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  RIO BRAVO

  THE GREATEST WESTERN SINCE SHANE

  JOHN WAYNE as THE SHERIFF

  Rio Bravo was a tough border town, and Sheriff Chance ran it the way he wanted to, until a cold-blooded killer, with money and power behind him, got in the way.

  DEAN MARTIN as DUDE

  One of the West’s all-time great gunfighters, Dude was Chance’s deputy, till a woman broke his heart and whiskey broke his pride.

  RICKY NELSON as COLORADO

  He was new to the business, but so fast with a gun he didn’t have to prove it to anybody.

  ANGIE DICKINSON as FEATHERS

  She was a gambling lady, who drifted into Rio Bravo, took one look at the sheriff, and stayed.

  WALTER BRENNAN as STUMPY

  He was the Sheriff’s deputy, and probably the only man in Rio Bravo who wasn’t afraid of Chance.

  It wasn’t much, a few saloons and stores, the hotel and the jail, hotter than the hinges of hell in summertime, bleak in the winter. But Sheriff John T. Chance liked it, and he was staying—if it killed him.

  And the way things looked, it might.

  Nathan Burdette had Rio Bravo surrounded, every trail and pass blocked by his gunhands, because Burdette’s kill-crazy brother was in jail.

  And it was Sheriff Chance who had put him there!

  RIO BRAVO is a taut and memorable novel, explosive as a gunshot, the story of a great lawman, a drunk, and an untried kid, who stood with their guns drawn, the only barrier between a defenceless town and overwhelming evil.

  RIO BRAVO

  A CORGI BOOK

  First publication in Great Britain

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Bantam Edition published 1959

  Corgi Edition published 1959

  © Copyright, 1959, by Bantam Books, Inc.

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd.

  Park Royal Road, London, N.W.10

  Made and printed in Great Britain by

  Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham

  ONE

  Dust blew in the streets of Rio Bravo. The wind that blew it was a night wind, and cold, and it shook Dude Walton back and forth like a rotten tree. He was standing staring at the windows of the Rio Bravo Saloon. The lights and the dust blurred together in his eyes, making him blink. Raton was playing the piano inside. The hard-edged music sounded funny, and after a while Dude realized it was because his ears were ringing.

  He needed a drink. He needed it bad.

  He poked his fingers in and out through the holes in his pockets, swaying when the wind pushed him. He had already been thrown out of three cantinas tonight. He hadn’t been able to find Chance, who might or might not give him a dollar, and he had pretty well run out of other prospects. The Burdettes’ saloon, the Rio Bravo, was his last hope. Charlie the bartender wouldn’t stand him any more free drinks, not even a beer, but Joe Burdette was there with some of his Silver Spur boys, in for a night on the town, and Joe might. Joe had money. He and his brother Nathan owned half the land in the county and most of the things on it, like the saloon, and Joe didn’t come into Rio Bravo too much. He liked it over on the Mex side better. There was some talk that he’d got into bad trouble there, but that was not Dude’s business any more so he hadn’t paid much attention. All he cared about was getting that drink.

  The cold sickness of approaching sobriety crept through him, contracting his guts and turning his knees to water. He was beginning to hear a voice in the wind and see a face peeping from the shadows, a voice and a face that he hadn’t been able to drown in three years of hard trying. Dude shuddered. He started up the steps of the saloon porch, and then he remembered that Charlie no longer allowed him the front door. He turned and went around the building in the eddies of wind, steadying himself with one hand on the wall, a gaunt dark man flapping in dirty rags, his jaw stubbled, his hair uncut and sticking out from under a hat that some Mexican had thrown away. In spite of all this he looked as though he might have been handsome once. He stumbled in through the back door, not making any more noise than he could help.

  It felt hot inside, out of the wind. The saloon air was like a tonic to him. It smelled heavily of beer, whisky, tobacco smoke, and the half-human, half-horsy sweat of the men who sat around the tables or leaned on the bar. Dude started across the room, unsteady in his runover boots, walking like a man in a fog. Raton gave him a dark uncaring glance and forgot him instantly. He played the piano guitar-fashion and all his music came out Spanish no matter how it was supposed to be. He was a small, sad-faced, sensible man who had taught himself the gringo’s instrument and was making a good living out of it, keeping himself strictly clear of anything that went on among the Norteamericanos. If they had cut one another to pieces with knives Raton would have gone on playing while the blood washed over his feet, finished his beer, gone home at the appointed time, and slept without worry after first cleaning his shoes.

  Dude passed him and went on to the bar, steering by the glitter of silver on Joe Burdette.

  There was a silver band on his black hat. Silver conchas edged his vest, and there was more of it on the two holsters he wore tied down on his thighs, and on the spurs with the big Spanish rowels. Joe was the drunkest man at the bar, and he was a bad kind of a drunk. Dude was an expert on drunks now, but he had known that before. Liquor set a fire burning in Joe. Where other men would get happy or maudlin or sleepy, Joe would get a hot black look in his eye and a restlessness on him. Dude didn’t care. Joe had money and a bottle in front of him. Dude looked at the bottle and the need was an anguish inside him.

  Behind the bar Charlie saw him and started forward, but Joe waved him back. Charlie shrugged. He leaned against the bar and watched. The men on either side of Joe drew back to give him room. They watched too, grinning.

  Dude came up to the bar. He stood there looking at the bottle. His lips and throat worked as though he was swallowing something.

  Joe pretended not to see him. He poured a drink out of the bottle into a glass, letting it spill over onto the bar. He raised the glass and drank, slowly, holding up the glass now and then to admire the color of the liquor. All the time he was watching Dude in the back-bar mirror. Dude’s face became tragic. He was a dying man, perishing in the presence of salvation.

  Joe poured himself another drink. He invited his men to join him. He invited Charlie. They all drank. Nobody seemed to see Dude. Joe turned his back and started to talk to the man next to him. Tears came into Dude’s eyes. For a moment it seemed that he was going to fall. He put out a hand and touched Joe on the shoulder.

  “Please,” he said. “Mr. Burdette—”

  Joe turned around. He smiled. “Well,” he said. “Borrachin.” The Spanish word for drunkard rolled musically on his tongue. His teeth were white, his skin darkly tanned and laid smooth over bold, hard bones. “Borrachin, amigo, you look like hell. You look like you need a drink. Do you?”

  Dude nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, ask for it. You know me, borrachin. I’m generous.”

  “Please,” Dude said. “Please, Mr. Burdette. Just one—”

  He reached for the bottle.

  Joe cuffed his hand away. “Not out of my bottle. And stand back from me, friend. You look lousy. Here, buy your own.”

  He took a silver dollar out of his pocket. He let Dude put out his hand for it, and then he tossed it past him into the big brass spittoon.

  Dude looked at his empty hand and then at the spittoon. Nobody said anything. There was movement somewhere near the front of the saloon but nobody paid any attention to it. They all watched Dude.

  Dude turned and went down on his knees. He heard laughter but it was far off. The brass spittoon blazed in front of him. He reached for it. He had his hands on
it.

  And suddenly it was kicked away.

  Dude looked up. He saw Chance standing over him. Chance holding his rifle light and easy in his hands as a boy would carry a twig, the sheriff’s star shining on his vest, a giant Chance seen from that angle, with his big shoulders bent forward and his face looking down at Dude. Dude’s hands stung and there was something in Chance’s face that turned him hot and sick inside. He stood up, raging. Beyond the reddish curtain that had come between him and the world he saw Chance turn away from him toward Joe Burdette. Dude’s hand dropped to his hip but there was nothing there any more but his ragged pants. His fingers curled hungrily and he reached into the redness around him and there was a chair there and he picked it up and swung it like a pole-ax, and he felt the jar clear to his shoulders when it hit. Chance’s hat fell off. A small river of blood sprang from his forehead above the corner of the eye and ran down his cheek, spreading into the sun lines and creases. It reached his collar and then suddenly Chance was not standing up any more, he was lying down very quiet between Dude and Joe Burdette, with his rifle under him and his cheek against Joe’s boot, and now the blood was dripping bright and beautiful on the floor.

  Raton glanced once over his shoulder and away again, never missing a note. Some of the men at the tables got up. There was a muttering of voices. Dude dropped the chair. He stood looking at Chance. Joe moved his foot away and the sheriff’s head rolled loosely. Joe was laughing, not loud but kind of high and wild. His eyes shone.

  “He looks like he’s dead,” he said. “El Borrachin, I think maybe you killed him.” He picked up the bottle and drank.

  Dude made a strange sound like an eagle screaming and went for Joe’s throat.

  He never got there. Some of Joe’s men caught him and held him. He cursed Joe, trying with all his might to get free, and Joe laughed and tilted his head on one side.

  “Trying to make out it was all my fault,” he said. “You’re ungrateful, borrachin. I hate an ungrateful man.”

  He stepped over Chance and hit Dude in the belly while the men held his arms.

  “Maybe we ought to kill him too?” Joe said. One of the men said “Why not?” and Joe went on hitting Dude, not really caring whether he killed him or not, just having fun.

  Things got very indistinct for Dude. Sometimes he could see Joe’s smiling face and Chance’s body lying at his feet, and sometimes he could not see anything at all. But about the fourth or fifth time Joe hit him he saw a couple of men come up. Any other time Dude would have known them but now they were just men and they looked angry. They were not wearing any guns. One of them spoke to Joe and then he reached out and grabbed him and pulled him around. Dude had a strangely clear picture of the man’s face, round and middle-aged, red with indignation. He said something to Joe but the words blurred out of shape in Dude’s ear. And all of a sudden Joe had a gun in his hand and there was a shot and the red-faced man sank down slowly and lay on the floor beside Chance. The man who had been with him turned and ran.

  Joe grunted and put up his gun. The place was very quiet. Raton had stopped in the middle of a phrase, startled by the sound of the shot, and he was afraid to start again lest he attract Joe Burdette’s attention.

  Charlie the bartender said uneasily, “Joe, that wasn’t …”

  “What the hell,” Joe said. “Sheriff’s dead, ain’t he? Who’s going to do anything about it?” He drank what was left in the bottle and walked to the door and went out. His men looked after him. They were no longer interested in Dude and they let go of him and went off to huddle with Charlie at the end of the bar. The other half-dozen customers were already making for the back door.

  Raton started to play again.

  Dude hung on the edge of the bar and looked down at Chance.

  Joe Burdette walked down the main street of Rio Bravo. He felt good and he felt mean and he felt restless. He wanted something but he didn’t know what it was. He had just killed a man and maybe he wanted to kill another. Or maybe he wanted a woman. He didn’t know. The wind was cold and stinging on his cheeks. He took a lungful of it. His heart pounded and his belly was tight. He felt tall. He felt himself tower over the low adobe buildings. He liked the feeling. A Mexican came out of a cantina and bumped into him and Joe knocked him back inside, cursing him in Spanish, and farther down the street another Mexican saw him and scuttled for cover. Joe laughed. He walked on, weaving slightly, past the plaza with the crumbling old church and the cottonwood trees tossing in the wind. The hotel was up ahead, a two-story clapboard building Yankee-style, and the jail was across the street. It was adobe and built like a fortress. Joe crossed over to it. He looked up at the weatherbeaten sign. SHERIFF. JOHN T. CHANCE. Joe grinned. He knew why John T. Chance had been in the Rio Bravo Saloon tonight. Word of the trouble he’d had across the river had got back and Chance was there with his everlasting rifle to see it didn’t happen again. Much good it had done him, thanks to Dude. Joe felt very good. He felt a little bit like God. He thought Chance was dead and he sincerely hoped so. He thought Nathan would be happy too if it was so. Chance was beginning to gravel on Nathan pretty hard.

  Nathan was going to be mad at him about some other things, but that didn’t bother Joe. He was used to it. He didn’t even think about it any more. As far back as he could remember he had been getting into trouble and Nathan had been cursing him and getting him out of it. It was a good arrangement. It gave Joe a fine feeling of freedom. He had no worries. He had no worries at all.

  He staggered on, the wind cold on his body and the whisky burning inside him.

  A woman came out of a narrow side street, a Mex woman with a dark shawl over her head. Joe ran ahead a couple of steps and caught her. He pulled the shawl away, laughing and mumbling to her in Spanish. She looked up at him with fierce black eyes. She was not young and she probably never had been pretty. Joe pushed her away and went on. He decided that what he wanted was not a woman but more whisky. A lot more whisky.

  He went into the first cantina.

  It was little and crowded. There was a man playing a guitar and singing. Everybody was having a good time. But the minute Joe came in the singing and the laughter stopped. The men got out of his way, not obsequiously at all but with a wise wariness. He stood rocking on his heels, dizzy with the sudden warmth, his head almost touching the low ceiling. He demanded whisky. It was poured and he started to drink it, and then the silence became absolute as though no one was even breathing now and the man who had poured the whisky for him was staring across his shoulder at something by the door. Joe froze with the glass halfway to his mouth. The man dropped abruptly out of sight behind the counter. Joe let go of the glass and turned, his hand already halfway through the motion of the draw.

  And he stopped with his fingers on the butt of his gun.

  Chance was standing just inside the door. His head was bare and the cut on his forehead was still running a little blood. He carried his rifle cocked and pointed straight at Joe’s belly.

  Joe whined with fury and frustration, but he couldn’t quite force himself to try finishing the draw. Instead he lifted both his hands and held them level with his shoulders.

  Chance started to walk toward him. Joe was a big tall man but Chance was bigger and taller and there was something about him as dark and hard as old iron. He filled the room. Joe snarled at him but kept his hands high.

  Somebody said, “Hold it, Sheriff,” and behind Chance the open door of the cantina was full of men.

  Burdette men. Silver Spur men. Some of them had their guns out. Joe laughed. He started to put his hands down and Ray Fowler, one of the two who had held the Dude for Joe, nodded and said, “Come on out, Joe, he won’t bother you.”

  Joe started past Chance, and now it was Chance’s turn to sweat.

  The next thing happened so fast that nobody saw it. Joe was facing the door, and there was only the flicker of a shadow in the wind and dark outside, and then one of the Silver Spur men was gawking at an empty holster and Dude w
as there with a gun in his hand, the wind flapping his rags around him and lifting his hatbrim, and enough of the light from the cantina falling on him to show the odd white look on his face and the way his eyes were blazing.

  “Get out,” he said to the men from the Silver Spur.

  “Hell,” said Ray Fowler, looking annoyed. “It’s only El Borrachin. Get out of here, borrachin, before you get hurt.”

  They laughed and turned their backs on him.

  Dude shot the heel off Ray’s right boot. Ray swung around to kill him and Dude fired again and Ray’s gun went spinning and the blood ran down his fingers.

  Chance said in his slow quiet voice, “Maybe you didn’t hear what he said to you. He said ‘Get out’.”

  Chance’s rifle was pointed their way now. They hesitated, and then they started to go out and Dude watched them like a molting hawk.

  Joe realized suddenly that he was being left. He went for his gun. He was fast. He should have made it easy while Chance was watching the Silver Spur men go out. But the barrel of Chance’s carbine took him hard across the face and Joe’s knees started to buckle and Chance hit him again just to make sure. Joe fell down. Chance leaned over and took the guns from his holsters. Dude had moved inside the door. He watched down the street until the last of the Burdette men had mounted and there was only Joe’s fine black horse with the silver-mounted saddle at the rack outside the Rio Bravo Saloon. The men rode away. Dude nodded to Chance. Then he looked at the gun in his hand as though he didn’t know what it was and let it drop. He leaned against the door post and looked sick.

  Chance said, “You ain’t finished yet, Dude.”

  Dude glanced at him and away again, from under the brim of his hat.

  Chance said, “Come on here and give me a hand.”

  Dude started to say something but the words would not come. He did not look Chance in the eye but he went and took hold of Joe Burdette’s other arm and together he and Chance started to drag him out of there to the jail.