much.

Kinkaid shoved him through the door, and his shoulder slammed into the door frame. He bounced off, and a wave of white light washed over him. He couldn't see anymore, and he couldn't hear. All he could do was feel, and the pain was everything. He staggered into the office blinking his eyes, one hand, the right, partly extended for obstacles he couldn't see, the other curled protectively over his broken collarbone.

The white light gradually disappeared, and he could see the office, materializing out of the brilliant void like a photograph he had once seen developed in Warren Brewster's newspaper office. But seeing things didn't change them.

Kinkaid shoved him into the cell block, then kicked him in the lower back. The impact sent him spinning and he crashed into the stone wall at the far end and slipped to the floor. Kinkaid opened the last cell door, then holstered his Colt. He grabbed Tom under the arms and hauled him into the cell.

“Get up, you little bastard,” he screamed. “Get up!”

Tom reached out for support, grabbed the pallet-mattressed cot and was halfway up when Kinkaid kicked him again. This one broke his nose and he went down and lay there, afraid to move. He heard the cell door slam, then the heavy jangle of a key ring. When the key ground in the lock, he knew it was only going to get worse, a lot worse, before it got a little better.

He was bleeding from the gash on his face and from his broken nose. The pain was so intense he couldn't stand the thought of movement. But he had to. He crawled up onto the cot, using his one good arm, and rolled onto his back. Covering his eyes with one hand, he felt his consciousness slipping away.

And he was thankful.

Kinkaid stood in the cell-block doorway, his back to the office, and watched Tom for a few minutes. It won't be long now, he thought. He can't overlook this. Aloud, he said, “Mr. Morgan Atwater, we are about to get our business done. Yessiree, we are about to get our business done.”

He backed through the doorway, still staring at Tom's motionless form, and closed the door. Conscious of his role, he sat behind his desk, but had difficulty arranging his limbs comfortably. They seemed to have lives of their own. One leg kept jumping, his toe patting the floor irregularly. He looked at the leg, willing it to stop and, when it refused, pushed down on it with his right hand.

His left hand lay on the desk, its fingers wriggling like spider legs as he drummed the wood with his fingertips. He sucked his teeth and stared at the front door. Sooner or later, he knew, someone would come through that door. He hoped it would be Morgan Atwater. He had to come, now. And if not, well, he still had the bait. He would come, sooner or later.

He was watching the sunlit strip of dirt in the naked street, expecting a shadow, something, some warning that the last stage was about to begin. But when the shadow appeared, it was not Morgan Atwater's. It was too bulky for that, too rounded, like an oil stain in the dust.

Then he saw Lyle Henessey's fat face peer around the corner. He didn't look happy, but that was alright. He didn't really give a damn what Lyle Henessey thought. The burly storekeeper stepped into the office, his bulk filling the doorway.

“Where's Tommy Atwater?” Henessey asked.

Here it comes, Kinkaid thought. He leaned back in the chair and propped his booted feet on the desk. The chair creaked while he decided what to say.

“You heard me,” Henessey demanded. “Where is he?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do. I'm here, and I'm asking. I want to know.”

“Not his father? His father don't give a damn? Seems unnatural.”

“Damn you, Kinkaid, where is he? I want to see him.”

“He's in back. In jail. Where he belongs. Don't think he's up to visitors, though. Hell, I'm not sure criminals ought to have visitors in the first place.”

“That boy don't belong in jail, Kinkaid. He didn't do anything.”

“The hell he didn't. Jumped me when my back was turned. Stopped me from doing my job. That's against the law.”

“There is no law here. You stopped doing your job a long time ago. Now, let him go.”

Kinkaid shook his head. “Can't do it, Lyle.”

“You'd better.”

“Or what? What happens if I don't let him go, Lyle? You going to make me? Is that it?”

“Your days in Cross Creek are about up, Kinkaid. We already sent a telegram to the capital. You can leave now and go on your way, or you can wait around for the federal marshal to take you away. Either way, you're gone. And I don't give a good goddamn which way it is.”

“Maybe I'll just wait for the marshal. In the meantime, I might have a little talk with Mr. Crimmins.”

“Tate Crimmins won't help you, Kinkaid. He sent the damned telegram.”

“I think I'll wait for him to tell me that. We got to discuss my compensation. After all, I have a contract, and honorable men got to honor pieces of paper like that, don't they?”

“You wouldn't know an honorable man from a diamondback. Where's Tommy?”

Kinkaid jerked a finger toward the cell-block doorway. “He's in there, like I told you. You can visit with him if you like, but you ain't taking him. Not now. Not yet.”

“Give me the key.”

“It ain't locked. You can go in.”

Henessey stomped to the door and pulled it open. He moved down the cellblock and stood in front of Tom's cell. He tried the door, but it was locked. He saw the blood, and he called to Tom, who hadn't moved, “Tommy, you alright, boy? Tommy? It's me, Lyle Henessey. You alright?”

When he still got no answer, he curled his big hands around the bars and tried to pull the door open. It didn't budge, and he slammed a fist into the lock-plate in frustration. He ran back to the office.

“What did you do to that boy?”

“He was resisting arrest. I persuaded him it wasn't a good idea.” Kinkaid laughed. “Took some persuading, too, he did.”

“I know what you're doing, Kinkaid.”

The marshal shook his head, rocking slightly in the chair. He lowered his feet to the floor, tilted his hat back, and smiled into Henessey's face. “I do too, Lyle. I do too.”

“You won't get away with this.”

“Think not? Well, then, maybe the kindly folk of Cross Creek don't want law and order after all. Maybe they just want to whine and snivel. Afraid of a bunch of drunken cowboys, that what it was, Lyle? All you big men bring in a whip to keep the little boys in line?”

“You're mad, Kinkaid.”

“Not mad, just real good at my job. And I guess you got to be a little crazy in this business. I mean, it is more dangerous than selling beans and mucilage, Lyle. Of course, if you got somebody better in mind, well, then maybe we should just see if he's up to snuff.”

“I know what you're doing. And I know why.”

“That makes two of us, Lyle.”

“I'm warning you, Kinkaid, anything happens to that boy, you'll have to answer for it.”

“I got nothing but answers, Lyle. You ought to know that. Buy 'em by the box in your store.”

Chapter 19

MORGAN WAS SITTING
up when Henessey stormed in. He knew the news was bad, and he slipped down off the counter. His head throbbed and he felt with his fingertips for the painful lump on the back of his skull. “Where's Tom?” he asked.

“He's in jail, Morgan. And he's been beat up pretty bad.”

Morgan started for the door, but Henessey blocked his path. “Where you think you're going?”

“To get my gun.”

“No you ain't, Morgan. That's just what Kinkaid wants. You know it and I know it. But you ain't in no shape to lock horns with that bastard. We got to do this carefully.”

“You do. I don't. I'm not a careful man, Lyle.”

“You are now, whether you like it or not. We'll do this one by the book. And we'll do it right.”

Morgan tried to brush past him, but Henessey locked him in a bear hug. He dragged the struggling man back toward the storeroom. Morgan was still groggy, and Henessey was a big, powerful man. He might not have been in the best of shape, but in his weakened condition, Morgan was still no match for him.

Henessey shoved him into the storeroom and closed the door. He dropped the lock bar in place, then turned to the two men in the store. “Ben,” he said, “go get Tate Crimmins. You get him here and you get him here fast. I don't give a damn what he's doing. I don't care if he's foreclosing on a mortgage, you get him.”

Ben nodded once, tried not to look dubious, and shook his head more vigorously.

“What the hell you waiting for, Ben?” Henessey shouted. “Go get Crimmins. Now!”

He turned to the second man. “David, find Albert Mitchell. Bring him here. We need us a lawyer.” David moved toward the door.

Morgan was pounding on the inside of the storeroom door. “Open the door, dammit, Lyle. That bastard's got my son.”

“I'll open it, but you got to promise to listen to me if I do.”

“Open it, Lyle!”

“You gonna listen to me?”

Henessey cringed when he heard glass breaking. “Lyle, less you want every damn jar and bottle in the place broken, you open the goddamned door.”

Henessey shook his head. “Alright, alright, I'm coming.” Another crash echoed through the store as Henessey moved behind the counter and reached under for his gun. He unloaded it, dumped the shells in his pocket, and closed the cylinder.

Stepping back to the door, he reached for the bar just as Morgan began another assault. “Come on, Lyle, dammit!” Something else made of glass crashed against the door. The shards of the wreckage cascaded down the other side of the door as Henessey pulled the bar free.

The door flew open and Morgan charged straight into the barrel of Henessey's Colt. He stopped, a stunned look on his face, but he didn't back up.

“You gonna use that, Lyle?”

“If I have to, yes. You ready to listen to me?”

“If I have to, yes.”

“Alright, simmer down, then. I got people after Tate Crimmins and Albert Mitchell. We got to wait until they get here.”

“What for? Crimmins won't do anything. You told me that yourself.”

“He will if I push him hard enough. We've had enough, Morgan. This ain't going to go no further. You have my word on that.”

“Unh hunh. And who's Mitchell?”

“He's a lawyer.”

“Tom doesn't need a lawyer. I don't need a lawyer, either. I need my gun.”

“I'm trying to tell you we can handle it without that, Morgan. Don't be so damned pigheaded.”

“No you can't. Kinkaid wants me, and he's about to get what he wants.”

“And then what?”

“I'll worry later.”

“You listen to me now, you don't have to worry later.”

Morgan was about to argue when Crimmins appeared in the store's front door. “Lyle, what the hell's going on?”

“Tate, your man Kinkaid's finally gone and done it.”

“Done what?”

“He's beat up Tommy Atwater and thrown him in jail.”

“Tommy? What for?”

“Because he's trying to get to me,” Morgan said.

“But he can't do that. He . . .”

“You ain't listening to me. He's done it, Tate. What we got to do is undo it. And I'm telling you right now, we
are
going to undo it. First we are going to get Tommy out of jail. Then you are going to tell Kinkaid his services are no longer required in Cross Creek. We can't wait for the federal marshal. I want you there because you're the father of this mess. You can help clean it up.”

Crimmins seemed reluctant. Morgan and Henessey realized at the same moment that Crimmins was afraid of Kinkaid. “No excuses, Tate. He's gone, as of now, and that's that.”

“What about the contract?”

“You do what you want. As far as I'm concerned, he broke it a long time ago. I should have done something sooner. But I won't wait no more, I'll tell you that. He about killed Morgan's boy, and I think it's our fault. I
know
it is. I got David Ray running down Albert Mitchell. We are going to do this according to the book. Albert will see to that.”

Crimmins lapsed into silence. Henessey was right and everyone in the store knew it. Morgan reached into his pocket and fished out a key. He flipped it to Ben.

“Go over to the hotel,” he said. “Room five. Get my gunbelt.”

“Morgan, I told you, you don't need your gun. We've had enough gun play as it is.”

“Lyle, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I've been dealing with this all my life. I know what it's like, and you don't have a clue. I want my gun.” He turned to Ben. “Go get it, Ben, please.”

Ben stood there, the key in his outstretched hand. He looked at Henessey, then at Morgan, then back at Henessey. “Go ahead, Ben,” Lyle said. “And be quick about it.”

Crimmins cleared his throat. “You think you can take Kinkaid, Atwater?”

Henessey exploded. “Damn it, Tate! Didn't you hear what I just said?”

“I heard you, Lyle. But I'm asking him, not you. Can you, Atwater? Can you take him?”

“I don't know.”

“He's plenty fast, I seen that often enough,” Crimmins said.

“Tate, what's your point?”

“My point is, what if Kinkaid don't want to be fired. We stir him up, we got a hornet's nest on our hands. I don't think that's such a good idea. I was wondering could Atwater handle the situation. If it comes to that, I mean.”

“No you weren't, Tate. I know you. You don't think like that. Now, what were you getting at?”

Crimmins cleared his throat and was about to explain when David Ray and Albert Mitchell arrived. He waited impatiently for the situation to be explained to Mitchell, then he turned to Henessey again.

“Go on, Tate,” Henessey said.

“Well, it's like this.” Crimmins was stalling for time. “Kinkaid's a gunfighter. And we're all pretty much agreed that he's out of control. But Atwater, here, he's a gunfighter, too. I was just thinking . . . we owe Kinkaid the rest of his pay. By contract, I mean. Albert, you done the papers, ain't that the way it is?”

Mitchell nodded. “That's true,” he said.

“So, I was thinking, if Atwater takes care of Kinkaid, we can just pay him the money. He can be the new marshal or he can not. Whatever he wants. It won't cost the town anything extra, either way.”

“Is that it, Tate?”

“That's it.”

Atwater took two quick steps and planted himself squarely in front of Crimmins. He grabbed the front of the mayor's vest and tugged it up under his chin. “You big tub of guts. I never took money in my life to shoot a man. You understand me? Never. And I ain't about to start now. You make me sick. It's men like you make men like Brett Kinkaid possible. You plant them and you tend them, you water and feed them, just like they was some kind of precious flower. But it isn't like that. Not at all.” He shoved Crimmins and the banker stumbled back until he slammed into the counter. The impact rattled the change in the cash drawer. It was the only sound in the store, except for Morgan's raspy breathing.

He started toward the door as Ben stepped up onto the boardwalk. He snatched at the gunbelt and buckled it on. He checked the cylinder, and put a shell in the empty chamber. The gun slid in and out of the holster once, then again. The shallow thud of steel on leather punctuated a whispered conversation between Henessey and Mitchell.

Morgan rapped on the door frame. “I'm going to get my son,” he said. “You can come along or you can wait here. I don't give a damn.”

He started out the door, and Henessey called after him, “Hold on, Morgan. We're coming.”

Atwater was already moving up the block by the time the rest of them made it through the door. Henessey started to run, and he caught Morgan three quarters of the way to the marshal's office. Brett Kinkaid lounged in the doorway. His jacket was already pulled back behind his right hip.

“Morgan, try it my way first, please? It's the best way. You know it is.”

“I want my boy, Lyle. I don't care how I get him, but I want my boy. And if he's as busted up as you say, you better get a doctor over here. One way or another, we're gonna need one.”

Kinkaid hadn't moved. Henessey watched him with one eye while he despatched David Ray to find the doctor.

Morgan stepped to the front of the marshal's office. Henessey bulled in front of him, pinning Morgan behind him with outstretched arms.

“Gentlemen,” Kinkaid said. “Nice day for a walk. A little hot, though, ain't it.”

Henessey looked back for Crimmins. The mayor was shuffling along behind the rest of the men, and Henessey shouted, “Tate Crimmins, you get your ass over here. Now.”

“That's the mayor you're talkin' to, Lyle,” Kinkaid said.

“I know damn good and well who it is. You shut the hell up, you understand me?”

“Lyle, I am not in a particularly good mood. I had a troublesome morning, and when I get like that, I get impatient.”

Kinkaid moved away from the door frame and watched as Crimmins reluctantly came forward to stand beside Henessey.

“Marshal,” Crimmins said.

“Mr. Mayor. You got something to say to me?”

“You tell him, Tate. Damn you. Tell him.”

“You have Tommy Atwater in jail, do you?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Let him out, dammit.”

“Can't do that. It wouldn't be right.”

“I've had enough,” Morgan said, twisting away from Henessey's grip.