Spur Page 2

  “And how did you do this?”

  Lowe looked at Spur.

  “I was drug.”

  “You mean you were dragged on the end of a rope?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  The doctor talked gently. In his opinion, Lowe had two broken ribs. They would give him pain for some time. The many abrasions which he had suffered would give no trouble. He supposed that Lowe was lucky to be alive. Yes, Lowe agreed, they could have put the rope around his neck. Quickly, the doctor said that he did not want to know any more about the incident. He was a doctor - indicating that the little foibles of the human race were of no interest to him. Men could drag or shoot each other: he would declare them dead or patch them up. He had no wish to be further involved. He strapped the broken ribs gently, cleaned the abrasions. Spur paid him. They shook hands, walked out of the cool house into sudden breathless heat of the town, made their way to the plaza and stopped in front of the hotel.

  “I’ll be on my way,” Lowe said. “Anythin’ I can do ... you just say. Any time.” They shook. “Was you just gettin’ us out of a fix? Are you really Sam Spur?”

  “Yes.”

  The man wagged his head incredulously, nodded and walked away across the plaza toward the livery. Spur went into the hotel. He lifted his gear and climbed the stairs. He found his room at the front of the house, spacious, almost bare of furniture, but fine for his needs. He felt the bed - fine. Clean water in the jug, a small mirror on the wall. Everything clean. He found himself a clean shirt, socks, underpants, rolled them into a bundle and went down onto the plaza, walked east to the barber’s and demanded a bath. There was one man in the chair, another waiting; both looked with curiosity at Spur, but replied civilly to his greeting. The barber was a Mexican, all smiles, jolly rolling eyes and in need of a haircut and shave. Sure, sure, a bath for the señor, where in the name of the Virgin and all the saints was that stupid boy … Chico? Chico, a bath for the señor. Make it quick and make it hot. Then a nice haircut and a magnificent shave for the señor. He would go out of here in such a condition that the ladies would be wild about him, smelling like a desert rose.

  Laughing, Spur went into a rear room, hung up his gun and stripped, sank into scalding hot water, soaked till it was cool, dried himself, strapped on his gun and stepped into the front room. The two customers were gone. The barber’s face shone with smiles, the quick hands lathered Spur’s face, the quick tongue prattled. This was a fine town and Vittorio Gomez was the finest barber in it, nobody could deny that. Ha, ha, the town was full of Gomezes. All Mexico was. Like the Smith, no? Spur relaxed, parting gladly with a two-week beard, feeling freshened by the loss of his long hair. Years seemed to peel away. He learned a little about the town and the country, colored no doubt by the little barber’s opinion.

  Dirk Randerson was the great man hereabouts. A fine and wonderful man, rich as Croesus, had as many cows as the state of Texas, an army of riders, beautiful horses, and a daughter. Dios, what a daughter. Many men had been shot over the daughter. Men went crazy over her. She was a queen, imperious, charming, haughty, kind as an angel.

  Yes, this was a good town and it was a good country. All men were happy here. There was good law and a fine sheriff. A compatriot, the sheriff. A just man of great impartiality. Ha, ha, his name was Gomez also. A cousin. There were a hundred cousins. Maybe more. Was the señor in town for long? Could a man enquire where he was staying? The Randerson House? A fine hotel. In the hands of Maria Regan, was it not a home from home? She had owned the place after her father died. There had been some question of debts. The great Dirk Randerson had saved the day by buying her out and installing her as the manageress. A fine man, Mr. Randerson.

  There - was not the señor now a man of great beauty? The chin so smooth, the hair so elegant. No man could deny that Vittorio Gomez was an artist of the finest quality. Spur did not deny it. He paid liberally, received a little bow, was guided to the door by several closely-herded smiles and stepped out onto the street feeling that he was one of the chosen.

  Maria Regan, he thought. What did the name signify? A mixture of Mexican and Irish blood. That could intrigue a man. The girl had recognized his name, was not sure, but the dislike and distrust was there.

  She was in the lobby as he walked in. At first, she did not recognize him, fooled by the shave and haircut. But when she did, the smile that started was abruptly terminated. Spur nodded, walked past her and mounted the stairs.

  In his room was a stranger.

  A small, neatly-dressed man sat on his bed, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Black hair, black eyes, firm brown skin. Face and hands Mexican, dress Anglo. Neat brown suit, hand-tooled boots showing below; startlingly white linen; a ring that flashed on the finger of the left hand. To the left, under the coat, the ivory butt of a revolver. On the lapel of the jacket a badge showed. The man rose gracefully.

  “Mr. Spur?”

  The accent was faultless, more perfect than any American ever used. A firm, masculine voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Please forgive this intrusion. I am the sheriff of this county. Juan Gomez.” He offered his hand and they shook.

  Spur felt for his pipe and said: “What can I do for you, Mr. Gomez?” The pipe came out and he started stuffing it with tobacco. Seeing him do this, the sheriff fired his smoke and puffed.

  “You must know, Mr. Spur—” a slender hand waved, gracefully cutting the air. “This kind of thing distresses me beyond description. But I am sheriff. I am paid and must expect to do my duty. You understand?” Spur nodded.

  “I understand. You’re the law and I’m a stranger. You’ve come to look me over.”

  The hand waved again.

  “There is perhaps a little more to it than that. There are one or two little points that I would be happy to clear up.”

  “Such as how long do I intend to stay? Am I the Sam Spur? Am I in this country for any purpose? Am I going to cause you trouble?”

  A brief flash of teeth. “You anticipate me. I would have gotten around to such questions in my roundabout Mexican way. Eventually. Politeness forbids—”

  “I can answer all those questions easily. I don’t know how long I intend to stay. I am the Sam Spur. I am in this country for a purpose. I may be goin’ to cause you trouble, but I do not intend it. I never intend trouble. It looks me up.”

  “You have a certain reputation.”

  Spur picked up a chair, reversed it and sat with his elbows resting on its back.

  “All reputations lie. Reputations in the west lie more than others. So you want to move me on.”

  “I regret that I would be happier if you did that.”

  “I’m stayin’ as long as I want, sheriff. You can’t move me on. You can try, but you won’t do it.”

  “I am sure you are right. You have been in this situation before. It is familiar to you. You know all the moves.”

  “Just about. Now I’ve answered your questions—”

  “Permit me to contradict you, Mr. Spur. You have answered my questions with the exception of one. What is the purpose of your visit to this town?”

  Spur puffed at his pipe for a while without answering. Finally, he said: “I’m looking for something.” His gray eyes met the black ones.

  “May I ask what?”

  “That I ain’t tellin’.”

  The sheriff stood up. “Now you ask your questions, Mr. Spur.”

  “All right. Jim Lowe was dragged on the end of a rope by some Box R riders. What’re you goin’ to do about that?”

  For a second, the sheriff looked at a loss. “I heard the story,” he said. “If Mr. Lowe brings charges, I will act. Naturally.”

  “But you’re sure he won’t.”

  “That is correct.” The sheriff walked to the door, opened it and turned. “You will understand that I in no way wish to challenge you nor to provoke you. I know of your skill with firearms, but you should know, Mr. Spur, that if you challenge my position here in
any way whatsoever, I shall not hesitate to act.”

  Spur stood up. “I’m sure you won’t.”

  “Good day to you.” The sheriff closed the door quietly behind him. Spur lay on the bed, hands behind his head and smoked his pipe out, thinking. Maybe, he would have been wiser to have changed his name. Spur was a challenge to every gun-happy boy alive. But a man couldn’t always do the thing that was wise. Spur was the name he had taken a good many years back and it had become a part of him. He was reluctant to give it up. And if he had been wise, he would have left the west and lost himself forever in the crowds of the eastern cities. But the west was in his blood. He could never leave it; to be astride a horse, to have space - that was life itself. Values here were simple and man could accept or reject them.

  He rose and walked downstairs. Sounds came from the dining room off the lobby. He met Maria Regan at the bottom of the stairs.

  “When can I eat, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Now, if you wish.” She went to turn away, but swung back to him again. “Mr. Spur, you may not know it, but mostly men don’t wear guns in this town and certainly not in my house.”

  He smiled. “You may not know it, Miss Regan, but if I didn’t wear my gun, even to bed, I wouldn’t be alive talkin’ to you now.”

  She stared at him for a moment and turned away, her back stiff.

  The dining room was empty, except for a Mexican waitress. She greeted Spur with a smile and showed him a table, he sat and tucked a napkin into the front of his shirt. She brought him a steak that was good and tender, fried potatoes, told him her name was Inez without his asking and, if she knew who he was and he guessed she did, the fact did not seem to upset her overly. She was maybe sixteen, had a beautiful figure and smelled like wheat straw when the sun has been on it. It was a long time since he had been near a woman like her and he fully appreciated her presence.

  Men entered for their evening meal, gave him brief stares, sat at the tables, talked together in tones that excluded him, flirted a little with Inez. The tables filled up, but nobody came to sit at Spur’s. When Maria Regan came in and went from table to table asking them if they had enjoyed their meal, they stood up for her. When she came to his table, he did the same. He did not want to be out of step here. She colored a little as she asked: “Did you enjoy the meal, Mr. Spur?” The smile was uneasy and nearly slipped.

  “Best steak I ever ate,” he told her. He would have told her the same thing if it had been as tough as rawhide.

  “Thank you,” she said and turned away. He sat, drank coffee, left the room, smiling at Inez as he went. He thought the volume of the general conversation rose as he got through the door.

  In the lobby he stood, wondering what he should do. This was the time to relax with friends and a beer, talk a little. But there were no friends here. Where were there any? That was foolish and came only from his feeling sorry for himself, which was not a habit of his, something he despised. He thought of how pleasant it must be to be the doctor: a roomful of books, music, a secure position in the community. A smooth cultivated life. Compare it to his - horses, dust, cattle, almost all male, hardship, fear, pain. He told himself he was a fool: life was what you made it unless you were one of the weak to whom things happened. A man with will fashioned his world, made things happen.

  He stepped out onto the plaza, debating whether to go into the Mexican town and drink tequila in a cantina or beer in a saloon this end of town. He turned left and started walking, saw the lights of a saloon, heard talk, laughter and tinkling music. Walking in he found the place not half full, for it was early yet. It was large, the floor planked and saw-dusted, several large spittoons of brass, an iron stove unlit, a few tables and not enough chairs, men leaning on the bar behind which presided a magnificent barman, glorious with cowlick and waxed mustache, silk vest and apron, flat hard eyes.

  The bar was almost occupied except to the left of him where there were only two men. He took the space to their left away from the drinkers. Men turned their heads; he thought the two men near him looked uneasy. The barman came briskly to him, put down bottle and glass. “Good evening, Mr. Spur.” Spur raised his eyebrows; the man laughed. “First one on the house.”

  Spur accepted that. It was the custom. Custom now demanded that he drink and offer a drink to the men near him. He poured, drank and said: “You gentlemen care to take a drink with me.” They turned as if startled, looking at him as if for the first time. They looked as though they knew they could refuse, but it would be dangerous.

  “I’d admire to,” one said. He was in his forties, going a little to paunchiness, shabbily dressed but with the confidence of money about him.

  The other said: “Thanks,” pushed a glass forward. Spur poured for the three of them.

  “Name’s Sam Spur.”

  The paunch said: “Jim Hardison. Cattleman hereabouts. This is Judge Morth.” Spur looked at the judge, a man in his fifties with a direct gaze, thick soft hands and a wart on his nose. They all shook. They drank. The judge said: “You’ll be newly arrived here, Mr. Spur.” Spur agreed, he had ridden in just after noon. He said what a pleasant town it was, they agreed, they liked it here. It was peaceful. The fishing was good.

  They talked; the judge insisting on buying; they drank. They talked of the state of the cattle market, the weather, how sheep seemed to do well in the western part of the county. How did Mr. Spur feel about sheep? Like all cattlemen? No, there was a place for sheep. The west was big enough for all kinds of men and ways of making a living. Mr. Spur had nothing against sheep. He just didn’t like their smell. Laughter. Hardiman bought. They drank; they talked some more. All very affable; time passed and the other drinkers watched them. At last the judge laid a soft hand on Spur’s sleeve.

  “Mr. Spur, forgive me for asking. I’m an older man and I’m a judge, that allows me certain liberties. I want to ask you the question nobody dare ask but which we all want answered. You see you have been here only a short time, but the whole town centers its curiosity on you.”

  “Ask away, judge.”

  “Have you been sent here to kill a man?” The judge eyed him like a man who expects a hard answer or a blow. He got neither.

  “No. I never was sent anywhere to kill a man.”

  The judge and Hardiman exchanged glances.

  “Would you tell us why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To find something.”

  “May I ask what?”

  “You can ask, but I won’t be answering.” He nodded to them both. “Thanks for the drinks and conversation, gentlemen. Hope I see you some more.” He walked to the door, all eyes on him and stepped out onto the street. It was dark now and there was a lamp burning outside the saloon. He was standing inside the circle of light. He thought: I’m a perfect target, and the thought was the habit of years.

  “Spur.”

  The voice was soft, male, familiar. He knew it was the big man who had dragged Jim Lowe out on the range. He turned, wondering if the man had a gun in his hand. The man was a dim shape in the shadows. Beyond him was another. Spur glanced left. The third man was there.

  One of the younger men said: “They say you’re fast. The fastest ever. But that won’t do you no good here. This is town an’ there’s law here. The sheriff’s just down the street. You touch a gun in this town and you’re finished.”

  Spur reckoned that could be the truth.

  The other young man said: “So we’re goin’ to take you, friend. It’s the spur an’ the boot for you. You’re goin’ to be marked. Every time you shave that face of yourn, you’re goin’ to remember us.”

  Spur said: “Is this because I scared you out on the range?”

  The big man heaved himself away from the wall and said: “I ain’t scared of a livin’ man.”

  “Then why these two,” Spur asked mildly.

  “There’s three guns lookin’ at you. Shuck your belt.”

  Spur unbuckled his belt an
d let the holstered gun fall into the dust. He promised himself that they would all pay for getting dust on a good clean gun.

  One stepped forward; a booted foot kicked the gun away.

  A man launched himself forward. Spur tried to move to one side to avoid the blow, but he took it on the temple and it knocked him sideways. He lost his balance and fell. Half-stunned, he found himself on hands and knees; there was dust in his throat and eyes. Before he could get up a boot caught him in the belly and he rolled over. He accelerated the roll and came to his feet too quickly for them to move in on him. A boot was aimed at him; he caught the foot, tore the man from his feet and hurled him out onto the street. The man hit, yelling.

  A man squared up to him and another came around the right side. Spur turned sharply, charged the man at the side, feinted with a fist and swung on the other man. This was the big fellow. He tried to hit Spur with a swinging fist, but Spur doubled down, got his shoulder into the man’s belly and bore him backward. He went backward till he hit the wall of the saloon. He hit so hard that the whole building seemed to quake at the impact. He gasped; Spur straightened, hit him in the belly, over the heart and in the throat. That way he didn’t hurt his hands and he always took great care of his hands because with them he stayed alive. The man leaned back against the wall making a choking sound.

  Spur was aware dimly that there were men standing watching, on the street, at the windows, the door of the saloon; a repeat of the old pattern with which he was familiar: the crowd watched the blood sport, judging a man a coward if he fled, crowing over his defeat. Yet a crowd had no courage, it had neither head nor heart.

  He turned. A man was in the act of leaping on his back. The weight drove him into the big man. Spur ripped himself clear of clutching hands, grasped a man by hair and shirt and hurled him into the dark blur of the onlookers.

  The big man sank to the ground and said very clearly: “My God, he’s killed me.”

  Spur stood still, eyes alert. It was over as quickly as it had started. A man hovered dimly, wanting to run, but not liking to in front of the crowd. A short figure thrust itself through the crowd, metal glinting in his hand. It was the sheriff. He came into the lamplight and looked at Spur in a puzzled way.