“Whisky,” the marshal said. A reluctant barkeep brought it. The sound as he set the bottle down on the bar was very loud, as was the slap of a coin on wood. The bartender, his hands in his apron, glided rapidly backward. Then there was no sound at all.
In the mirror Gannon saw that Curley Burne had risen and turned, and was standing to the right of McQuown, facing the room now. So it was not to be Billy; but he felt no relief.
Curley was grinning. Glints of light flickered in his black curls. Billy and Wash were sitting with their hands on the table before them. McQuown shuffled the deck of cards with a sound like tearing cloth.
“Oh, Mister Marshal!” Curley said.
Out of the corners of his eyes Gannon watched the marshal raise his glass to his lips and toss down the whisky. Then he set the glass down, and turned.
Curley’s face wore a mock sheepish expression. “Marshal,” Curley said. “I wonder could I make a little complaint?”
Blaisedell inclined his head once, politely.
“I guess it is up to me, Marshal,” Curley went on. “There is a lot of complaint around about it — but folks have just kind of gone and left it up to me. Those gold-handles of yours, Marshal. They are awful hard on a fellow’s eyes.”
Someone laughed shrilly.
The door through which Morgan had disappeared stood open now, and Morgan leaned there casually.
“I mean, speaking for myself now, Marshal,” Curley said. “I would surely hate to get a case of eyestrain from those gold-handles. They are so bright in the sun and all. A fellow is not much use without his good eyes. I hear they have been strained bad in Warlock lately.”
“You could close your eyes,” Blaisedell said, in his deep voice, but pleasantly still.
With a deprecating gesture Curley said, “Aw, Marshal. I’d just be bumping and wumping all over the place, trying to get around with my eyes closed. And look foolish! Marshal, por favor, couldn’t you just not polish them handles so bright, hand-rubbing on them like they say you do?”
“Why, I guess I could do that. If things fell right in town here.”
Curley nodded seriously, but long dimples cut his cheeks. Blaisedell stood with his boots set apart, his arms hanging loosely. Beyond him Gannon saw Jack Cade’s head half turned, his lips drawn tight and bloodless over his teeth. Carl Schroeder stood alone just inside the batwing doors; he looked as though he were in pain.
“Marshal,” Curley said loudly. “What if somebody painted them handles black for you?”
“It might do,” Blaisedell said. He walked forward, not directly toward Curley, but at a slant to the right, and Gannon knew the marshal had not moved until he had worked out the geometry involved. Gannon found himself sidling doorward along the bar. He stepped past Jack Cade, but Cade’s hand caught his arm and held him there, between Jack and the lookout on the stand. He stared up into the lookout’s sweating face and the round huge muzzle of the shotgun.
“But who is to do it?” Blaisedell said. He moved another step toward Curley.
Gannon felt the movement of Cade’s arm behind him. Instinctively he jerked his elbow back, and slammed his hand down on Cade’s Colt, gasping as the sharp point of the hammer tore into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, and staring up at the shotgun barrel. He fought the Colt down, looking wildly toward the table now, and saw, past Blaisedell’s broad back, Curley’s hand snatch for his six-shooter; and saw the swifter flick of the bottom of Blaisedell’s coat. Curley’s hand halted, the gleaming barrel of his Colt not quite level, and his left hand held spread-fingered and protective before his belly. His face was twisted into a grimace that was half grin still, half shock and horror as he stared at Blaisedell’s hand, which was hidden from Gannon. In that same frozen instant McQuown flinched forward away from Curley, Wash straightened stiffly, and Billy sat perfectly still with his hands held six inches above the table top. Gannon saw him glance to his right, where Morgan had produced a short-barreled shotgun, which he held trained on Calhoun and Friendly. Then, as Gannon turned back to face the lookout again, he had a glimpse, behind and below the stand, of Pony Benner’s baffled, furious face gaping at Blaisedell.
“Whooooo-eee!” he heard Curley whisper. Jack Cade’s breath was scalding on the back of his neck. The upward pressure on the gun beneath his hand was released, the hammer drew loose from his flesh. He saw Blaisedell make a peremptory motion with his head at Curley.
Curley gave his hand a little shake and his Colt fell with a thump shockingly loud. Blaisedell returned his own piece to the holster hidden by the skirt of his coat. It was not gold-handled, Gannon saw.
He felt blood sticky and warm in the palm of his hand; he pressed it hard against his pants leg, his back to Cade still. Sweat stung in his eyes, and above him he saw sweat dripping from the lookout’s chin. The muzzle of the shotgun was drawn back a little. Glancing toward the door he saw that Carl Schroeder had disappeared.
“McQuown,” Blaisedell said. McQuown sat in profile, his head bent forward, deep shadows caught in the lines in his cheeks. He acted as though he had not heard. “McQuown,” Blaisedell said, again.
Billy’s hot eyes swung toward his chief, and Abe McQuown slowly pushed his chair back and rose. He slowly turned, one hand braced on the back of his chair, his eyes moving jerkily from side to side, his nostrils flaring and slackening with his breathing. His beard twitched as though he were trying to smile. Morgan was leaning casually in the doorway again, the short-barreled shotgun under his arm.
“McQuown,” Blaisedell said, for the third time. Then he said, his deep voice without expression, “My name is Blaisedell and I am marshal here. I am hired to keep the peace here,” he said, and stopped, and waited, just long enough for McQuown to speak if he wished, but not so long that he had to.
Then Blaisedell glanced around as though he were talking to all now, in the breathless silence. “Since there is no law for this town I will have to keep the peace as best I can. And as fair as I can. But there is two things I am going to lay down right now and back up all the way. The first one is this.” His voice took on an edge. “Any man that starts a shooting scrape in a place where there is others around to get hurt by it, I will kill him unless he kills me first.”
Gannon saw the furious tears in Billy’s eyes. Billy got to his feet, and McQuown glanced nervously at him. Morgan shifted his shotgun around. McQuown’s face was deep red.
Blaisedell continued. “Number two is what the Citizens’ Committee has agreed to. I will say it again in case it hasn’t got around yet. If a man makes trouble, or looks to make it and go on making it, he is going to see himself posted out of town. That is what they call some places a white affidavit. It is backed by me. Any man that comes in here when he has got himself posted comes in against me.”
Again he paused, and again McQuown did not speak.
“That’s all I’ve got to say, McQuown,” Blaisedell said. “Except that you and your people are welcome here so long as you can keep them in order.”
“Hear, hear!” someone yelled from the doorway. It was the only utterance. McQuown suddenly started forward. He came at a slow, steady walk along the bar. As he passed Friendly and Calhoun he nodded to them; they fell in behind him. Blaisedell half turned to watch, and Gannon could see the line of his face, calm and sure; and proud.
“Blaisedell!” Billy yelled. His voice broke. “Go for your iron, Blaisedell!” He leaned forward in a crouch, his hands hovering at his waist.
Billy, Gannon whispered, not even aloud; he tried to shake his head. He saw Morgan raise the shotgun.
Blaisedell didn’t move. “Go along, son,” he said gently.