Larkspur (44 page)

“Not to the Larkspur?”

“How the hell do I know? If he went there, he’s dead meat by now. Bruza’d shoot him in the back or have someone else do it.” Forsythe opened the door, hoping Lee would leave.

“Why have the soldiers come to town now?” Lee stood in the doorway.

“They’ve been here before from time to time. You know that.”

“Someone could have called for them.”

“Who? Not me, and I’m the only one in town that knows the captain at the fort or the governor well enough to ask for them.” Forsythe was becoming exasperated. “Let me tell you something, Lee. To get through this life and get what you want, you run a bluff every day. Act guilty of something, folks think you’re guilty of something. Put up a confident front, and folks think you’re a smart, upstanding fellow. Now get that hangdog look off your face and get the hell out of here.”

Lee went down the street to Mrs. Barlett’s rooming house.

“Supper will be ready in a little while, Mr. Lee,” the woman said as he came into the foyer.

“I think I’ll lie down, Mrs. Bartlett. I’m not feeling so well.”

“Sorry to hear it. I’ll save something back for later if you feel like eating.”

Lee went up the stairs to his room, took off his coat and tie and stretched out on the bed. The feeling of doom had hovered over him since the colonel had sent his men to the Larkspur to kill Lenning and the woman. He lay staring at the ceiling, unaware of the event taking place on the main street of the town he was so anxious to leave.

*  *  *

The sun had completed its journey across the sky, but it was not dark enough for the lamps to be lit when Buck walked his horse in front of the team pulling the wagon into town. He approached from the north and came down the main street.

He hated this place. Lord, how he hated it.
The odor of rotten food and outhouses hung over the town. He wanted to get this business over so that he could get back out into the wideopen spaces where he could breathe. He was never comfortable among so many people.

At first only a few people on the street paid attention to the rider and the wagon. Then, as if his name had been carried on the breeze, people came out of stores to stand on the boardwalk and gawk. Up ahead Buck’s sharp eyes caught sight of Dillon’s blond head, and standing not far away was the Mexican, Pablo. From a side street, Bernie fell in behind the wagon.

Buck stopped the horses in front of the saloon. He sat for a long moment looking at the hostile faces staring back at him. No one spoke or even nodded a greeting. He had expected none.

“Who’s the law here now?”

A broad-chested man, dressed in a wrinkled black suit, and with a full black mustache and chin whiskers stepped off the porch. A shiny tin star was fastened to a coat with sleeves much too short for his long arms. He strutted out into the street and stood on spread legs, his coat pulled back, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

“I’m in charge. Marshal Lyster is outta town.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s in the back of the wagon.”

At Buck’s calm words the deputy’s mouth dropped open, and quiet fell over the crowd.

“You say the— Gawddamn!” The deputy went to the back of the wagon and yanked on the tarp that covered the dead men.

“What the hell!”

His explosive words brought the men rushing from the boardwalk. Within seconds there was not an inch of standing room around the wagon.

“That’s Mike Bruza!”

“By gawd! Greg Meader.”

“Ain’t that Shorty Spinks and Squat Jones?”

“And that ugly bastard they called Heinz? Looks like he got it in the ribs with a pigsticker.”

“Jesus! They all been whittled on with a knife. Don’t see a gunshot on any of ’em.”

“Ain’t no blood a’tall on the marshal.”

“Somethin’ else is on the front of his shirt. He puked from the looks of it.”

“Cover ’em up,” Gilly yelled over the murmur of voices. “They stink!”

The deputy moved through the crowd to where Buck sat his horse, leaning his forearm on the saddle horn . . . waiting.

“Mister, you better get to talkin’ . . . fast.”

“Not to you. Where’s the undertaker?”

“Here.” A man in a black coat stepped forward. “Who’s payin’?”

“Forsythe. They’re his men.”

“Now see here.” The deputy puffed out his chest and tried to speak with authority. “Yo’re actin’ mighty high-handed. Yo’re that Lenning feller from the Larkspur, ain’t ya?”

“You know damn good and well who I am, and you know damn good and well what those men were doing out at my place last night.”

“Yeah, I know that. The marshal went to serve papers to get ya off Mr. Forsythe’s land.” An angry grumble came from the men surrounding the wagon.

“He couldn’t’a killed Bruza and Meader by hisself,” someone yelled.

“He could’ve if he snuck up on ’em an’ cut their throats.”

“It’s what he done. Ain’t nobody dumb enough to face Greg Meader with a gun. He’s the fastest I ever seen.”

“He ain’t gettin’ away with killin’ a marshal,” a man shouted.

“Ya fellers is jist a-blowin’ wind!” Tandy yelled.

“What’s old Tandy doin’ with that Larkspur bunch?”

“Hadn’t we ort to go get Colonel Forsythe?”

“Not yet,” the deputy said. “We’ll handle this.”

“Then, goddammit, get to handling it,” Buck said loudly and in a manner calculated to insult. “I’m not sitting here all day. Gilly, take the meat wagon to wherever the man wants it.”

“Hold on!” the deputy shouted. Encouraged by the crowd behind him, he pulled his gun and pointed it at Buck. “Get off that horse. You’re goin’ to jail.”

Buck eased his horse forward, then suddenly jumped him. His booted foot lashed out and kicked the arm holding the gun. It flew out of the deputy’s hand. He stumbled back, lost his balance and hit the ground.

“Don’t point a gun at me, you hairy jackass, unless you’re intendin’ to kill me.”

“ ’Ary a man draws, this shotgun goes off,” Gilly stood in the wagon and shouted.

“This’n too.” Tandy pointed his gun at the crowd. “Ain’t a man-jack among ’em got guts enough to skin a cat . . . by hisself.”

Buck’s attention was on the deputy, who was picking himself up out of the dirt, and he didn’t see Cleve and Dillon pushing through the crowd to reach him.

“We ort to hang the lot of ’em.” The voice came from the back of the crowd.

“What’s going on here? Stand back!” An officer came down the walk with several men marching behind him. His voice rose up over the murmur of the crowd and rang with authority. “I said what’s going on here!”

“The marshal’s there in the wagon, dead.” The deputy picked up his gun and shoved it down in the holster. “This man killed him and
five
of his men. I’m takin’ him to jail.”

“Because a man brings in a body doesn’t mean he killed him.”

“Well, gol-damn,” a man shouted. “Even you soldier boys ort to know murder when ya see it.”

“Sergeant Burton, clear this area.”

“Yes, sir!” A burly sergeant and four men lined up with rifles at the ready. “Back up on the walk. Ya be quick ’bout doin’ it.”

“If ya need help with this bunch of grizzly ba’ars, soldier boy, give me n’ Tandy a holler,” Gilly yelled.

“Thanky kindly, gents. But I ain’t thinkin’ we be needin’ help with the likes of them. They be a bunch a pussy cats.”

The deputy felt his authority slipping away fast. With Lyster dead he had a chance to be the marshal if he acted fast.

“Who be you?” he demanded of the lieutenant. “Ya ain’t got no right to give orders in this town.”

“I’m the law here until a territorial marshal arrives. Give me the keys to the jail. If you’re going to argue about it, you’ll be my first arrest.”

The lieutenant glowered down at the shorter man. His iron gray hair and his demeanor was evidence of many years in the military.

“If’n you’re goin’ to arrest somebody, it ort to be this killer here,” the deputy stammered.

“Do you have evidence that he murdered these men?”

“Ever’body knows the marshal and some men went out to his place to serve papers. They ended up dead. ’Course he killed them.”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Collier reached out and plucked the tin star from the deputy’s coat. “You’ll not be needin’ this. Move the wagon,” he motioned to Gilly. “Take the bodies to the back of the furniture store.” He waited until the wagon pulled out and the crowd had thinned before he spoke to Buck.

“Mr Lenning,” he held out his hand. “Lieutenant Collier.” He continued in a low voice. “Federal Marshal Stark advised me of the situation here. My advice is . . . stay off the street tonight and keep an eye on Miss Anderson. Should you need help, send word to the hotel; that’s where I’ll be until suitable quarters can be arranged for me and my men.”

“I’m obliged to you. I will take that advice.” Buck tipped his head and put his heels in the horse. He rode on down the street and turned into the alley. Bernie rode up beside him.

“Let’s leave the horses at the livery and go into the back of the café. If anyone’s interested, they’ll think you’re sleeping there. When it’s dark we’ll slip on over to Mrs. Gaffney’s.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

D
arkness had settled on the town by the time Cleve and Dillon turned down the street where the Forsythe mansion occupied an entire block. Cleve was pleased with the way Buck handled himself when faced with the angry crowd. Judge Williams had been impressed, too, and commented that Buck would make a good lawman if he ever decided to give up ranching.

They were walking alongside the picket fence when Cleve spoke about the problem at hand.

“You plannin’ on devilin’ the man some more? If this wasn’t so serious, it’d be fun.”

“It’ll be fun. I’ve waited a long time for this. I hope he gets so riled up he wets his drawers,” Dillon said.

“So yo’re goin’ to tell him who ya are?”

“I thought I’d let you do that.”

“I do it for you,
Señor.
I tell him plenty.” Pablo came up suddenly behind them. “You no hear me comin’,” he said proudly.

“I heard ya.” Cleve said. “I knew ya were there.”

“Dammit to hell! Can’t I go anywhere without you taggin’ along?”

“Got job to do. Colin say look out for little br—”

“Say it, you bowlegged clabber-head, and that mustache’ll be ticklin’ your tonsils.” Dillon stopped and drew back his fist.

“That’s enough. You two can jaw all you want after the job here is done.”

“He’s not goin’ in!” They were walking up to the front steps.

“No, he’s not. Pablo, stay here on the porch.”

“Sí, Señor.
But Pablo come runnin’ if little brudder—”

“Hush up!”—Cleve lifted the knocker on the door—“Or I’ll bust your nose myself.”

After a few minutes the door opened. Forsythe looked from one man to the other.

“What do
you
want?” he asked bluntly.

“A word with you,” Cleve said.

“I conduct business in my office, not my home.”

“Ya’ll see us now.” Cleve gave the door an unexpected shove, pushing Forsythe back out of the way.

“Thanks,” Dillon said pleasantly. “We’ll come in, but we can’t stay to supper.”

Forsythe backed up even more when the two big men crowded into the foyer. Something in the face of that damn kid who had been needling him caused his bravado to waver. Stark was taking something from his pocket and attaching it to his coat.

“What authority do you have for pushing your way into a man’s house?”

“None, when it comes right down to it. I’m a Federal marshal.”

“I knew you weren’t what you claimed,” Forsythe sneered, eyeing the badge. “What’s a Federal marshal doing here?”

Cleve ignored the question.

“—And my friend here is Dillon Tallman of New Mexico. His father is John Tallman, the well-known scout, trader and rancher.”

Forsythe’s eyes went to the tall blond man, and the color drained from his face.

“You’re . . . you’re—?” was all he could say before his voice dried up.

“John and Addie Tallman’s son. How do, Mr. Kirby Hyde. Isn’t that what you called yourself down in Arkansas?” Dillon’s eyes were as cold as his voice.

Before Forsythe could recover from the shock of hearing the name he had used more than twenty years ago, Dillon’s fist lashed out and landed on his chin. The blow sent the older man back against the wall. He hit it with a force that stunned him. He slid down the wall to the floor and sat there, shaking his head to clear it.

“That was for a lady named Addie Faye Johnson.” Dillon hauled Forsythe to his feet and pinned him to the wall with one hand and slapped him across the face with the other. “That was for runnin’ out on her down in Freepoint, Arkansas.” He slapped him again so hard, the man’s eyes crossed. “That was for marryin’ her under a false name so you could get her in bed. And this—”

Cleve stepped in and took Dillon’s arm. “Don’t knock him out until I can serve the papers.”

“I won’t knock him out. And this”—he slapped Forsythe hard and repeatedly on first one cheek and then with the back of his hand on the other—“is for all the work she did during the war to keep her son from starving.”

Dillon grasped Forsythe’s upper arms and banged his head against the wall.

“Since the day my mother told me about you, I’ve wanted to kill you. But killin’ would be too quick an end for a piece of horseshit like you.” He held him against the wall and spat in his face.

Forsythe took the insult with a stunned expression on his bloody face and stared back at him with spittle running down his cheek.

“Mama said you were a sorry excuse for a man. Now that I’ve seen you, I know you’re not worthy to be called a man. You’re nothin’ . . . but shit.”

Dillon backed away, wiping his hands on his britches as if touching Forsythe had left something offensive on them.

Blood from Forsythe’s nose ran down over his white mustache and onto his shirtfront. His face was beet red from the blows and his eyes blazed with hatred. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose.

“If I’m shit, what does that make you?” he sneered.