Calloway's Crossing

by I. J. Parnham

  Trip sighed. “I guess I can see that.”

  Frank softened his expression and pointed eastward. “In a month, the bridge will be built, the railroad will have moved on and me, Ryan and the rest will have moved on with it. If you have a problem with him, just prevail awhile.”

  Trip thanked him for the advice and left, but, when he rode out of the gulch, he swung away from the river to head to Wagon Creek. Frank’s advice was guarded but sound, and it had also confirmed his worst fears.

  Ryan dealt in violence and the railroad needed people like him to run their operation smoothly. Even when Ryan extorted money from the people along the railroad’s route, Frank wouldn’t intervene, so he had to involve the law.

  Early in the afternoon, he rode into Wagon Creek and headed to the town marshal’s office. Marshal Kaplan was in and enjoying a siesta. His bulging paunch, sparse gray hair and food-splattered clothing didn’t fill Trip with optimism.

  When his knocking on the desk finally roused the marshal and he raised his hat, his sagging jowls and bored acknowledgment of his presence dampened his spirits even more.

  “I reckon I’ve got me a problem,” Trip said.

  “You only reckon, eh?” Kaplan drawled, and then delivered a long yawn with his arms thrown wide apart. He rocked his feet down to the floor and shuffled his chair closer to the desk until his substantial belly pressed against it. “Tell me all about it if you must.”

  Trip ignored Kaplan’s less than enthusiastic tone and leaned his hands down on his desk to share his eye-line.

  “Ryan Trimble keeps the bridge workers at Calloway’s Gulch in line with intimidation,” he said, settling for plain speaking to a man who ought to be more inclined to resolve his problem than Frank had been. “I reckon he’s not averse to meting out punishment to anyone along the railroad’s path.”

  Kaplan nodded, his jowls shaking. “And?”

  “And I thought you’d like to do something about it.”

  Kaplan’s small eyes flared. “Now why would I want to do that?” Kaplan signified that Trip should stand back and folded his flabby arms on his desk. “I’ll tell you how it works. The railroad is a-coming and that’s good for Wagon Creek. We’re booming and there’s talk of electing a mayor and a sheriff and of expanding to satisfy all the new people who’ll flock here.”

  “That’s for the future. What about the people who are suffering from the railroad now?”

  “That’s the price of progress.” Kaplan flashed a smile. “Understand?”

  Trip sighed, accepting that anything he said would just waste his breath. Marshal Kaplan was old and was used to keeping the peace in a town that never saw trouble. He wasn’t equipped for dealing with the likes of Ryan and, as he was serving out his time until the appointment of a sheriff, he saw no reason to trouble himself. So he’d sit in his office, collect his stipend and dream away his time until he could retire.

  “Yeah, I understand you.”

  Trip tipped his hat, turned his back on the yawning marshal and headed to the door. With nobody else to turn to, Trip returned to Calloway’s Crossing. On the way, he tried to console himself with the thought that maybe he’d overstated the problem with Ryan.

  When he arrived back at the saloon, those hopes died. A line of horses was outside the saloon, and they included Ryan’s bay.

  Chapter Six

  WHEN TRIP HEADED INTO the saloon, Ryan and his men were sitting around the only whole table that the mayhem of the previous night hadn’t destroyed. They were passing a jug of beer around and, in their haste to drink, spilling most of it on the floor.

  The only other customer was the man who’d headed into the saloon before he’d left and who was sleeping on the floor with a blanket drawn up to his chin. With a wry smile, Trip noted that even Ryan’s ribald shouting wasn’t rousing this man from his slumbers, and then kept the smile on his face and the faint inkling of good humor on his mind as he walked inside.

  “Is everything fine?” he asked Grace at the bar.

  Grace pointed to the sleeping man. “He’s been no trouble. I can’t say the same about the others.”

  “What about. . . ?” Trip trailed off as Grace was nodding, signifying that Ryan had left the table and was approaching. Trip maintained his smile as he turned to him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “I sure am,” Ryan said, the half-empty jug of beer dangling from his hand. “You came to the bridge, asking about me. So I came here, asking about you. Perhaps now we can talk to each other.”

  “Perhaps we can. I like plain speaking.”

  “Then I’ll give you some. I protect the railroad.” Ryan jabbed a finger against Trip’s chest. “And now I protect you.”

  Trip nodded. “How much will this protection cost me?”

  Ryan rubbed his chin as if he was pondering, although the gleam in his eye suggested he’d already decided.

  “Fifty dollars a day, and I’ll keep trouble away from you and nobody will threaten your business.”

  Trip firmed his jaw as he faced up to Ryan, but Grace darted forward to stand between them.

  “We’re obliged,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” Ryan said. “Because I don’t reckon Trip likes my offer.”

  “He likes your offer.” She turned and raised her eyebrows, imploring him to avoid trouble. “Don’t you, Trip?”

  “I do not want protection,” Trip said, “but I do want to tend my bar and serve my customers, and right now they include you. So do you and your men have everything they want?”

  Ryan turned to his men and mouthed something that dragged a laugh out of them. Pike peeled away from the table and headed outside. The rest faced him with eager grins plastered over their swarthy faces.

  “We have, but you still haven’t agreed to my terms,” Ryan said, licking his lips.

  “I never will.”

  Ryan flared his eyes, and Trip bunched his fists ready for the fight that had to be close, but instead, Ryan hurled the jug over his shoulder. It crashed to the floor, splashing a fountain of beer in all directions.

  “If that’s the way you want to deal with me, I’m your customer and I need more beer.”

  Grace caught Trip’s eye and gave a slow shake of the head, so he gritted his teeth and placed another jug on the bar.

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  Ryan roared with anger and swung both arms to the side. He swept the jug to the floor, dragging several other glasses with it, and then batted his hands together and turned back to Trip.

  “I said – get me more beer.”

  Trip rolled his shoulders, ready to start a fight he probably couldn’t win, but Grace faced up to Ryan while holding an arm back, ensuring Trip kept his distance.

  “Now, now,” she simpered, providing her most disarming smile. “Do you really want to waste all our beer? Wouldn’t you prefer to enjoy yourself?”

  “I am enjoying myself. In fact I want all your customers to enjoy themselves.” Ryan pointed at Trip’s only other customer, the sleeping man. “Hey, you, are you enjoying yourself in Kincaid’s Saloon?”

  As Ryan’s men sniggered, Trip took a pace backward and firmed his jaw, accepting that Grace was right and that he didn’t want to provoke a confrontation now when he was so outnumbered. With a sly grin emerging, Ryan headed across the saloon to stand over the sleeping man. He tapped a foot on the floor, but the man returned a snore from beneath his hat.

  “I said: are you enjoying yourself?” Ryan said.

  A low, rumbling snore escaped the man’s lips.

  “Who are you to sleep when I’m asking you a question?” Ryan snapped, toeing the man’s ribs.

  The man lay back, his hat over his eyes and deep snores rasping from his throat. Ryan snorted his breath, receiving another prolonged snore, and then turned to his men with his face reddening.

  The men urged him to kick the sleeping man awake, so he swirled around and kicked the man’s blanket away. Under the blanket, the man had crossed his arms ov
er his chest, but in his right hand he held a cocked gun.

  With a snap of the wrist, the man aimed it at Ryan. Then he raised his left hand, extended a finger and pushed up his hat to reveal eyes that were open and which fixed Ryan with a cold gaze that said he wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep if he were to pull the trigger and blast him away.

  “Who wants to know?” he drawled.

  “The name’s Ryan Trimble.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  The man drew his hat back over his face, reached down for his blanket and laid it over his chest. Presently, a huge snore ripped out. Ryan stood back and laughed. He swaggered back to the bar, repeatedly chuckling.

  Trip braced himself, expecting that to save face Ryan would be even more determined to provoke a fight with him, but when he returned, he calmly picked up the remaining jug from behind the bar and returned to his men. He placed it on the table.

  Heath lunged for the jug and started to drink, but Ryan yanked it from his hand while he was pouring the beer down his gullet. As the beer sprayed everywhere, Heath grunted with annoyance and lunged for the jug.

  Then the two men jostled each other, and the others taunted them as the group returned to providing their own boisterous entertainment, the confrontation with Trip forgotten for now. Trip joined Grace in leaning back against the wall behind the bar.

  As the unruly men cajoled each other, they waited to find out what form the next confrontation would take. The latest jug of beer was still being fought over when, through the window, Isaac Wheeler came into sight.

  He was hurrying toward the saloon, while his father scurried around in front of the barn and hurled his hands high in exasperation or perhaps shock. Trip headed to the door to investigate and when he threw open the door, Isaac pointed behind him.

  “Fire!” he shouted.

  The tang of burning accompanied his cry and tendrils of smoke were rising from the barn. Trip turned to request Grace’s help, but she was already running past him. Loitering by the barn was the sniggering Pike, but Trip ignored him and hurried after Grace.

  If the creek had still followed its original route, they could have ferried water easily, but instead they needed to go to the river and back. Chester and Grace gathered up buckets and ran off on the journey while Trip and Isaac headed into the barn.

  Luckily, the fire was only consuming a pile of hay by the wall. Despite the lack of water, they were able to use pitchforks to drag the burning pile into the center of the barn where it could burn itself out.

  They used brooms to beat out the stray flaming stalks and although the fire was consuming the lowest planks in the wall, Chester and Grace returned with water. Several well-directed buckets extinguished the flames, leaving the only losses, aside from their frazzled nerves, being the hay and a wide scorch mark on the barn wall.

  When they were satisfied they’d averted a potential disaster, they left the barn, breathing heavily, to find Pike was still outside, appraising their endeavors. Chester sneered at him and then with his son headed to the post, leaving Trip and Grace to return to the saloon.

  “You dealt with that trouble real well,” Pike said, grinning.

  “Yeah, no thanks to you,” Trip said, stopping ten yards from the saloon to face him.

  Pike shrugged. “I would have helped, but as I haven’t been paid, I didn’t.”

  “I only hire the best, not two-bit varmints like you.”

  “You’d better hire me. Because the next time Ryan gives the word, if I haven’t been paid, I might burn the whole barn down. If you’re really unlucky, someone might even get trapped inside.”

  “If you’re really unlucky, that person could be you.”

  Pike set his hands on his hips. “I can’t wait for Ryan to give that word because I’ll enjoy doing to you what I did to Lee last night, except I’m not ever going to stop.”

  Pike spat on the ground and headed to the saloon. Trip was about to follow him when Grace leaned toward him.

  “Laugh,” she whispered and moved back.

  Trip furrowed his brow, but then laughed, and Pike swirled around as Grace jerked away from Trip and grinned.

  “What did she say to you?” he said.

  Trip had no choice but to shrug, but Grace took a pace forward.

  “It’s just something one of the girls said about you last night.” She chuckled. “Having seen you again, I reckon it has to be true.”

  Pike’s face reddened, his fists opening and closing, and when Trip laughed again, he roared with anger and charged at him with his head down, aiming to bundle him to the ground. Trip stood his ground and then, at the last moment, jumped aside, but Pike lurched out an arm and grasped a loose grip of Trip’s waist that pulled him around and his momentum dragged them both to their knees.

  They swung around to face each other. Pike threw the first punch, landing a blow on Trip’s cheek and Trip returned a straight-armed jab to Pike’s chin. On their knees, neither blow landed with much force, so Trip rolled back on his haunches and stood up.

  Pike followed him and jumped to his feet, but walked into swinging uppercut to the chin that cracked his head back. Trip didn’t let him fall. He grasped his shoulders, stood him straight and slammed a scything blow to his cheek that wheeled him to the ground.

  “That was for Lee,” Trip said as Pike lay on his back, shaking his head and fingering his jaw.

  His taunt made Pike’s eyes blaze with anger and he rolled to his feet, but this time slower than before. He stormed in, flailing his fists and hoping to subdue Trip with his berserk action.

  Moving lightly on his feet, Trip ducked below long hay-making punches and swayed back from the jabs. Each missed blow only made Pike’s anger grow, but his strength weakened. So when Trip had jerked away from yet another punch, this one making Pike stagger around until his back was to him, Trip moved in with both hands clutched together and hammered his fists into the back of Pike’s neck.

  The blow knocked Pike to the ground, burrowing his face into the dirt. Pike lay for a moment, snorting his breath, and then staggered to his feet bent double. Trip was waiting for him and he crunched a low blow into his guts that had him spluttering and stomping around on the spot.

  “That was for the fire,” Trip said.

  Trip waited with his fists raised for Pike to face him again, but Grace hurried in and with a speed and a deadly accuracy that surprised Trip, she kicked out. Her boot landed a blow between Pike’s legs that turned his legs to jelly and had him dropping to the ground to grind his forehead into the dirt and bleat out his pain.

  “That was for not letting me deal with Lee my way,” she said. She turned to Trip and put on a sweet smile that was in direct contravention to the devastating blow she’d just struck.

  “So am I right in thinking that this is the right time to start that fight with Ryan, then?” Trip said.

  She nodded. “One down, four to go.”

  Trip returned her nod and turned to the saloon, but it was to face Ryan and a drawn gun.

  “It seems you know how to use your fists,” he said, from the saloon doorway. “Have you got the same skill with a gun?”

  Trip set his feet wide apart. “My gun’s behind the bar. I’ll fetch it if you want.”

  Ryan beckoned for Heath and another man to drag Pike back into the saloon and then pointed at Trip.

  “All I want is fifty dollars a day and you’ll get no trouble. So either come in and avoid that trouble by paying me, or come in and collect your gun and get more trouble than you can deal with.”

  Ryan backed away into the saloon, leaving Trip and Grace alone. Trip faced the saloon door, pondering various courses of action, and then pointed out of town.

  “Grace, this is where you head back to Wagon Creek,” he said.

  She snorted. “I’m going in there with you.”

  He shook his head and moved to walk past her, but she grasped his arm and clung on. Trip slowly turned to her.

  “I’ve seen that you can take
care of yourself, but I have some serious business to deal with in there and this could get—”

  “Don’t give me any of that tough talking nonsense, Trip Kincaid,” she said, her voice low and imploring, her eyes watering. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know the kind of man you are, and Ryan’s more trouble than you can handle alone. Accept you need my help, and perhaps even Chester and Isaac’s help.”

  “I do need help running the saloon, but you need to accept one thing.” He laid his hand on hers, squeezed it and then lifted it from him and walked away. “On this, I won’t accept it from you.”

  “Trip Kincaid, wait!”

  He stopped. “Why?”

  “Because . . . because I don’t want you to get killed.”

  Trip turned around and held his hands wide apart. “What do you suggest I do?”

  Grace closed her eyes as, from the saloon, raised voices and the crash of a smashed jug sounded, the commotion only helping to convince Trip he had to deal with Ryan now, but the noise heralded the arrival of the man who had been sleeping. This man wandered out of the saloon and slouched toward his horse, still yawning repeatedly.

  “We need a proper plan,” she said, and pointed at the man. “I reckon we start by getting the right sort of help.”

  “You can’t mean him, can you?” Trip said, as the man walked his horse away from the saloon with his head down.

  “Yeah. You saw the way he drew his gun and faced down Ryan.”

  “I saw the way he’d already drawn his gun and then went to sleep.”

  “Trip Kincaid, just leave the thinking to me,” she said and then hurried over to stand in front of the man. “Did you enjoy your stay, Mr. . . . ?”

  The man stopped and gave a slow nod. “I’m Baxter Riley, and it’s a fine place. Let’s hope Ryan doesn’t shoot you up. I can’t do no sleeping with all that shooting going on.”

  “You can’t.” Grace laughed, the sound light and unconcerned. “I reckon you could sleep through anything.”

  “Yup.”

  Baxter gave a last enormous yawn and turned to mount his horse, but Grace edged to the side to stand before him.