It was a quiet night in Surratt's saloon, everything considered. The saloonkeeper leaned on the bar, idly watching two Cross 4 hands have a fling at the wheel of fortune. The excitement over the shooting that afternoon had died down. Every hour or so someone came in to report on Phil Costain, who was still in Doc Shipley's sick room. There was nothing much to do except wait for the marshal to come back with Somerson. Bert Surratt smiled faintly; that's when the excitement would begin.
Old Seth Lewellen, leaning heavily on an oak root cane, shouldered through the swinging doors. “You hear about Costain?” he asked Surratt. “Doc Shipley says he'll pull through. Takes more'n bullets to kill a drayman, it looks like.”
Bert nodded. “Phil's a tough one,” he agreed.
The old man waited expectantly, hoping the news would bring a round on the house. When Bert made no move, Lewellen went out again, mumbling to himself.
Surratt yawned. Mac Butler, the blacksmith, and Forrest Slater were playing low-stake stud with a pair of grangers. Two men from Big Hat nursed their drinks at the far end of the bar. A slow night.
The new saloon down the street, the Green House, had taken part of the cowhand business, but Bert wasn't worried. When things were lively there was plenty of business to go around. Then the batwings swung open and Jeff Blaine came in.
Blaine nodded at a whisky bottle and the saloonkeeper slid it up the bar, a glass after it. Jeff poured one and could not control the shudder that went through him as he downed it.
Pretending to watch the wheel of fortune, Surratt studied Jeff from the corner of his eye. He didn't like the boy any better than he had liked his pa—they both carried the smell of trouble about them. Anyway, Bert had little use for fuzz-faced kids who toted guns and tried to act like men. He didn't like selling them whisky, either, but what could you do when that was your business? One of these strutting kids could give you more trouble than the whole Cross 4 after roundup.
But there was something about that tense face and those angry eyes that made a man think before he started something with Jeff Blaine, even if he was just a kid. That second-hand Colt's could kill you just as dead as a man's gun....
Now Surratt turned his gaze frankly on the kid. “Hear about Costain?” he asked tentatively.
Jeff nodded shortly, but said nothing.
Bert slid a new bottle down to the Big Hat men at the other end of the bar. For a moment he focused his attention on the stud game, but there was little there to interest him. He mopped the bar and continued his silent study of the Blaine boy.
At the moment Jeff turned his attention to the stud game. It was about his size; he was smart enough not to get in with professionals. But the anger that came with talking to Wirt was still in him, and he knew that he was in no condition to study cards.
Then they heard the horses enter the far end of the street. Surratt cocked his head with interest.
“Maybe that is Elec's posse coming back with Somerson,” he commented.
Jeff didn't care who it was. His nerves were taut; he felt at loose ends and all alone. He poured another glass of fiery whisky, hating the green taste of it but swallowing it in the hope that it would relax him.
Now they heard the tramp of boots on the plank walk outside the saloon. Jeff turned and saw Elec Blasingame and his deputy standing in the doorway, the other members of the posse behind them. Kirk Logan's face was drawn with anger, but the marshal himself was the picture of rage.
All eyes in the saloon were focused on the dirty, sweat-stained men in the doorway. The saloonkeeper cleared his throat uneasily. “You find Somerson, Marshal?”
Blasingame made no show of hearing. He came into the room, his anger directed at Jeff. The marshal was no longer young; he had grown fat and he was not as quick as he had once been, but he was still regarded as the most dangerous man in Plainsville. And he had never looked more dangerous than he did at this moment.
Instinctively, Bert Surratt backed away from the bar. The Big Hat men downed their drinks and drifted toward the far wall. Jeff stayed where he was, watching Elec and the deputy, prepared for whatever was to come. He abandoned all caution. His nervous tension and frustration suddenly became an urge for violence.
He set his whisky glass on the bar. “You looking for me, Marshal?”
Kirk Logan made an ugly sound and started to move in. The marshal stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Stay out of it, Kirk!” He turned to Jeff, his voice hoarse. “Are you proud of yourself, Blaine? Thanks to you, a killer got away free!”
Jeff was surprised, exhilarated at the confidence that had taken control of him. He said coolly, “I don't know what you're talking about, Elec.”
“You know, all right!” the marshal snarled. “That rider you saw—you knew he was headin' west, not east.”
Jeff shot a glance around the room, but said nothing.
“Don't waste your breath on him,” Kirk Logan growled.
Jeff wheeled on the deputy. “Maybe you've got some ideas of your own you'd like to try!”
“That's enough!” Elec snapped, holding his deputy at bay with angry eyes. His fat jowls shook as he wheeled on Jeff. “Son, you better take that chip off your shoulder,” he said with forced calm. “You keep looking for trouble hard enough and you're bound to find it—more than you can handle, maybe.”
“I'll take my chances,” Jeff said coldly.
Elec's anger got away from him. A big clawlike hand shot out and grabbed the front of Jeff's shirt. Before the action was half completed, Jeff grabbed his Colt's and rammed the muzzle hard into Blasingame's soft belly.
Jeff felt every muscle in his body quiver, every nerve taut and singing. He watched grayness replace the flush of anger in the marshal's face. Jeff Blaine had never known an excitement so intense; he had never dreamed of such power as he held in his own right hand at that moment.
If there was ever a doubt as to whether Jeff Blaine could handle a gun, it had now vanished. Even Kirk Logan, in his amazement, lost the keen edge of his anger. Bert Surratt's breath whistled between his teeth as he waited tensely.
Slowly, very slowly, the tension began to relax.
Jeff heard his own voice saying, “Turn loose of me, Elec. Don't ever touch me again.”
Very carefully the marshal withdrew his hand. He stood perfectly still, recovering from his first shock, as Jeff shot the revolver back into its holster. The silence in the room was as hard as steel.
At last Elec Blasingame shook his head. “I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. But if you ever take another notion to throw down on me, be sure you pull the trigger. Next time I'll know what to expect.” He nodded stiffly to Logan and the two of them turned toward the door.
Chapter Fourteen