On Dead Man's Range

by Lou Cameron

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the dinky saloon after squinting at the glaring sunlight outside, Stringer saw there were a couple of other customers, seated at a corner table. They were both making every effort to avoid looking his way. So Stringer didn’t look at them again as he told the barkeep, “I’ve come all this way from the coast to have a few words with your Sheriff Owens. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him, would you?”

  The barkeep proceeded to polish the already polished and otherwise vacant bar as he murmured, “Not hardly. He ain’t anyone’s sheriff no more, not since the last election. We do have a sheriff, though, and a town marshal as well. It’s no business of mine, but I can’t say either would be too pleased with that .45 you’ve got hanging on your hip, son.”

  Stringer smiled and said, “It’s not a .45. It’s a .38 service revolver I brought back from the war with Spain. I wear it openly because some lawmen find it even more unsettling to notice a gun-sized bulge under a stranger’s duds. I don’t know why a less open and aboveboard cuss might want to look your old sheriff up with evil intents, but since I can see you may have read me wrong, I’d best advise you I’m a harmless newspaper man. They call me Stringer MacKail. I ride for the San Francisco Sun. They sent me here to talk with old Commodore Perry Owens about that election he just managed to lose after seventeen years of service with so few complaints.”

  The barkeep shrugged and said, “I didn’t vote for neither side. I’m a Socialist, and only the Democrats and Republicans ran anyone for County Sheriff. I ain’t seen old Owens since he lost the election. I think they said he lived on a cow spread just outside of town with his family. I can’t say just where it might be, though.”

  Stringer sensed the older man was more uneasy than ignorant. As he sipped some more beer he felt a slight draft on his cheek. He glanced at the entrance to see the bat-wings were still in swing on their hinges. He glanced at the mirror behind the barkeep and saw the two men seated in the corner had been the ones who’d just left. He didn’t think anything of it until the anxious looking barkeep moved closer, leaned across the bar, and said, “That beer is on the house, son. Now do me a favor and take the bottle with you as you leave!”

  Stringer raised a thoughtful eyebrow as he asked, “Are you trying to throw me out for some reason, friend?”

  The older man shook his head and said, “I ain’t about to try no such thing. I am a man of peace and social justice. It’s been a spell since this saloon got named so deservingly, and I just want to keep it that way.”

  Stringer nodded and said, “I noticed those gents listening in seemed sort of moody. Am I just supposed to guess what I might have said to offend them, or would you like to give me a hint?”

  The now ashen-faced barkeep shook his head and said, “I serve drinks, pretzels, and cold cuts across this bar. Nothing else. I run a saloon here, not an information service, savvy?”

  Stringer said, “I’m starting to. Let’s make a deal. You tell me where I can find Sheriff Owens, and I’ll be on my way before those gents get back with whoever they went to get.”

  The old man might have told him, in time, had there been more time. But then the bat-wings swung again and a tall galoot wearing a cordovan charro outfit and a brace of Colt Lightings in a silver-mounted buscadero rig was standing there, scowling like he thought he was posing for the cover of a pulp magazine as he demanded, low and growly, to know who was so interested in the late Sheriff Commodore Perry Owens.

  Stringer smiled pleasantly and said, “I hadn’t heard he was late. I only heard he’d lost that last election. I take it he no longer resides in this fair city?”

  The scowling gun slick said, “You take it right. I run him out of town myself.”

  Stringer’s expression didn’t change as he observed softly, “You must be good at running gents out of town, then.”

  The other man nodded grimly and said, “I am. I am known as Blue Streak Bendix. I can see you never heard of me before. You’re still standing there. I am a man of infinite mercy, and I’ll just let you go on grinning, stupid as it looks, until the westbound Santa Fe pulls in, about ten minutes from now.”

  Stringer nodded and said, “That’s mighty generous of you, Blue Streak. But I just got here, no offense, and I just don’t feel like another train ride so soon.”

  Behind him the barkeep moaned, “Jesus H. Christ, son. You’ve just been informed you are discussing travel plans with the one and original Blue Streak Bendix!”

  Stringer ignored him as he asked the more frightful apparition whether it was speaking for the town, the county, or in view of its sweaty outfit, Los Estados Unido de Mejico. When Bendix spat and said he was just running a nosy stranger out of town on his own, from a sense of civic duty, Stringer laughed and said, “Hell, I thought I might be in trouble.”

  Behind him the only other man in the place muttered, “Oh, shit!” and began to take down the mirror as he added, “Let me get out of here first, boys. This ain’t my fight and I don’t want to watch.”

  Neither Stringer nor the man out to rawhide him replied as their only possible witness crawfished out of sight. Stringer waited until he was sure they had the place to themselves alone before he said, still pleasantly, “If we put our heads together, now that nobody’s taking notes, we can still make it look like peace with honor. In a world of mostly sheep, nobody really expects the wolves to more than growl at one another, and that poor old barkeep we scared so bad is sure to report we both growled good. I don’t think anyone’s likely to call us sissies if we call this dumb situation a standoff based on mutual respect. So why don’t we do that, pard?”

  Blue Streak growled, “I didn’t come here to be your pard. I was told to run you out of town, or failing that, to blow your nosy face off. So which way do you want to leave town, aboard that old train or in a new pine box?”

  Stringer didn’t answer as they locked eyes. Neither liked what he was staring into. Blue Streak’s slitted eyes were an uncertain shade of blue or gray. Stringer’s were more clinical than threatening, and were most often described as amber or old gold, in keeping with the overall bronze shade of his features and close-cut hair. At the moment they were cooling from a friendly gold to a pair of cold brass cannon muzzles trained on a pirate ship.

  Blue Streak Bendix shifted his weight, either nervously or with deadly intent, and then Stringer simply drew and fired in one motion, knowing exactly what he was doing.

  The bully he’d caught flatfooted staggered backward, crashed into a table, and did a back flip over it to wind up supine in a far corner, wheezing and bitching, as Stringer’s smoking six-gun remained trained at its latest victim.

  Stringer kicked the table between them out of the way. The man he’d put in the corner stared up owl-eyed and gasped, “I give! I give! You didn’t have to act so mean, for God’s sake!”

  Stringer hunkered down to disarm the wounded gun slick, sliding both .45’s aside across the sawdust before he proceeded to reload his double-action .38, muttering, “Never tell a grown man or even a tough-looking woman, in advance, that you are even considering gun play. I just showed you why. So let’s discuss where you’re hit, and how bad.”

  Blue Streak didn’t answer. Stringer felt the side of his throat, tore open the black shirt under the dark leather bolero, and was rising to his feet when the old barkeep came back via the front entrance with a younger gent wearing a brass star and a dozen or so townies wearing the detached expressions common sense called for at times like these.

  Stringer told the town law, “He’s still alive. The bullet I put in his chest just now must have missed his heart and spine. We’d both be much obliged if any number of you gents went for the doctor about now.”

  One of the townies nodded and lit out, with a couple of others tagging after for whatever reason. The town law said, “I’d be much obliged if you’d hand that .38 to me, grips first, stranger.”

  Stringer shook his head and reholstered his sidearm instead as he
said, “I’m not a stranger. My handle is Stuart MacKail and I’m a field stringer for the San Francisco Sun. You doubtless know who the gent in yon corner is.” He nodded at the old barkeep and added, “This friendlier gent must have told you when he got to you that Old Blue Streak was trying to pick a fight with me.”

  The barkeep said, “That’s true, Nate. I must say I would have put my money on the loser, never having seen this young rascal in action. But Blue Streak was the one who issued the invite. This newspaper man wasn’t acting like he was looking for trouble, save for having a sort of curious nature.”

  The town law stared soberly at Stringer and said, “Old Jimbo, here, tells us you was asking questions about that murderous old Commodore Perry Owens just before Blue Streak, yonder, clouded up to rain on you. I don’t suppose you’d like to explain?”

  Stringer asked, “Explain what, how such a slow-moving cuss got the name of Blue Streak, or why I’m looking for Sheriff Owens?”

  The brass badge growled, “Don’t sass me, son. You’re already in enough trouble if Bendix dies, and Owens ain’t no such thing as a sheriff no more. So what do you want with the mean old goat?”

  Stringer said, “I was sent to interview him. About the old west he knew, and mayhaps how come the new west has no use for his kind anymore.”

  The lawman they called Nate grimaced and said, “Anyone can tell you that. There was a time when Holbrook might have needed a born killer to calm things down. We got at least fifty total strangers buried unmarked in our potter’s field. This very saloon got named so quaint the night a Texican named Crawford got into an unfriendly card game with a bunch of Mexicans, resulting in more than one bucket full of blood spattered all the way from yon corner to the planks out front. Crawford was only one of such surly gents old Owens had to tame when town taming was the way us peace officers kept the peace. But Holbrook is more civilized these days, or was until a few minutes ago. So we don’t cotton to such wild ways no more, and I’m still waiting for you to hand me your gun.”

  Stringer shook his head and said, “Not hardly. If I’m under arrest, I’ll come with you to see the judge. But I have noticed in my travels that it’s a lot easier to whip up a lynch mob than it is to go up against even one man able to defend himself. So I reckon I’ll just stay able to defend myself until we see how many friends and admirers that rascal in yon corner may have in these parts.”

  A million tense years passed by before the brass badge proved himself wiser than the bully of the town by saying, “Well, seeing he ain’t really dead yet, I reckon we can leave you in your own custody if you’ll give us your word, as a man, you won’t leave town until this matter get’s cleared up tidy and lawsome.”

  Before Stringer could answer, the men who’d run for the doctor were back with the same. Stringer stepped out of the officious little gent’s way as he told the lawman, “You have my word. I wasn’t planning on leaving Holbrook soon, in any case. That was what the fuss was all about. I wouldn’t have had to shoot the silly bastard if he hadn’t been trying to run me out of town.”

  The brass badge seemed satisfied. So Stringer moved closer to the corner, where the sawbones was squatting beside Blue Streak Bendix, cussing a blue streak. When he ran out of dirty words the medical expert opined, “He’s lucky to be living in Arizona already. For that’s where they usually advise lung cases to move. His right lung’s collapsed, probably for keeps. But if infection don’t set in too bad, he’ll likely live. I’d sure like some help in getting him to the clinic, for he’s one big son of a bitch, and he won’t be up to walking for some time.”

  Stringer offered to help. But the lawman called Nate said, “I’d say you’ve done enough for him already today. If I was you, I’d be scouting up a lawyer about now. A good one.”

  Stringer nodded but said, “The doc says he’ll likely live.”

  Nate said, “You’d still best find a good lawyer. Doc could be wrong, and like I said, these parts is run more stuffy these days than it was when one man could gun another and just walk away.”

  The law offices of Stem & Addams were above a barber shop just down the street from the Bucket of Blood. When Stringer entered, he was mildly surprised to see that Stem, Addams, or whoever, looked more like a pretty ash blonde of say thirty than his picture of a small-town lawyer. She looked up at him from behind her desk, and he had to give her credit for a pretty good poker face as she sized up his faded denims and battered Stetson. Before she could throw him out, he produced his press pass and said, “I’m not here about water rights or a boundary dispute, ma’am. I just shot a man, and the San Francisco Sun is willing to pay legal expenses as long as I can convince them I’m innocent.”

  She said, “Lawyer Addams has left for the day and may not be back for some time. He’s out on the range, dealing with one of those water disputes you seem to find so silly. Nobody in this part of Arizona Territory takes water that lightly, Mr. MacKail. You might try Simon and Weddington, across from the courthouse.”

  Stringer shook his head and said, “I don’t think I want any members of the current courthouse gang, ma’am. I took the liberty of asking about this firm, too, before I came to you with my troubles. They told me Lawyer Addams was a member of the party committee who backed Commodore Perry Owens in the last election.”

  “We lost.” She sighed wearily.

  He said, “I know. That’s something else we have to talk about, after you get me off. If Lawyer Addams is gone for the day, how do I go about talking to his partner, Lawyer Stern?”

  She sighed again and said, “You can’t. I’m his widow, Patricia Stern. Everyone calls me Patty. I was left my husband’s interest in the firm. But I just work here. The Arizona Bar Association is a bit old-fashioned about she-male lawyers, as they refer to the poor inferior beings.”

  Stringer said, “I hired a she-male lawyer once. She got me off as good as anyone else could have.”

  The attractive young widow tried not to smile as she pointed at the bentwood chair near one corner of her desk and said, “You may as well let me take some notes. But you understand I don’t have any professional standing if they arrest you before the boss gets back, right?”

  He swung the chair in place and straddled it, facing her. She listened quietly as he brought her up to date on his misadventure in the Bucket of Blood. He expected her to write down the name of the man he’d had to gun. But she didn’t. She stared at him the way she might have stared at an unexpected notice from the tax collector as she marveled, “You got into a gun fight with Blue Streak Bendix, and won?”

  He shrugged modestly and said, “I know I’m not as famous in these parts. That may have given me the edge I needed. Old Blue Streak has likely grown so accustomed to crawfishing everyone he blusters to that he’s forgotten how to streak.”

  She said, “Well, you’ll surely be better known around here now. You say he picked on you for no reason at all, ah… Stuart?”

  He winced and said, “Call me Stringer, Patty. I don’t know why my folks named me after a string of losers, but they were Scotch and tended to excuse the royal clan for its self-destructive stubborn streak. I didn’t say Bendix started up with me for no reason at all. He made it plain he wanted me to leave Holbrook on the next train out. He also slipped up enough to mention some they who’d told him to run me or gun me. I’d like to talk to him about that some more, as soon as he’s up to receiving visitors. So what I need from you is a writ or whatever allowing me to sort of wander about unmolested until he dies or gets better.”

  She was working at her shorthand now as she told him, “The county coroner has no call to bother you as long as the man you shot is still alive. The town marshal could probably run you in for disturbing the peace. But since he hasn’t, he’s probably as interested as we are about the outcome of the poor brute’s chest wound. He himself has the right to prefer charges against you when he feels up to it.”

  Stringer asked, “Can’t I press charges against him, for starting the fight in
the first place?”

  She said, “That’s what I’m writing. It will look longer and a lot stuffier after I type it up in legal jargon. But in essence what we want to charge him with is attempted murder after you refused his unseemly advances, right?”

  Stringer frowned and said, “Hold on. I never said Blue Streak struck me as one of them swishy gents. That’s an awful thing to accuse another man of, and fair is fair. He didn’t act near that friendly in the Bucket of Blood, Patty.”

  She asked, “Who’s writing this complaint up, you or me? Every little bit helps, and who’s to say whether he dressed so fancy to impress boys or girls, if he dies?”

  Stringer shook his head and said, “I can see you’re out to get the jump on his lawyer by casting the first horse apple, Patty. But I won’t sign such a whopper about a fellow man. He wasn’t out to kiss me. He was out to kill me. Or he said he was. I had no intention of waiting for him to prove he meant it, which is why he shouldn’t have said it if he didn’t. I hardly ever gun a man who doesn’t have a gunning coming. So whether he lives or not, I stand ready to defend my action in court fair and square with the simple truth.”

  She shrugged and crossed a line out, saying, “It’s a good thing this is Arizona Territory instead of Holland. You must be awfully dangerous to let loose near windmills. But very well, the man does enjoy a certain rep as a bully, and it is unconstitutional to run innocent people out of town without a peace writ or even a badge. Where will you be staying while you’re here in Holbrook, ah… Stringer?”

  He shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I figured I needed a lawyer more than I needed a place to bunk. So I came here first. Do you know a good hotel in town?”

  She grimaced and said, “Good would hardly be the word for the Majestic. But they say none of the bugs are big as the rats, at least. It’s just across from the water tower near the tracks. Don’t say I sent you. The unspeakable woman who runs the place hates me too.”