Ballard and McCall 1 Read online

  Inside it was cool but the tang of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung in the motionless air. Down the left wall ran the bar, with bottle-lined shelves at the back. The remaining floor space was filled with tables and chairs. There were about a dozen men in the place. Ballard headed for the bar.

  ‘How’s your beer?’ he asked the bartender, a thick-set, heavy jawed individual.

  The men ran a pudgy bath across his sweating face. ‘Wet,’ he said.

  ‘You or the beer?’ Ballard inquired.

  ‘The both. You want one?’

  Ballard nodded and the bartender bent down behind the counter. When he reappeared he held a large glass of foam-topped beer. Ballard paid for it and carried it to an empty table. He sat down and took a long drink of the amber liquid.

  He was enjoying his drink so such he failed to see or hear the three men enter the saloon. The first thing he noticed was the fact that the other customers had fallen completely silent. Ballard finished his drink then placed his glass on the table, at the same time raising his eyes. They stood in front of his table. Three men with the mark of gunslinger written all over them. Though their clothing was just the normal gear worn by most men, it was their gun rigs that set them apart. The tied-down, cut-away holsters, the leather reverently oiled and kept supple. The big heavy Colts, with short barrels and smooth-worn butts.

  Here we go, Ballard thought. Odds on this is something to do with Temple or Rio.

  ‘Your name Ballard?’ one of the men asked. He was a short, heavyset man, with small, close eyes and a greasy mustache that hung over the corners of his hard mouth.

  From behind the bar the bartender said, ‘Don’t start no trouble, Dutch.’

  One of the men laughed. ‘He wants we should start no trouble, Dutch,’ he attacked.

  As he spoke he drew his gun and fired. A bottle on the bar exploded in a shower of glass and whisky.

  ‘See, no trouble,’ said Dutch. ‘We just want this saddle tramp.’

  He pushed his hat to the back of his head and grinned at Ballard.

  The Texan thought that the only way to even things up a little was to get at them first. He wasted no time on it. Coming to his feet, Ballard grasped the edge of the table and heaved it at the three men. As the table gave him a scant second of time, Ballard used it to reach out and grab the arm of the gunslinger nearest to him. The man gave a yelp of surprise as Ballard yanked him off balance. Then one of Ballard’s big fists slammed into the man’s stomach, followed by a blow to the jaw that sent him skittering backwards across the saloon.

  Dutch and the third man had managed to get clear of the table by now and they moved in on Ballard. Dutch let fly with a swinging left that caught Ballard on the side of the head. Ballard sidestepped to avoid the following punch that Dutch threw and almost stepped into one from the other men. The force of the man’s swing brought him close to Ballard. As the man’s arm passed the Texan’s body, Ballard grabbed it and spun the man round to face him. Then he slammed his fist into the man’s face with all his strength. The man spun away with his face streaming blood.

  Swinging round to find Dutch, Ballard saw too late the gun in the man’s hand. It swept down in a vicious arc and slammed against Ballard’s forehead. The Texan was brought to his knees by the blow.

  Dimly Ballard made out shapes before him. Then he felt his arms being grasped and he was hauled to his feet. As his vision cleared he saw Dutch standing before him. Twisting his head he saw it was the two other gunslingers who were holding him. The blow to the head had weakened him so as to make his struggle to get free ineffectual.

  ‘All right, big feller,’ Dutch said softly, ‘this is a little greeting from a well-wisher. Just to show his feelings for you.’

  Ballard tensed himself for what was to come. He saw Dutch draw back his fist, saw it slash forward, felt it slam into his stomach. His breath was forced from his body in a choking rush. His sagging body was hauled upright again. Again Dutch’s fist slammed forward. And again and again until Ballard lost count, and interest. The Texan was lost in a world of blackness and pain. After a time he was aware that someone was hitting him in the face. But even that didn’t stay with him long. Ballard drifted into emptiness.

  When the arms that held him were removed he pitched onto his face. For a few pain-filled seconds he heard voices coming from somewhere far above him. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then he passed out .

  This time completely.

  Chapter Five

  Sam Dugan stood in the center of Temple’s office. Sweat beaded his face and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Behind him stood Rio, his hand close to the butt of his gun.

  ‘Hell, all we did was have a bit of.....’ Dugan began.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Temple said savagely. He was standing by the window, gazing down into the street. He was rubbing the back of his left hand where he had hit Dugan.

  ‘You better get out of sight,’ Rio said. ‘and keep off the streets until this thing is settled.’

  Dugan rubbed his bleeding mouth and walked unsteadily out of the office. Rio closed the door behind him and came back across to the window.

  ‘Idiot,’ Temple said softly.

  Rio said, ‘Nothing like a women being raped to set folk off.’

  ‘It’s a good thing you got him up here before he told everybody in town.’

  Temple moved away from the window and sat down behind his desk.

  ‘Well, we won’t be able to stop Lansing telling what happened,’ Rio said.

  Temple slammed a fist on the top of the desk. ‘Damn that stupid animal,’ he said.

  Rio said, ‘I’d better go and see that Dugan keeps out of sight.’

  Temple didn’t answer so Rio went to the door and let himself out.

  As he closed the door, Rio was confronted by Dutch and his two men. One was holding a hand to his bleeding face.

  ‘I see you tangled with him,’ Rio said.

  Dutch nodded. ‘He won’t forget us for a while.’

  His mouth set in a narrow line, Rio said, ‘When I’m finished that bastard will be sorry he ever come looking for us.’

  McCall, fresh from his bath and wearing a change of clothing, stepped out of the hotel. He tugged the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. Settling his gun belt firmly on his hip he made off down the boardwalk.

  It took him a few minutes before he found what he was looking for. The sign outside the store said: Joshua Peel, Gunsmith. McCall went in and up to the oak-topped counter. Behind the counter, on a stool, sat a lean, middle aged man. He was busy working on a double-barreled shotgun. His head came up and his steady eyes gazed up at McCall.

  ‘Howdy,’ McCall aid.

  ‘Mornin’.’ The gunsmith put down the shotgun and wiped his hands on a rag. ‘What can I do for you, mister?’

  McCall took out his damaged Colt and laid it on the counter. Peel picked it up and inspected it. Then he shook his head. ‘No chance of repair,’’ he said.

  ‘I reckoned as such,’ McCall remarked. ‘Think you can sell me another?’

  ‘Will do,’ Peel replied. ‘What kind you want?’

  ‘Same type. Colt, .45 caliber.’

  Peel got of his stool and went to the far end of the counter. He lifted off the top of a glass display-case. McCall saw that it contained a dozen assorted handguns.

  ‘These are all used guns,’ Peel said. ‘But you’ll find some damn good ones amongst em’

  McCall took each gun that was handed to him and inspected it with an experienced and critical eye. He hefted and weighed each weapon, trying the action to judge the ease and smoothness of the workings. He finally made his choice.

  ‘This feels about right,’ he said. ‘Good balance, nice action. Could do with the sear filing down a mite.’

  ‘You like a fine trigger?’ Peel asked as he took the gun.

  ‘Finer’n a gnat’s whisker,’ McCall said.

  ‘Won’t tak
e but a minute or so,’ Peel said. Returning to his stool he brought a box of tools out from beneath the counter. He began to strip the gun to get at the inside mechanism.

  McCall watched the gunsmith, fascinated by the man’s dexterity. Within ten minutes the job was done and the gun was being reassembled. The completed weapon was handed to McCall.

  ‘Try her now,’ Peel said.

  McCall hefted the Colt in his big fist. He thumbed back the hammer and touched the trigger. The hammer dropped with a smooth, oiled click. He tried it a few more times, then nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘Much obliged,’ he said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  When McCall emerged from the gun shop he felt distinctly more at ease than when he had gone in. The now loaded Colt felt good on his right thigh as he began to make his way up the street toward the Sheriff’s office.

  Chapter Six

  Ernie Peckard paused on the boardwalk outside his office. He was breathing hard and his face was damp with sweat. The old men pushed the office door open, then turned to put an arm around the limp figure leaning against the wall of the jailhouse.

  It was Chet Ballard who fell into Peckard’s arms as the sheriff pulled him from the wall. The big Texan was still very weak, almost unable to hold himself erect. In fact, Peckard had practically carried the bleeding, semi-conscious man from the saloon where he had found him after the bartender had come and told him what had happened.

  Peckard staggered the last few feet into his office end deposited his heavy burden onto the low cot that stood along the left wall. To the right of the door was Peckard’s desk. The remainder of the small office was filled by a big pot-bellied stove and a battered filing cabinet. On the wall behind Peckard’s desk was a rack that held six rifles and three shotguns. The four cells that took up the rear of the building were all empty. Sunlight filtered in through the two big, barred windows that faced onto the street. Constant exposure to the heat of the reflected sun had long since curled up the edges of the many wanted posters that were tacked up around the walls.

  Leaving Ballard for a moment, Peckard closed the door and then crossed over to his desk. From one of the drawers he pulled out a folded pad of white cloth and a jar of ointment. On his way back to the cot he picked up a tin basin and a wooden pail that held clean water. He placed the pail beside the cot and crouched down to inspect Ballard.

  The Texan’s face was a mass of bruised and cut flesh. Blood streaked his face from one side to the other. The flesh around his eyes was puffy and swollen, his lips split and raw, and there was a two inch gash across his left cheek.

  With a sigh Peckard dipped the basin into the water, then tore off a strip of the cloth. Soaking it in the water he began to clean up the mess of Ballard’s face.

  Ballard suddenly opened his eyes. He tried to sit up. Then he dropped back onto the cot with a deep groan.

  ‘Where am I?’ he mumbled through his thick lips.

  ‘In my office,’ Peckard said without looking from his task.

  Ballard stared at him, winced as Peckard caught a particularly sore spot. ‘Man, they really stomped me, huh?’

  ‘Yep,’ Peckard nodded. ‘Any idea who it was?’

  ‘My vote goes to friend Temple,’ Ballard said.

  The office door opened just then and Jess McCall came in. He caught sight of Ballard on the cot as he closed the door.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked as he came to stand beside Peckard.

  ‘A little example of our town’s hospitality,’ Peckard said.

  ‘Looks like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ McCall remarked.

  Ballard managed a tight grin. ‘Never mind. If things go on like they are, you’ll be able to do your good deed very soon.’

  ‘Temple?’ McCall asked in a voice gone suddenly hard.

  Ballard nodded. ‘Well, I did come looking for him.’

  ‘You sure do go a funny way about it,’ Peckard. said. He stood up, wiping his wet hands on the back of his pants. ‘But it ain’t likely to get any easier. Like I said before. Temple has too many guns backing him up. You won’t get near him.’

  Ballard sat up slowly. ‘Maybe,’ he said. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘The warning those three were handing out was clear enough. Get out before you buck something you can’t handle.’

  ‘I reckon it’s ‘bout time somebody gave Mr. Temple a warning all his own,’ McCall said abruptly. ‘Ain’t there anything we can do, Sheriff.’

  ‘I’m one old man, boy,’ Peckard said. ‘And I ain’t ashamed to say I’m too old to go up against Temple and his crew alone.’

  ‘Ain’t you got deputies?’ McCall asked.

  Peckard gave a dry laugh. ‘Never had much need for ’em until lately. Last one I had quit when Temple’s men got a little rough.’

  ‘You still got his badge?’ McCall inquired casually.

  Peckard nodded, asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe you got yourself someone to wear it.’

  ‘You? For God’s sake why?’ Peckard exclaimed. ‘Look, boy, you got no cause to do anything for this town. Only a while back they stood by and watched while you were nearly gunned down. If it hadn’t been for Ballard you’d be a dead man now.’

  McCall scratched the back of his head. ‘I know all that, Sheriff, but I reckon I’m the kind of feller who don’t like to see folk being put on. Maybe if I was in their place I’d be just as scared as they are.’

  Peckard shock his head slowly. ‘Maybe I know what you’re trying to say, boy, but do you know what you’re getting into?’

  ‘Reckon so,’ McCall said. ‘Anyhow, it’ll be interestin’.’

  Packard looked doubtful. ‘That still only makes two of us against the whole of Temple’s crew, boy.’

  The cot creaked as Ballard got unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Three,’ he said.

  Peckard glanced at him. ‘You too? Either they hit you too hard or all those stories about Texans being fighting mad are true.’

  Ballard smiled. ‘It’s like this, Sheriff. I’ve been after Temple and Rio for a long time. Had a lot of fool ideas about how to get even with them. But since I’ve been in town I’ve done some thinking. See, I’ve worn a badge before, and it makes a man aware of the law. I reckon if I put on a star now, I’ll be able to see that Temple gets what he’s earned the right way. Feel better about it, too.’

  Peckard crossed to his desk and opened a top drawer. He took out two tarnished badges.

  ‘They need polishing a mite,’ he said in a shaky voice. Then he cleared his throat, and a gleam came into his old eyes. ‘By hell, we’ll give Mr. Temple a good shake, I reckon. Raise your right hands.’

  As McCall pinned on his badge, then raised his hand, he realized what he was doing. And he also got to asking himself why he was doing it. Hell, he thought, I only stopped over to have a damn game of cards. Now I’m going to start to clean the place up. He made a silent promise to himself that the next time he was thrown out of a saloon, he’d stay thrown. Life, he reckoned, would be much easier if a body minded his own business.

  But a hell of a lot duller.

  Chapter Seven

  The rest of the day dragged by without further incidents. On the surface everything looked calm. But beneath the forced air of peace and quiet lay a dark, brooding cloud that hinted of trouble to come in the near future.

  Jess McCall and Chet Ballard went about the routine duties as Peckard’s deputies. Though the town appeared to be normal, as they made the rounds, the Texans could sense the atmosphere of hostility that hung over it like a thunder cloud. Though there were a few people on the boardwalks it was no effort for Ballard or McCall to pick out Temple’s gunslingers.

  The Temple crew must have had orders to keep out of trouble for the time being. Though they gave the two deputies the impression that a gunfight was what they wanted they hung back with obvious reluctance.

  It hadn’t taken long for the news to reach the ears of Wade Temple that Peckard had taken on
the two Texans as deputies. The news had taken Temple by surprise. This was something unexpected. If Peckard was taking on deputies it meant that he was thinking about making a fight for his town. And men like Ernie Peckard who fought for a cause were sometimes hard to stop. So Temple had some thinking to do. His first demand was that his men would make no attempt at starting anything until Temple himself gave the word.

  Rio hadn’t liked it.

  ‘Look,’ he said, as he came into Temple’s office, ‘why don’t we go and take them straight off. Before they get properly organized. If we leave it too long they might talk some of the townsmen into a fighting mood.’

  ‘Rio, listen up,’ Temple said. ‘You had your chance and you messed it up. If I’d had it my way, Ballard would be out of our way for good. But you had to start thinking and have him roughed up. All you did was to make him more determined to get at us.’

  Rio didn’t like being talked to in that way and his narrow face hardened, his eyes turned cold and black. A muscle in his jaw jerked as he fought to suppress the violent emotions that tried to rip their way from his body.

  ‘So what do we do?’ he asked finally, his voice almost a whisper.

  Temple, his eyes on the hand that lingered near Rio’s gun butt, said, ‘We wait until I decide what to do. Tell the men to keep away from Peckard and his deputies. Right away. And make sure that bastard, Dugan, keeps out of sight.’

  The heat of the day soon turned to a sharp chill as night came on.

  While Ballard looked after the office, Ernie Peckard and McCall took the job of night-watch. It was an uneventful, but cold one. At three o’ clock the following morning Ballard and McCall went to their hotel rooms for some sleep. Peckard stayed on at the jail, bunking down on the cot.

  By mid-morning the town was baking under a hot sun. Ernie Peckard and his new deputies were coming out of the Bonanza Restaurant, after a late breakfast, when a fair sized piece of hell went and exploded right in the center of main street.