"Somebody has to carry the word to these poor bastards." Coons waved a
hand to indicate the workmen around him.
"And take up a collection?"
"No. I sweat for my pay like everybody else. Mostly I just sit in a
corner of the bunkhouse and talk about God. Those who want to listen
join me. There are damn few, of course."
"You don't talk like a preacher."
"I make it a point not to. I've been known to get a snootful, too, and
last week, I had a fist fight with a heckler. He thumped the daylights
out of me. You here to boss Tunneltown?"
"Depends," Tesno said.
"The booze is rotten and the games crooked. The town brings Vickers'
payroll right back to him."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He and the Parker girl are in together, aren't they?"
"Then why would he hire me?"
"How do I know? He's a cagey man."
"You're badly informed," Tesno said. "Tunneltown is a thorn in his
side. It's slowing down his operation and he wants it cleaned up."
Coons' hollow-set black eyes were skeptical. "I'll believe it when I
see it," he muttered.
"Believe what you please," Tesno growled.
He started to turn away, but Coons drew himself up with mock solemnity,
placed a hand against his chest and recited:
"'Oh, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant."
He smiled and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tesno. I have a feeling I'll
be seeing you later." He wandered off, shovel on his shoulder, and
joined a crew working on a small fill.
Ben came up, his eyes following Coons.
"What did that crackpot want?"
"I don't know," Tesno said.
"He usually has complaints about the food or working conditions. He
considers himself a spokesman for the men. That kind can make trouble."
"I liked the man," Tesno muttered.
He rode back to camp alone, letting the company mule pick its way down
a steep trail that clung to the gulch wall. Ben was a slave-driver, he
thought. What successful contractor wasn't? Somewhere in the process
of clawing and gambling his way up from the ranks, he had lost the
capacity to understand a man who sat around the bunkhouse and talked
about God. We were all crackpots, Tesno thought, each man in his own
way.
He left the mule at the company corral, lunched at the cookhouse, and
made the short walk to town. He found the saloons already busy with
cooks, freighters, and a few night-shift men having a midday drink or
a try at the games. He counted fifteen faro tables in town, not all of
them operating at this hour. He spotted one game that was definitely
crooked and he suspected there were more.
He visited the Pink Lady last, finding Madrid at the bar in
conversation with Pinky Bronklin. They drew apart as he approached, and
customers turned to watch.
Tesno stepped a few feet away, glad of a chance to face the marshal
before witnesses. Madrid was freshly shaved and had put on a clean
shirt. This one had broad green stripes. Its sleeves were encircled by
red garters.
"My god," Tesno said. "You look like a Christmas tree."
"What's the matter with a little style?" Madrid said defensively. His
tone was not that of a man looking for a showdown.
"Black is for corpses," Pinky muttered. His eyes raked Tesno. "It will
look nice on you."
"Hobson sang, Pinky," Tesno said, stepping up to the bar.
"What's that to me?"
"You know what it is, but I'll say it. You paid him to pick a fight."
"He said that? He's a liar," Pinky said.
"I'll bring him in here. You can say it to his face."
"No chance of that," Madrid put in. "Hobson left town. Took the
Ellensburg stage." The marshal swung away and idled over to a faro game.
Tesno eyed Pinky silently.
"Hobson lied," Pinky said desperately. "He must be covering for
somebody else."
"You protest too much," Tesno said.
He caught Pinky by the hair, pulled him forward, and slapped him
resoundingly on one cheek and then the other. He suddenly shoved him
away and Pinky staggered into the back bar.
The customers watched in silence. Madrid made no move; he scarcely
looked up from the faro game. Pinky glared, his face flushed. There
would be a gun behind the bar somewhere, Tesno thought. But the
saloonkeeper made no attempt to go for it. Tesno spun on his heel and
walked out of the saloon. As he pushed through the swinging doors,
there was a tide of low talk and uneasy laughter. A muffled comment met
his ears:
"Damned high-handed troublebuster! Due for a takedown."
Loneliness stung him like a mountain wind as his bootheels drummed the
boardwalk. Pinky had got off easy. Didn't the crowd understand that?
The words Dave Coons had quoted rang in his memory:
_Oh, it is excellent_
_To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous_
_To use it like a giant._
_Tyrant_, he called himself. _Damned high-hander! And Ben Vickers is a
slave-driver. And Coons a crackpot. And we are all working hard at it._
As he reached the hotel, someone called his name from across the
street. It was Whisky Willie Silverknife, who fell into a dog-trot and
arrived waving a folded paper.
"M-m-message for you. From M-Miss Persia."
Tesno had the note unfolded by the time Willie got the words out.
Dear Mr. Tesno:
The council meeting is at seven. Will you join me for dinner
afterward?