Stringer in a Texas Shoot-Out

by Lou Cameron

  He nodded soberly and said, “A disreputable French bullyboy who wrote poems on the side once put down a pisser about the ‘Snows of Yesteryear.’ Don’t ever read it if you run across it. It’s depressing as hell to study on how short a spell we got here. My Uncle Don, back in Calaveras County, disrupted a Sunday service one time by bringing that up when the preacher got to droning about the Lord’s mercy. Uncle Don holds it takes a man at least fifty years to smarten up enough to just get by, and then what good does it do him?”

  She rocked his hand absently in her love boat as she murmured, “Your uncle sounds like he lies awake at night thinking the same thoughts as I do.”

  He had to chuckle and assure her, “Uncle Don has yet to jerk his fool self off with my gun hand, ma’am.”

  She thought that was funny, too. So, they wound up doing it right and when they’d finished, cold sober, she told him to go out back and tell her kitchen help to serve him a good breakfast, if he wanted. She said she meant to eat alone, later. She didn’t add she had to paint a new face on. He washed up as best he could at a corner basin, got dressed, and left directly, without taking anything else on the house. The rain they’d had until just before dawn had laid the dust and brightened the paint trim on all sides as he strode up to the main part of town. As he glimpsed the reservoir off to his right through gaps in the rain-washed houses, he saw the water now stood a whole lot higher. When the morning breeze was right, it told him a heap of water was still spilling over the dam, down at the far end. He knew that aside from storm drainage that had run directly into the manmade lake, a lot was still oozing out of the muddy slopes on all sides. If he’d been in charge of the local waterworks, he’d have had alfalfa and other deep-rooted ground cover planted on at least that barren slope across the way. However, since he wasn’t in charge, it was no skin off his nose if a real storm washed their fool dam out or not.

  He was scouting for a place to eat near the livery when he spied Roy Bean Junior and Lefty Chavez coming the other way. They met out by the livery and Roy Junior announced they’d already eaten. When Stringer suggested they at least have some coffee with him, Roy Junior hesitated and then said, “Provided you ride out with us directly after you grub up, you got a deal. Our pals here tell us that posse’s cleared the trail down to Sierra Blanca and there’s a real O.K. Corral fight brewing up in this town, with no strangers invited to sit in!”

  Stringer said, “The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral wasn’t half as big a deal as some now say. For openers, it took place in a vacant lot across the street and nobody at all important got killed.”

  Lefty Chavez suggested, “That’s no doubt because no Mexican mixed in a purely gringo fight. You two do what you have to do. This child of Chihuahua’s hauling ass poco tiempo!”

  Suiting actions to his words, the young Mex turned away to head back across to the livery. Roy Bean Junior followed partway with his eyes and then told Stringer, “I’ll have that cup of coffee with you while Cousin Lefty saddles up. My dear old dad always said it was dumb for a Scotchman to work in a world so filled with willing Mexicans, and I reckon I’m at least half Scotch, don’t you?”

  Stringer laughed, said he’d been talking only recently about the proud Clan MacBean, and led the way into the hole in the wall eatery advertizing itself as the Cafe de Paree. The dim interior smelled as if they’d recently greased the hot plate with bug spray, and the fat waitress smelled as if she washed her hair in pine oil, but at least they tried to keep the place clean, and the smell improved once she’d put the chili bowl on the counter in front of Stringer and poured ink-black coffee, strong as coffee came, for both of them.

  Roy Bean Junior had already been told about Major Gillies MacBean cutting down a dozen redcoats and an English lord with his broadsword before they nailed him with bayonets to the gore-soaked sod of Culloden Moor. He wanted to talk about it, anyway. Stringer let him, for it allowed him to concentrate on his chili.

  He’d just about stuffed his gut and they’d gotten to the Duke of Cumberland burning every thatched roof a MacBean had ever looked at, when Lefty Chavez came in to join them, wearing a mighty puzzled expression. When Junior Bean asked why, Lefty said, “The livery door’s padlocked and nobody seems to be anywhere around. I mean nobody human. I could hear the ponies inside. I just couldn’t get at ’em!”

  Junior Bean frowned thoughtfully and said, “That’s mighty sloppy, even for my momma’s side of the family. Didn’t old Gordo Garcia just tell us his nephew, Marin, would have all the ponies watered awake by now?”

  Lefty nodded but suggested, “The kid might have a muchacha old Gordo doesn’t know about. We’ll give him a few momentos before we raise any fuss about it. The little shit surely knows all sorts of folk who are sure to want to go riding this late after sunrise.”

  Neither of them found the missing stable hand as mysterious as Stringer did, who almost let it slide by him before he suddenly blinked and said, “Hold on, muchachos, I’m a mite confused about that livery across the way. Are you saying the day manager left a young Mex, not some sort of Anglo-Indio breed in charge overnight?”

  Lefty looked sort of confused and asked, “Why would old Gordo want to do that? It ain’t as if he has no kith and kin, and it’s tough for our kind to get steady jobs this far north of Chihuahua, you know.”

  Stringer reached in his jeans for some dinero as he replied, “That may well be, but nevertheless there was a gent no more Mex than me in charge over yonder last night. He wasn’t all that young, either. So, while I could be wrong about his ancestry, he still doesn’t add up to a young squirt Gordo Garcia could manage as a nephew.”

  He spread some coinage on the counter, figuring that if he overtipped, it made up for the times such an ugly gal got stiffed. As he led the way outside, Junior Bean fell in on his right, protesting, “Gordo has to be over forty and my momma’s people start young. You say old Marin struck you as full growed?”

  Stringer nodded and added, “He wasn’t Mex or part Mex. I grew up around neighbors of both Californio and Miwok ancestry and I’ve spent some time since in Oklahoma. It’s hard to put your finger on just what the difference might be, but you get so’s you can tell.”

  They made it to the livery door to find the big sliding door pad locked as Lefty had said, with a prissy little traveling salesman beating vainly on the sun-silvered wood with his dinky fists. When he saw the three of them coming, he stamped his fool foot like a Gibson Girl who’d just missed a tennis ball and said, “It’s about time! I have to get down to Pecos Junction today, and both my carriage horse and sample trunk are locked inside your durned old livery!”

  Stringer soothed, “Don’t get your shit hot, pilgrim. We don’t work here, neither. As for driving down Cottonwood Draw with that sky up there still overcast… I’d just wait ’til the sun shines, Nelly. We could be getting set for another storm, and it can get wet enough in those parts to drown you, on the rare occasions it’s not bone-dry.”

  Junior Bean glanced up at the gray wool overcast to observe, “It was shining just a few minutes ago. But freak weather or not, me and Lefty don’t mean to risk another day here in sunshine or shadow.” Then he drew his six-gun and added, “Stand back, gents. I’m almost certain old Gordo will savvy a man does what a man has to do.”

  Stringer said, “Don’t do it! Even if you can open a lock that stout with a lead slug, which I doubt, the roar of your gun will disturb the shit out of the peace around here, and I thought you just said you wanted to ride out before any more trouble commenced.”

  Junior Bean nodded and said, “That, too. But what are we to do, MacKail? It’s way too far to walk and you can see for yourself our ponies are being held illegally without bail.”

  Stringer reached in his jeans again, muttering, “I might have known the son of a jerkwater judge would demand a writ of habeas corpus on a horse! Let’s see if I can open this damned door less dramatic.”

  The little salesman asked where he’d learned to pick such fancy padlo
cks, adding, “That one’s a Yale, ain’t it?”

  Stringer nodded but said, “Don’t have to get around fancy patents when some damned fool’s used wood screws with no inside bolts to fasten both sides of this hasp.”

  They all watched with undisguised admiration as Stringer simply used the screwdriver blade of his jack-knife to open the damned door. As he did so, the little dude on his way to Pecos Junction asked how they were to pay the missing hostler. He said he’d heard that Texas took a dim view of horse theft. Junior Bean assured him, “It ain’t that safe to steal chickens in Texas, but taking your own stock can’t hardly qualify as theft of goods or services. Anyone can see the damn fool kid who’s supposed to be here ain’t here, so, how in blue blazes could anyone be expected to pay him, even if they wanted to?”

  Lefty said he didn’t want to and stepped in first to get to work. As the others followed, Roy Bean Junior cocked an ear and observed, “The stock in here sounds proddy as hell. I’ll bet that lazy Marin Garcia ran off to wherever without even watering ’em this morning!”

  Stringer growled, “I keep telling you there was another man entirely on duty here last night.” Then he added, “You’re right about the brutes being unsettled, or spooked, though.”

  While the others went about watering all the stock in all the stalls and gathering their personal possibles from the tack room, Stringer, who hadn’t planned on leaving just yet, went exploring.

  It didn’t take him long. He’d never seen the regular night man, or boy, before. However, the identity of the raggedly dressed young Mex in the hayloft was less of a mystery than how he’d managed to get up there, sprawled faceup in the hay with a sleepy smile on his young face and his scrawny brown throat slashed ear to ear.

  Stringer knew it was pointless. He still hunkered down to feel for any possible pulse before he told the dead boy, “I can see by how black your blood’s turned that you must have finished bleeding up here before I even got to talk to that sneaky son of a bitch who took your place down below. Now all we have to figure out is how come!”

  He didn’t say anything when he went back down the ladder. While he didn’t owe the traveling salesman anything, it hardly seemed fair to stick Junior Bean and Lefty with spending at least the next few days in the town lockup, as he knew they were likely to if he sounded the alarm while they were still in town, so he strolled out front and rolled a smoke to get the oddly metallic taste of fresh-dried blood out of his mouth.

  He’d just about managed when young Bean and his cousin came out with their saddled and bridled ponies.

  Lefty shot a sober glance up at the low, gray overcast and said, “We can’t wait much longer if you’ve reconsidered coming with us.” Junior Bean chipped in, “I would if I was you, amigo viejo. There’s something wicked brewing in the air up here, and I ain’t just talking about thunder and lightning.”

  Stringer was saved from having to explain his own job to old boys who’d been raised not to be nosy when the little salesman tried to drive his bay and buggy out the door instead of leading it like he should have. They had a lot of fun cussing him while they untangled his buggy wheels from the doorjamb on one side and a hay bale he’d misjudged on the other. As they sent him on his way with everyone’s humor restored at his expense, Stringer saw his Hispanic pals off the other way. Then he inspected his own hired ponies a spell. He found neither had been hamstrung or doped, as far as he could tell. So, once he figured the other witnesses who hadn’t witnessed all that much had made it out of sight and out of mind, he slid the door shut again and strode the short way to the town law’s office and lockup.

  Inside, he found the deputy called Slim on duty, if that was what one could call reading the Police Gazette with both spurred boots on the desk. Slim said Buckskin Jack seldom got in before noon, if then. Stringer glanced at the wall clock, saw they were discussing a good four hours or more off, and said, “Well, I know he was up late last night and it makes sense that trouble would more likely come to town after noon than before, as a rule. However, I just came over from the livery and I fear they need the law there, now.”

  Slim had stopped reading, but he remained just as relaxed in his tilted-back chair as he replied, “We generally let greasers settle their own fusses. They’re always fussing, and half the time you can’t savvy what either side is accusing the other of. It’s best to just let ’em work it out unless someone gets killed all the way.”

  Stringer said, “Somebody did. I think I just found Marin Garcia, their night man, up in the loft with his throat cut.”

  As Slim thoughtfully swung his boots to the floor, one at a time, Stringer added, “I think I talked to the killer last night. I think Miss Susan Bancroft may be able to eyeball him, too, unless he was fibbing about having just jawed with her as well. He didn’t tell either of us he was a killer, of course.”

  Slim got to his feet, adjusting his gun rig to ride his .45 handier, and grumbled, “Let me get some backup outta the Parker Arms, first. You know how unpredictable greasers can act when they get worked up over spilt blood. They seem to feel spilling more cures most anything that ails ’em. Was the killer one of them, or one of us?”

  Stringer said, “Neither,” and described his encounter with the mysterious breed the night before as they left for the nearby saloon. In the street outside Slim said, “Well, whatever in thunder made him act so odd, it sounds like they’re right about that Oklahoma gunslick hiding out in these parts. You’re lucky you’re still alive, newspaper boy. They say Henry Starr can be mean as hell!”

  Stringer nodded to reply, “They say right, only that wasn’t Henry Starr telling me such fibs last night. I met the genuine article, friendly, up in Tulsa not that long ago. I can see how someone only knowing him from Wanted fliers could have gotten confused. Both old boys we’re talking about qualify as fairly clean-cut and average-looking, save for their obvious Indian blood. Side by side I’d say the real Henry Starr would look a mite younger and prettier. He doesn’t look half as mean as he sounds. That’s likely why he’s gotten the drop on so many lawmen up to now.”

  Slim stepped up to the batwings of the Parker Arms to call a trio of early drinkers out, explaining, “We got us a killing over to the livery. The killer may or may not be Henry Starr. The victim’s kith and kin will surely be weeping and wailing greasers, so let’s all walk tall with our eyeballs peeled, save for you, Jeff. Someone had best keep an eye on the office, and you can’t shoot for shit.”

  The one called Jeff seemed to take the rawhiding in the spirit it was likely meant. West Texans weren’t inclined to flatter. Stringer didn’t let his feeling show when Slim told the others on the way to the livery that, “This newspaper jasper says that tip about Henry Starr could be erroneous. He could be full of shit as well. Either way, we seem to be dealing with a mighty murderous son of a bitch who looks like an Indian and talks like a cowboy.”

  At the livery, Stringer slid the door open again and indicated the ladder to the loft. The dead kid topside looked just as bad the second time. Stringer gained a grudging respect for Buckskin Jack’s lazy-looking deputies when one hunkered down to pluck something from the hay, muttering, “Now this makes just no sense at all.”

  Stringer had to agree when Slim held the clue up to the light for closer inspection. It was a spent rifle shell. Slim turned the base up to read, “Savage Smokeless .30-30.” Then he glanced down at the dead boy to add, “That would have done her. So, why in thunder did he cut this kid’s throat so crude?”

  Another deputy offered, “Deer rifle going off up here might have made more noise.”

  Stringer nodded and suggested, “Try her this way. Say the same rifleman I brushed with out on the range was up here cleaning or reloading his rifle when young Marin there caught him by surprise.”

  The deputy who’d considered how noisy a deer rifle sounded, nodded and opined, “It works. As a rule there’d be no call for the night man to poke about up here. A sneak out to use this hayloft as a sniper’s nest wo
uld have heard the kid on the ladder long afore the poor kid could have known what he was getting into. Say the killer lay his rifle aside to grab the kid’s hair with one hand and slash with the other…”

  “To what purpose?” Slim objected, putting the spent brass in his shirt pocket for safekeeping. “With the regular night man dead up here, the killer would have had anyone within rifle range cold as they come calling. Yet you say he let Miss Susan Bancroft live, and you, MacKail.”

  Stringer nodded but said, “Someone took a shot at us with a .30-30 not long after. It’s commencing to make a twisty sort of sense. The rifle-packing prick knew most anyone who didn’t live smack in town would drop his or her mount off here at this livery. So, as we just worked out, he crept up here with his rifle after sunset, just before or maybe just after old Gordo Garcia changed places with his nephew here.”

  Slim pointed at a hoist hatch on the far side of all that hay to agree, “He’d have had a swell shot at anyone coming or going, mounted or afoot. So, why did he fire when he did, from atop a hat shop around the corner from the Parker Arms?”

  Stringer said, “Easy. Once he’d cut the throat of the regular night man, he knew anyone coming along would wonder why nobody was in charge down below. Let’s say he’d just made it down, to brazen it out for the moment, when Miss Susan stopped by to leave a message for me. Let’s say I came along a few minutes later, like a big-ass bird, giving him the chance to tell me just where to be for the next half hour or more.”

  Slim snapped his fingers and said, “It fits. He didn’t have to worry about anyone asking questions once he was laying for you atop a shop shut down with nobody in charge upstairs or down! But I still say it must have been Henry Starr, damn it!”