Showdown at Dead End Canyon

by Robert Vaughan

  “I haven’t forgotten a thing,” Hawke said. “But I would enjoy another look.”

  They moved over to the iron-stead bed. The covers were already turned back, and the springs squealed in protest as Libby lay down.

  “As you can see, the bed squeaks,” Hawke said.

  “Good,” Libby said. She moved up and down, making the springs squeak more loudly. “You played the piano for me on the train. Now I’ll play a concert for you.”

  Chapter 13

  METZGER WAS BROKE, HAVING LOST ALL HIS money in the card game the other night. He told himself that if he could just raise a stake—not a large stake, just enough to get the bare necessities—he would go up to the Sweetwater Mountains and look for gold like everyone else was doing.

  But he couldn’t do that without a stake.

  He stole four dollars from the poor box at the church, figuring that since he was poor, it was rightly his anyway.

  Four dollars got him some bacon and beans, and a couple of drinks, but it wasn’t enough to outfit him for gold hunting.

  He was in the Royal Flush saloon having his supper when Luke Rawlings came in. Luke was wearing a new suit and hat, and everyone rushed over to talk to him about his gold find.

  “How much have you pulled out, Luke?” someone asked.

  “I don’t rightly know how much,” Luke said, hooking his thumbs under his armpits. “But as you can see, I’m all decked out in new duds. If I was you boys, I’d be up there lookin’ for gold right now.”

  “I’m goin’ up there first thing tomorrow,” one cowboy said.

  “What about your job out at Lazy Q?” someone asked the cowboy.

  “Ah, to hell with that job,” the cowboy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Most of the hands has done quit anyway.”

  “From what I hear, there ain’t a ranch anywhere in the valley but what half or more of the cowboys is quit,” another said.

  “Well hell, who wants to work for wages when you can go up to Sweetwater and just pick gold up, right off the ground?” Luke asked.

  “That settles it. I’m goin’ up first thing tomorrow,” another cowboy said.

  “Me too.”

  “You boys can all wait till tomorrow if you want to, but I’m goin’ up right now,” someone else said, and when he left the saloon, he was followed by at least half a dozen others. The rush left the saloon half empty.

  “I tell you what, Luke,” Jake said. “I wish to hell you had stayed up there.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Well look around the place. You sure ain’t doin’ much good for the saloon business.”

  Luke chuckled. “Well, what the hell do you care? It ain’t your saloon anyway.”

  “I know it ain’t. It belongs to Mr. Peabody, but I work for him, and my wages is based on the business we do.”

  Luke bought a beer, then turned around and leaned back against the bar, looking out over the rest of the saloon as he lifted his beer to his mouth. That was when he saw Metzger raking his biscuit through what was left of a plate of bacon and beans.

  “Metzger?” he called. “Leon Metzger?”

  Metzger looked up. At first he didn’t recognize Luke, because he had never seen him so finely dressed.

  “Luke?” he said in surprise when he figured out who it was.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Luke said. He held out his arms. “What do you think of the duds?”

  “You look like a whorehouse dandy,” Metzger said.

  Luke laughed. “Yeah, I do, don’t I? I seen me a whorehouse dandy oncet, and I said right then that if I ever got enough money, I was goin’ to buy me some duds just like the ones he was a’wearin’.” Luke turned back toward the bartender. “Draw me another beer for my friend, there.”

  Luke carried the beer over to the table, then put the mug in front of Metzger.

  “Here, have a beer on me. You look like you could use a drink,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, what I could use is some money.”

  “Want a job?” Luke asked.

  Metzger picked up the mug and took a long drink, then sat it back down. Beer foam hung in his moustache and beard, and he wiped it away before he answered.

  “Who would I be workin’ for? You?”

  “No, not me. You’d be workin’ for a woman that I know.”

  “Workin’ for a woman?” Metzger shook his head. “No, I’m not sure I could do that. Work for a woman, I mean.”

  “Why not? I work for her.”

  “You do? I thought you was rich because of findin’ gold.”

  “Yeah, well, things ain’t always what they look like,” Luke said. “Me ’n’ Percy both work for her.”

  “Percy Sheridan?”

  “Yep. And Poke and Gilley…they worked for her too.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “The kind where you make a lot of money without doin’ too much work.”

  “And you say you are workin’ for her?”

  “Yes. Been workin’ for her ’bout a month now, ever since I quit the Lazy Q.”

  “I don’t know. Don’t seem to me like no real man would want to work for a woman, no matter how much he’s gettin’ paid.”

  “You want to tell Ethan Dancer that? He’s working for her.”

  “Ethan Dancer? You mean the gunman, Ethan Dancer?”

  “Yeah, the gunman Ethan Dancer,” Luke said. “You want to tell him that no real man would work for a woman?”

  “No, I don’t reckon I’d care to do that.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Metzger stroked his beard for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “All right, I’ll work for this woman.”

  “You mean you’ll see if she’ll hire you,” Luke said.

  “Well, maybe if you’ll put in a good word for me,” Metzger suggested.

  Luke shook his head. “No, I ain’t goin’ to stick my neck out for you. If you don’t work out, and I’m the one recommended you, why, she’s likely to come down on me. And I got myself too good a thing goin’ here to take a chance on you gettin’ her pissed at me. So, if you want to work for her, you gotta do it yourself.”

  “All right,” Metzger said. “Where do I find her?”

  “More’n likely she’ll be in her office now.”

  “Where’s her office at?”

  “Can you read?”

  “Yeah, I can read.”

  “Well, her office is right next door. The sign out front says McPherson Enterprises. Her name is Bailey McPherson.”

  “Bailey? She’s a woman and her name is Bailey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does she look like?”

  Luke laughed. “You mean you’ve never even heard of her?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So, what does she look like?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  A little bell was attached to the front door of the office of McPherson Enterprises, and it rang when Metzger pushed it open. At first he didn’t see anyone, so he stood there for a moment, just inside the door.

  “You here to see Miss McPherson?”

  Metzger looked toward the sound of the voice and saw a man sitting in a chair. He hadn’t noticed him when he came in.

  The chair was tipped back against the wall, and the man was peeling an apple.

  “Uh, yes,” Metzger said. “Is she here?”

  The man looked up then, and Metzger saw his face, which had been somewhat shielded by his wide-brimmed hat.

  The face was badly scarred; one eye and his mouth were disfigured. Metzger knew immediately that this was Ethan Dancer. He had never seen the gunfighter before, but had heard him described.

  “She’ll be right out,” Dancer said, returning to the task of peeling the apple.

  “Yes, can I help you?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Metzger looked toward the sound of the vo
ice, but saw nothing but the counter that separated the front of the building from the rear.

  “Hello?” he called tentatively.

  “May I help you?” Bailey asked again, coming around the corner of the counter so she could be seen. Metzger stared at her in complete shock. She wasn’t even tall enough to come up to the top of the counter. He had never seen an adult this small, male or female.

  “Uh, yes,” Metzger said, finding his voice. “A pard of mine, Luke Rawlings, said you might be lookin’ to hirin’ me,” he said.

  “Oh?” the woman replied, arching her eyebrow. “And why would I be looking to hiring you?”

  “Well, uh…” Metzger cleared his throat. “I don’t mean just me, I mean, not like it sounded. What I meant was, he said that maybe you was interested in doin’ some hirin’. And if that’s so, why, I reckon I’d like to work for you.”

  “You would like to work for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bailey said.

  “What?” Metzger asked.

  “When you speak to me, you will say ma’am,” Bailey said pointedly.

  Metzger cleared his throat again. He could crush this little woman with one hand, yet here she was, telling him that he had to hem and haw in front of her, and say yes ma’am to her.

  He glanced over at Dancer. Dancer had quit peeling his apple and was now looking at him.

  Well, how hard would it be to say ma’am? Metzger wondered. On the one hand, he did not need to make Dancer mad, while on the other hand, he did need the job.

  “Yes ma’am, I meant to say yes ma’am,” he said. “I just forgot.”

  “Don’t forget again.”

  “No ma’am, I won’t forget again. Uh, so, would you be interested in hirin’ me?”

  “I might be,” Bailey replied. “What can you do?”

  “What kind of work you got in mind?”

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked, what can you do?”

  “Uh, look here, Luke told me that you once hired another couple of my pards, Poke Wheeler and Gilley Morris, to do some work for you. Do them two names come to mind?”

  “Yes, I recognize the names.”

  “The kind of things you hired them to do for you? That’s more like the kind of things I can do too. Me ’n’ Poke ’n’ Gilley used to run together.”

  “I hope you are more efficient than they were,” Bailey said. “They were unable to do the simplest job, and they got themselves killed while doing it.”

  “Kilt?” Metzger replied in surprise. “Wait a minute. Are you tellin’ me that Poke and Gilley is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Metzger shook his head. “I’ll be damn. I don’t know. Luke didn’t tell me that. How did they get theirselves kilt?”

  “By being totally incompetent.”

  “In comp what?”

  “It means they had shit for brains,” Bailey said caustically. “I hope you don’t suffer from the same malady.”

  “I used to run with ’em, but I’m better’n they was.”

  “All right, you’re hired,” Bailey said. “You’ll be working for Mr. Dancer.”

  Again Metzger glanced toward Dancer. All during the conversation, except when Dancer had paused to stare at him, he had continued peeling the apple. Now, a long unbroken peel hung from the apple to the floor, and again Dancer looked up at him.

  “I’m goin’ to be workin’ with Dancer?” Metzger asked.

  “Yes,” Bailey said. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No,” Metzger replied, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I mean, no ma’am, I ain’t got no problem with that.”

  “All right, you’re hired.”

  “You got a horse?” Dancer asked. “Yeah, I got a horse.” “Be ready in half an hour. We got a long ride ahead of us.” “All right,” Metzger said. “I’ll be ready.”

  Chapter 14

  IT TOOK TWO DAYS OF RIDING FOR METZGER AND Dancer to reach the Hilliard ranch. Dancer wasn’t much of a talker, so after a few frustrated attempts to get a conversation started, Metzger gave up.

  They had made a cold camp the night before, eating jerky and drinking water. Once, when Metzger suggested that they ought to build a fire and brew some coffee, Dancer glared at him, but said nothing in reply. They spread out their bedrolls just after sunset, and within minutes Dancer was asleep. Metzger did not sleep soundly.

  In most of Metzger’s relationships he had been the dominant person, the one who, because of strength and size, intimidated the others. In fact, he was bigger and stronger than Dancer, and in any kind of street brawl could easily have beat him. But Metzger knew that any confrontation with the gunman would be permanent, so he held his belligerence in check. It wasn’t something he would admit to anyone, but the truth was, Dancer scared him.

  During the late war, Roy Hilliard had been a prisoner of war in the Confederate prisoner of war camp at Andersonville, Georgia. He spent eighteen months in that hellhole, emerging from the ordeal at just a little over one hundred pounds. When he went back home to Pennsylvania, he found his old job gone and no prospects for anything new. So he and his wife Cindy left home and went west.

  It was a gamble, and some of his family tried to talk him out of it. But, luckily, the gamble had paid off, and now Hilliard was the proud owner of a small but thriving ranch. Last year he had not only managed to support his family, but actually turned a profit, and now he was thinking about taking on a few hands to help him run the place.

  Yesterday had been his son’s eighth birthday, and he and Mary had a little party for him. He was looking forward to the day Roy Jr. would be old enough to become a full partner in the operation of the ranch.

  Hilliard pumped water into the basin, worked up lather from a bar of lye soap, then washed his hands and face. The cold well water was bracing, and he reached for a towel and began drying off, thinking about the pork chops Cindy had cooked for their supper. He had worked hard today, and the enticing aroma was already causing his stomach to growl.

  Sometimes when he got hungry he would recall those days in the Andersonville prison, when starvation was a way of life, and the leading cause of death. He had been one of the lucky few who survived the ordeal. And he considered himself even luckier to have found a woman like Mary.

  Hilliard had the towel over his face when he sensed a presence nearby. Dropping the towel, he was surprised to see two mounted men looking down at him. Where had they come from? He had neither seen nor heard them approach.

  One of the men was big and unkempt, with a bushy red beard. The other man had a large, puffy, purple scar.

  “Where the hell did you men come from?” he asked. They made him uneasy, and though just the appearance of the man with the scar was enough to unnerve anyone, it wasn’t what he looked like that bothered Hilliard. There was something about him and the other man appearing as suddenly as they had that left him with a troublesome and unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Are you Roy Hilliard?” the man with the scar asked.

  “Yeah, I’m Roy Hilliard.” He twisted the towel in his hand, wishing it were shotgun. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hilliard, you’ve got twenty-four hours to get off this property.”

  “What?” Hilliard gasped. “Now just why in the hell would I do that?”

  “Your ranch has been confiscated by the United States government.”

  “What are you talking about? I have clear title to this land. I don’t owe one cent.”

  “Show him the paper, Metzger,” the man with the scar said.

  The big, bushy-bearded man dismounted and took a paper over to show to Hilliard.

  “Can you read?” the man with the scar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then read that.”

  Hilliard took the document and began to read, growing angrier as he did.

  United States Government

  Department of the Interior

  Federal Or
der to all concerned:

  To wit:

  In a vote of Congress, the Railroad Land Grant Act was passed 1862. Under this act, land will be given to qualified companies for the purposes of building a new railroad. The Sweetwater Railroad Company, having met that requirement, is therefore granted all land encompassed within the longitudinal boundaries 32 degrees 30 minutes east to 32 degrees 40 minutes west, and latitudinal boundaries 41 degrees 40 minutes south to 42 degrees 20 minutes north. Privately owned land currently situated within the aforementioned boundaries are hereby seized, set aside, and declared to be the property of the United States Government under the code of eminent domain.

  All who reside within said boundaries are instructed, directed, and ordered to quit their habitation and vacate the area within 24 hours of said notification. All buildings, fences, wells, and other such stationary improvements will remain with the property. Livestock, rolling stock, and all such items as may be easily transported may be taken. Application for recompense must be submitted, in person, to the nearest U. S. land office within two weeks of vacating the property.

  Signed: Addison Ford, Assistant to the Secretary of Interior, Columbus Delano

  Hilliard finished reading the document and, without a word, handed it back to the man who had been called Metzger by the one with the scar.

  “We will expect you to be off this property by noon tomorrow,” Dancer said.

  “Mister, I’ve got five hundred head of cattle,” Hilliard said. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Like the order says, you can take your cattle with you.”

  “Take them where? This is a small ranch. There’s only my wife, my boy, and me. And my boy’s only eight years old. How are the three of us going to move five hundred cows? And where would we take them?”

  “That’s none of my concern,” Dancer said. “My only concern is to see that you are off this property by noon tomorrow.”

  “And if I ain’t off tomorrow?” Hilliard challenged.

  “Then you’ll have to dance with the demon,” Dancer said.

  “Dance with the demon? What does that mean?” Hilliard asked. It wasn’t a term he had ever heard, but it had an ominous ring to it.