His Ragged Company

by Rance Denton

  “It was. It was lucky,” he said.

  Great.

  If there's one thing to know about Rufus Oarsdale: he’s full of crap. He’d lie to you to get anything done his way, even if it’s not a very good lie. He’s superstitious, too. Don’t ask me how those two things go together. When you hear Rufus talk about his belongings, he'd say they’re all lucky, like a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot. Lucky hat, lucky boots, lucky bottle of hooch.

  “Well, come out with it,” I commanded him, leaning forward in my chair and kicking my dusty boots off of the desktop. “What did they steal?”

  “Just somethin’. I ain’t asking you to retrieve it,” Rufus said. “I’m asking you to kill’em.”

  “I should at least know what you want me to kill these boys over.”

  Rufus pulled off his faded hat and wrung it in his hands. Scarce twists of white hair bloomed on his otherwise bald head. “Maybe whatever it is won't mean much to you, but it means a whole lot to me.”

  “Because it’s lucky.”

  “Because it’s mine.”

  “Fair enough. You want I should go talk to them about giving whatever it is back?”

  “Bullshit. I want you to shoot them.”

  I stood and grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair. It was hot enough outside to fry the scales off a snake, but a jacket’s important – pockets and bravado. “Sometimes you can solve problems just as easily with patience and diplomacy. How about I just head on up and talk to them, see if I can ask for whatever it is.”

  Rufus’s bloodshot eyes squeezed almost shut. “And if it comes to shots, you’ll kill them boys, right?”

  “If it comes to shots, I’ll be mighty angry,” I said.

  “At what?”

  “At you,” I said. “At them.”

  He mulled over my response. “Sounds good,” he said.

  I opened one of the drawers of the old writing desk where I kept sparse paperwork and grabbed a few paper shotgun shells. After filling my bandolier, I grabbed the double-barreled twelve-gauge from where it leaned against the desk. I kept it there most days because I like to think I’m primed for trouble if it comes. I cracked the breach and slipped two shells into it and then draped it over my forearm without locking it shut. Sidearms are one thing, but I don’t like walking through the town with a readied long-gun unless it’s absolutely necessary. Screams of trouble. Gathers a crowd. Crowds get people killed.

  Rufus’s beady eyes got wide. “Planning on making a mess?”

  “Planning on being listened to the first time. You got a piece?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re coming with me. That means you have to be prepared if their britches get hot.”

  “I don’t got a gun.”

  I glanced at his belt. He had a worn holster hanging against his hip, but its top gaped like an empty mouth. I turned to the cabinet behind my desk and produced a battered specimen of a revolver – a blemished .38 I'd confiscated a few weeks ago – and slid it and a box of rounds across the desk toward him. He picked it up in a shaking hand. He opened the loading gate and began sliding in a few cartridges. One fell out of his palm and clattered to the floor. “If it comes to shots,” said Rufus, “you’ll be the one firing first, won’t you?”

  “Depends on who’s quicker.”

  “You’re the marshal,” he said. “You’ve got to be quick, right?”

  “Try to be.”

  “Quicker than them.”

  “Most times.”

  “But if you’re not…”

  I pointed at the revolver. “Might need you to be, Rufus.”

  “I ain’t fast.”

  “You accurate?”

  “I can take a can at ten paces without really aiming.”

  I studied his face for a minute and then shook my head. Rufus might as well have been a wet goddamn soup-noodle.

  “Listen,” I reasoned as he fumbled the gun into his holster. “I don't sit at this desk because it's fashionable. It's because I can usually find a way to solve problems, and contrary to popular belief, not all those problems need to be solved with gunfire. But if things start getting batty, you hold your hat and find cover. Unless you want to tell me what it is you’re looking to get back so you can stay down here in the office while I take care of this.”

  “I’m coming,” he resolved. “My stuff.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We just talkin’ to them, though, ain’t we? The guns…they’re just for muscle. ‘Gotiation.” Guns make things real. More real than Rufus's initial excitement had anticipated.

  “Negotiation,” I agreed.

  “But you’ll kill’em if it doesn’t work.”

  “Might," I said.

  The hairs of his gray beard fluttered as he heaved out a settling breath. I doubt Rufus had really been looking forward to facing the Gregdons again, but I wasn’t going to let him stay behind. If flying lead came into the picture, I just hoped he was steady enough not to shoot me in the face.

  I made a mental note to give him and his piece a wide berth.

  I checked both of my holstered Colt revolvers and then motioned for Rufus to follow me. As we stepped out of my office and onto the front porch, the sunlight cut a bright swath through Blackpeak’s main road. Almost midday. I wanted to get this done and get back to a good bowl of stew.

  As a rickety wagon – a tradesman, it looked like, from the pile of nondescript barrels and sacks piled in its back – rumbled by in front of us, I touched the tip of my hat in greeting. His face went white when he saw the shotgun hanging over my arm.

  We turned to the stables. “Gregdon boys up at the mine?” I asked.

  “Probably.”

  “We have a stop to make before we talk to them,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “Rules,” I said. “Just rules.”

  Rufus Oarsdale, who looked very suddenly like he regretted coming to me, didn’t bother to ask. I didn’t blame him. He's not the only one who doesn't like my rules.

  But rules are rules. Best to stick by them.

  2

  Blackpeak's a poor excuse for a mining town. Other mining towns have veins literally overflowing stuff – plenty to cook, coke, and con with. Ain't much of that in Blackpeak. Other mines in other places are the heart of the town's economy, but ours was just the asshole of it, shallow and smelly, pitiful to behold.

  A ten-minute ride west of town saw us up a winding hill toward a series of small tents where a few folks milled about. Beyond them, set deep into the face of a jagged little mountain, was the black mouth of the mine. Beating picks and hammers echoed deep within.

  The six men that stood around the small tents were all dirty and sweaty. Some drank lukewarm coffee while others puffed long pipes. As the two of us drew our horses up near them, they stopped in the middle of their conversation and turned to stare at us.

  ”Afternoon, gentlemen," I said, leaning over the neck of my horse. They looked at each other. Then they looked at Rufus. I felt the old drunk canter his horse a bit further away from the crowd. “Afternoon," I said again, sharpening my voice.

  “Heard ya the first time,” said one of the men, his head draped with a wet rag. “You need somethin' or you just here to stare at us?”

  “Ain't much to stare at,” I said. “Your foreman around?”

  “You're armed,” he said. “What you want with the foreman?"

  “Ask him some questions,” I clarified, easing up in the saddle.

  The big guy didn't seem to pick up on the relaxation. “What kind of questions?” he asked.

  “Questions about the Gregdon Twins is all. You know them?”

  “Pretty well. I know that rat behind you, too,” he said, swiping the wet rag off his forehead. “You hear me, you pick-pocketing bitch?”

  Rufus gave him the finger.

  The big boy's feet squared in the gravel and he began rolling up his sweat-soaked sleeves. Just before he started marching in Rufus's direction,
I edged my horse around to cut him off. “Oarsdale's with me right now.”

  “I got trouble with him. We all do.”

  “I don't doubt,” I responded, quiet enough so Rufus couldn’t overhear. “But I didn't bring him up here like a package for you to unwrap. Grudges are grudges, but put whatever you got to the side right now and take it up another day. The foreman,” I said. “I want to speak to him.”

  He flashed his eyes to the shotgun. He turned, shouldered his way through a few of his friends, then made his way into a tent that looked like it would need to grow to accommodate his size. A minute later, the tongues of the tent flopped open. A balding man, shorter than the rest and toothpick-thin, came marching out, wiping his blackened hands down the front of a stained apron. He smiled at me as he came up to me.

  “Marshal Elias Faust,” he said. I shook his hand. “How do you do?”

  “Mr. Bisbin,” I said. “Hungry as hell. Got pulled away just before lunch.”

  “I’m just cooking up some chili for my boys, here. Care to share a bowl?”

  “Got some business to take care of, Mr. Bisbin, but much obliged. Wondered if I could speak to you for a moment?”

  He clapped his hands together and turned, waving toward his men. “Food's simmering out back of the tent, boys. Help yourselves as you please. I’m going to speak to the marshal here for a few minutes.” They seemed to understand that Mr. Bisbin was asking for a bit of peace and quiet. One by one, they stepped into the tent and through it, seeking out their lunch. Foreman Bisbin was a good man to work for – kept his workers fed and happy. If marshaling turned out to be any more a piss-poor way to live, I know where I'd relocate.

  When the men were gone, Rufus led his horse a little closer to the conversation between Bisbin and me. Bisbin nodded in stiff greeting to him. Polite, but not cordial. “What brings you two up this way this afternoon?”

  “Gregdons,” I said.

  “Rufus come talk to you after this morning?”

  Rufus piped in. “I sure as hell did.”

  Bisbin, straining hard to make himself sound agreeable, said, “We had a bit of an issue this morning.”

  “All three of these men working for you? Rufus,” I said, “and the Gregdons?”

  “Good man to work for,” Rufus admitted. ​Bisbin softened visibly at the compliment.

  “I suppose, though I asked them all to take their leave this morning. They showed up at dawn bickering and arguing over some belongings, and—"

  “I punched Billy Gregdon in his damn nose,” said Rufus.

  I didn’t look at him. “This happened before, foreman?”

  “Pretty regular. Some of my men don't get along, but the Gregdons and Oarsdale here have had quite a number of differences as of late. But Oarsdale hasn't had the finest record, either.”

  “That true, Rufus?”

  “Ain’t nothing big,” Rufus said.

  “What kind of trouble you been causing for Mr. Bisbin?”

  “Stole a few things,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Watches, some coins, bottle of whiskey or two.”

  I shook my head for the second, or third, or maybe even the eighth time of the day. “I take it this has been happening for awhile, Mr. Bisbin?”

  “Few weeks. Gregdons thought it would be a good idea to return the favor this morning.”

  “They started a fight?” I said.

  “More or less. As I take it, they took a few things from Rufus's belongings stored away in the tent. They ragged on him something fierce until he struck out at Billy Gregdon and bloodied his nose up. I can't have that kind of fighting in my camp, so I split them all up and told them to skedaddle. Work is work. If none of them want to take part, then they can go where they please.”

  “Any idea where the Gregdons are right now?”

  “Probably down at the old abandoned Simpkin farm gettin' drunk or worse. Least, that's where I saw them head off to.”

  “Then that's where Rufus and I will be going,” I said to the foreman, “as long as I have your permission to do so.”

  “Why the hell you need that?”

  “Courtesy,” I said. “Let you know that if anybody does anything stupid, you might need to get yourself a few new workers."

  Rufus pulled on the reins of his horse with impatience. “Faust and me are gonna kill those thievin' bastards.”

  “Rufus?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut your goddamned mouth.”

  He kept his lips clamped and veered his steed around me, back down the hill we had come up. The heat and the leather jacket were bad enough to deal with without his constant badgering. When he was far enough away, I sighed and took my hat off, letting the hot breeze rush across the moisture in my sweaty hair. It felt damned good.

  Bisbin watched Rufus the whole time he descended. "All three of them, a pain in my ass."

  “Shame. You treat these boys good, Bisbin.”

  “Sure, until they start ripping each other off.”

  "Restless energy," I said, like I knew a thing or two.

  “I guess that's how it works.” Bisbin paused and then squinted through the sunlight, his bushy eyebrows flattening on his forehead. "You aren't a saint, Faust. You're a man. You should let these dirtbags thin each other out now and then."

  “I’d get the chance to eat a lot more lunches if I did.”

  “Good lunches,” said Bisbin.

  “Good lunches don’t make me money.”

  “Does marshaling?”

  “Just enough.”

  “More towns would be lucky to have somebody like you,” said Bisbin. “I appreciate you coming to me about this. Just…” he added, sucking in a breath that filled him up like a swollen gizzard. “Just don’t muck the stalls of this whole situation too clean, Elias. You’ll end up with shit on your boots.”

  I nodded my head and then gathered up the reins on my horse, bringing her to bear with a tug at her bit.

  “Them Gregdon boys,” Bisbin said. “They won't like talking.”

  “I get that feeling."

  "Yep,” he said. “I could tell.”

  “How?”

  “Shotgun,” he said.

  3

  Rufus and I lingered at the top of the hill over the valley where the abandoned Simpkin farm stood. By what means the home stood was beyond my infantile architectural know-how. The paint had been chewed away by the elements over the past few years, leaving gray wood to bleach under a Texas sun.

  Gregdon Twins being the troublemakers I knew them to be – fight-starters, quick on the trigger, and dumb as bricks – it wasn’t a smart idea to go riding down toward the old farm. Not anticipating a fight doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared. I wanted to size them up first, get an idea as to what Rufus and I were working with.

  We sat on our horses in plain sight. Rufus got impatient real quick, got down off his, drank a few slugs from his flask, stretched his legs. I took out a cigarette, struck a match on my boot, and smoked contentedly.

  “Mostly just whores smoke cigarettes,” Oarsdale told me. “You should get a pipe.”

  “You gonna buy me one for Christmas, Rufus?”

  “Shit,” he said. “We gonna go down and get my stuff back?”

  “Soon.”

  “We’re just sitting here with our thumbs up our asses.”

  “That don't keep you busy enough?”

  “Like hell,” he said.

  Meanwhile, I checked my revolvers. Smart gunmen who know their way around a piece like a Colt, they'll tell you not to go around with all six rounds in it. Something stupid happens and you end up dropping the thing, that hammer's liable to strike the primer on the cartridge and fire off into something that doesn't deserve it. Like someone else. Like you. You only put that sixth one in if you know you're about to go wading into some kind of mess that might require it. The Gregdon Twins were enough of one, I guessed. “I don’t want to go right down and talk to them. I want to
give them time to come to us.”

  “What’ll that do?”

  “Let them feel in control.”

  “And that’s good,” Rufus mused.

  “That’s good. They don’t feel so quick to defend their territory.”

  “So if they don’t come up…”

  I nodded my head down at the old farmhouse. “Then we go down there with the sun at our backs. Gives us an advantage if they want to try something drastic. They’ll have a hard time keeping a bead on us with the light in their eyes.” When my smoke was done, I ground it out and put the remnants in my pocket.

  The sun began to fall into the horizon behind us. The Gregdon boys noticed us not long after we arrived. They came out of the derelict farmhouse and made a point to stay within sight, likely doing much the same as I was. I saw one of them take out his sixgun and play with it, check it, sight it in at an old rock as if he were making sure it would shoot straight. They were flexing their muscles. At that distance they were just blurry silhouettes clicking their heels as they paced along the porch.

  When Rufus saw the Gregdon pull out the gun, he stiffened in the saddle and wiped his wrist across his forehead. “Relax,” I said. “He ain’t gonna do anything.”

  “How you know?”

  “Range,” I said. “Too far for him to hope to hit us. ‘Course, the bullet could travel that far—“ I reasoned, and Rufus grunted, “—but he’d have to be a crack shot to hit one of us. Had he a rifle, I’d probably pull back, but I don’t see one.”

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  “If they had one, we’d have seen it by now.”

  We waited until our shadows stretched like long, black fingers down the side of the hill. We watched them like we were hawks – well, a hawk and one half-blind messenger pigeon – and even if they were watching back, being observed makes men nervous.

  When it came time, I slipped down off of my horse, hung my jacket on the horn of the saddle, and drew the double-barreled out of its holster. I nodded to Rufus, who slithered down off his horse. “Time to go,” I told him. “Just gonna go down and talk to these boys real nice. No cussing, no instigating, just talking. Shut your mouth unless you’re spoken to, and when you do open it, you do so easy-like. Last thing I need is to get smoked because you don’t know how to harness your tongue.”