Free Maverick Marshall by Nelson Nye Page A

into the street some woman cried shrilly,
“Is he crazy?”
And then the herd was engulfing the street like a monster, so near he could see their slobber-flecked chests and the sharp wicked glint of their tossing horns.
    Frank flung the flaring lamp high above them.
    The herd broke like splatter, the whole front melting away, panicked by the sight of that flame diving at them. Several steers crashed head-on into buildings, adding their terrified bellows to the uproar, but the great bulk of the mass veered off south after the lead steer who, by the kindness of God, took for the largest chunk of open space in sight, trailed by his followers in a curve that tipped east back of Fentriss’ livery. One crazed brute, lone-wolfing it up the street through the dust, almost ran Frank down while he was standing there shaking. He fired twice pointblank with his pistol, yet blind panic or momentum carried the animal the length of the Mercantile’s front before collapsing.
    Frank’s legs folded under him. Cramps ravaged his stomach.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Dragging a hand across his mouth Frank shoved up off his knees and got out of the street. There was much random shouting, lights were commencing to flare up behind windows as anxious merchants and the incurably curious came forth out of hiding to assess the damage. The wind — after the manner of that rail and those horses — seemed to have gone somewhere else. Frank could hear occasional gunshots but these were scattered, sporadic, probably mercy slugs for cripples. He supposed he ought to get back to the office where he could be found, but that plaster of Gurden’s was still on his mind and he went down Krantz’s wagon pass and thumped on the Opal’s back door with his fist. He kept at it a long while before convinced he would not get any answer.
    He dragged himself around to the front, unutterably weary, almost out on his feet. He guessed he ought to be hunting Tularosa but he just wasn’t up to it. He went back to the office and, finding Danny Settles in the bunk, collapsed on the floor.
    He woke up in the bunk with the morning sun nearly three hours high. He was so crammed with aches when he tried to move he didn’t much care if he never got up. He heard steps outside and Danny Settles came in with his breakfast, his old-young face looking cheerful as a man who has just been handed a king full on aces. “Good morning, Frank.”
    Frank said contentiously, “Is it?” and grimaced.
    Danny, chuckling out of the wealth of his good humor, put the tray down on the desk. Frank sat up. The sight of food nauseated him. “Better eat that yourself.” He lay back and stretched out his legs. “Well?” he growled when he discovered Danny watching him.
    “It probably doesn’t amount to anything,” Danny said, “but that pianist at the Opal — Sleight-of-Hand Willie — was over here before daylight. He looked pretty banged up — ”
    “What’d he want?” Frank asked, showing interest.
    “He seemed to think you ought to know Kelly’s into some deal with Gurden. Seemed to have the idea that gun — ” He broke off as someone pounded the door.
    “Come in,” Frank said impatiently.
    It was Councilman Krantz, the Mercantile’s owner. His eyes looked like they would jump through his glasses. “That pizness last night — ” He shook his head. “I haff mizchudged you, my poy. But you vant to look out for that Chip, he iss after you. He vas ofer to mine house pefore breakfast yet. He vants to take that star avay from you — says you von’t enforce that new gun law.”
    “He was never more wrong in his life,” Frank growled. He flung off the blanket and stamped into his boots. He’d lost his hat last night in the wind and reached for Danny’s. He said, glowering at Krantz, “Do I look like the kind that would sell a man out!” and caught up his shell belt, slapping it around him.
    Danny Settles, alarmed, said, “Frank, where are you off to?”
    Even Krantz looked worried.