Bull's Eye Stage Coach

by Hall, Billy

  ‘There’s just the two banks,’ Dwight said absently. ‘Wells Fargo and Headland Land and Mineral Bank.’

  ‘The stage line belongs to Wells Fargo too, I noticed,’ Les observed.

  ‘Yeah. They could likely use a good man or two as well.’

  ‘The bank?’

  ‘No, the stage line. It’s run separate from the bank. They’ve been runnin’ kinda short on drivers and guards lately.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I guess I’ll see about the carpenter thing first. Drivers and guards on the stagecoach have a way of becoming targets too often for my taste.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a cowboy, whose gait was far from steady. ‘Hey, you! Marshal!’

  Dwight turned to face the man, as Goode waved nonchalantly and sauntered away. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The man’s voice was slurred but his response was instant. ‘You can give my friend his gun back, that’s what you can do.’

  ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Billy O’Leary, that’s who.’

  Dwight nodded. ‘Well, I’ll be plumb happy to give him his gun back when he’s sobered up and ready to head out to the ranch.’

  ‘He don’ wanna wait. He’s wantin’ ’is gun back now.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that’s too good an idea. He’s apt to get himself in a whole batch of trouble if he has it while he’s workin’ on drinkin’ up his wages.’

  ‘I don’ really care what you think. I think he oughta have his gun back now. I come to make you give it back to ’im.’

  ‘You’re Harley Jensen, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes I am. An’ you’re Marshal Dwight Stern. See, I know who you are too. An’ Billy O’Leary’s my friend. An’ you’re gonna give me Billy O’Leary’s gun, so I can take it back to him.’

  ‘No, I guess that’s what I’m not going to do,’ Dwight disagreed. ‘And while we’re on the subject, I have an idea you oughta let me keep your gun too. That way you and Billy can both get just as drunk as you want to get, without either one of you getting in trouble.’

  The young cowboy’s drunkenness seemed to diminish instantly. His eyes remained bleary and watery, but his stance straightened. His hand dropped to the butt of his gun. His voice was stronger and steadier as he said, ‘You ain’t takin’ my gun.’

  ‘If you don’t give it to me, I’ll have to take it.’

  Harley jerked his gun from its holster with startling speed, considering his obviously inebriated state. Even sober, however, his draw would have been much too slow. He was all cowboy, not a gunfighter. He wore a gun to use on any rattlesnakes he saw, on mad cows if he was cornered, and for self-defense if necessary. It was more of a tool of his trade than it was a weapon in his hands.

  In a blur of speed, Dwight swept his own gun from its holster and slammed it into the side of the cowboy’s head. Jensen dropped his own gun and fell sideways on to the board sidewalk. He immediately began to struggle to stand up.

  Whether from the amount of whiskey he had consumed or the effect of the blow to his temple, or both, he had a great deal of difficulty doing so. With a monumental effort he fought his way to his feet. ‘You hit me,’ he mumbled accusingly.

  Dwight nodded. His own gun was back in its holster. The cowboy’s gun was already safely tucked into his waistband. ‘Yeah, I did. I for sure didn’t want to have to shoot you.’

  The cowboy shook his head in an effort to clear the cobwebs. It was the wrong thing to do. Instead of clearing it, it resulted in greater dizziness. He fell back against the front of the store they stood before. His eyes slowly focused again. ‘You gonna lock me up?’ he asked.

  Dwight shook his head. ‘No, I’ll just hang on to your gun till you’re ready to head outa town. Stop by then and I’ll give it back to you.’

  ‘You couldn’ta done that, if’n I was sober.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have needed to, if you were sober.’

  ‘Do you know Doxy?’

  ‘Doxy? Who’s Doxy?’

  ‘She’s one o’ the girls at the Lucky Lady. The redhead. She’s one fine woman, Doxy is. I think I’ll go talk to Doxy for a while.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that,’ Dwight encouraged.

  With an effort Harley pushed himself away from the wall that supported him. His knees far from steady and his feet too widely placed, he nonetheless began to pick up momentum as he headed back down the street toward the Lucky Lady.

  ‘Herdin’ drunks, hazin’ drifters, an’ facin’ down gunslingers,’ Dwight muttered as he headed down the street. ‘There’s gotta be a better way to make a livin’.’

  As he continued along the street toward his office he walked toward the front of Lowenberg’s Mercantile Store. He took hold of one of the posts supporting the wooden awning, and stepped up on to the board sidewalk. His gaze habitually swept the length of the street. Just then a flash of sunlight caught his eye. He jerked his head toward it, hand dropping to his gun. Even as he did, he heard the unmistakable ‘thunk’ of a bullet burying itself in the post beside his head.

  He dived to the board sidewalk and rolled, as the ‘thunk’ of a second bullet hit the outside wall of the store. He continued the roll, coming up on one knee, gun in hand. He snapped off a quick shot at the space between two stores on the opposite side of the street, the spot where he had seen the sun flashing on gun metal.

  Some part of his mind heard yet another gun fire off to his left.

  He sprang up and slid backward into the space between Lowenberg’s Mercantile Store and Glendenning’s Hardware. The street was suddenly as still as death. What pedestrians were on the street were pressed back against the walls of whatever business they were in front of. Most had hurriedly ducked into the nearest doorway, and were peering warily out.

  Dwight left his cover and ran directly across the street, watching the space from which he was sure the shots had come. There was no sign of anyone there now.

  Across the street, he hugged the store front and approached the space marked by the brief flash of sunlight. Removing his hat, he thrust his head out and back again swiftly. He studied the picture in his mind that that instantaneous glimpse had provided. Squatting down, he repeated the manoeuvre, his head no more than two feet above the ground. This time he left his head exposed an instant longer, to allow himself a better look.

  There was nothing there.

  Stepping cautiously into the space between the buildings, he moved to the back of the stores. There was nothing in sight but weeds, empty space, and a scattering of windblown trash.

  He walked back to the front of the stores. He studied the sides of the building. He found where his bullet had buried itself in the cedar siding. Three inches in front of it another furrow was plowed into the siding.

  ‘I thought I heard somebody else shootin’,’ he muttered.

  He holstered his gun and pulled out his knife. He dug into the cedar board just beyond the end of the furrow that marked that other bullet’s path. He was rewarded by a flattened piece of lead. He held it in his hand, studying it with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Smaller’n a forty-five or forty-four, either one,’ he mused. ‘Now who in Sam Hill carries a smaller handgun that’d be shootin’ at a guy that was shootin’ at me?’

  ‘Are you OK, Marshal?’

  Dwight looked up at David Lowenberg, aware for the first time that the store owner had followed him across the street. He noted approvingly that the merchant carried a double-barreled shotgun. ‘Yeah, thanks, Dave,’ he responded. ‘Someone took a potshot at me.’

  ‘I heard the shots. Two from over here, then I thought I heard you shoot back, then I saw you runnin’ over here. I thought I’d see if you needed a hand.’

  ‘Did you hear any other shots?’

  ‘Other shots?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought I heard someone else shoot once.’

  Lowenberg frowned in deep thought for a long moment. ‘No, I can’t rightly say I did. Of course I was busy grabbin’ my shotgun to see what w
as goin’ on, so I mighta just not heard it. What is goin’ on?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dave. I don’t know. I don’t like it, though; I can tell you that.’

  ‘Gossip has it that fella you shot the other day seems to’ve come into town just to call you out.’

  ‘Acted that way, all right.’

  ‘Someone out to get you?’

  It was obvious that somebody was. More than one somebody. That knot in the pit of his stomach was getting bigger by the day. Twice in recent days he was the obvious target of somebody. Who wanted to get rid of him that badly? Why? If it was some personal grudge, it would have ended with the death of the first man who confronted him. That just wasn’t the case. He had never met that man before.

  Now someone had tried to gun him down in cold blood from hiding. Was it someone who hated him for some reason, or someone hired to do the job? If he was hired to do it, by whom? And why? Why would it suddenly be that important for anyone to get rid of a small town marshal?

  Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be long in coming, he was sure of that.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘My, my! You are one pretty little filly. However did a girl as pretty as you manage to be stuck in a crude slap-dabble town like this?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Belinda Holdridge mumbled, moving to go around the man standing in her way.

  Instead of allowing her to pass the man moved closer, blocking her way more effectively. ‘Aw, now, that’s no way to treat a lonesome gentleman,’ he remonstrated. ‘You could at the very least afford me a few minutes of polite conversation.’

  Put off by his forwardness, but simultaneously intrigued by his smooth speech and flawless English, Belinda hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. I am not in the habit of visiting with strangers on the street.’

  ‘Well now,’ the man responded, ‘that’s commendable. But on the other hand, who do you know that didn’t start out being a stranger to you? Aside from my parents, every friend I have used to be a stranger.’

  She looked directly at him for the first time. His eyes were bright and clear. He was plainly not intoxicated. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth, but his look was neither taunting nor threatening.

  She almost stammered as she said, ‘But at least they were all introduced to me by somebody. I don’t believe we have been introduced.’

  The man swept off his hat, stepped to one side, and motioned to the spot he had been standing. ‘In that case, Madam, may I introduce you to Mr Jarvis McCrae, presently of Headland, Wyoming Territory.’

  Then he stepped back into the spot he had so recently vacated and extended his right hand, while still holding his hat in his left. ‘Why thank you, sir. And to whom, may I ask, have I just this moment been introduced?’

  Belinda giggled in spite of her best effort to remain stern. ‘M-My name is Belinda Holdridge, Mr McCrae.’

  In spite of the fact that she had not extended her own hand, he reached out and grabbed her right hand. Instead of shaking it, as was the custom for both men and women in that country, he simply lifted her hand slightly and bowed over it. For the barest moment she actually thought he was going to kiss her hand. Then she wasn’t sure whether she hoped he would or wouldn’t. She drew her hand back from his, knowing she had turned bright red.

  ‘Is that Miss Belinda Holdridge?’ he asked, ignoring the fact that she had jerked her hand away from him.

  ‘As if it were any of your business, yes, it is Miss Holdridge. If it were any of your business, I would also tell you that I am engaged to be married. Now please stand aside and let me pass.’

  Still holding his hat in his hand, he stepped to the very outer edge of the board sidewalk, bowed deeply with a sweep of his hat in the direction she had been trying to go. ‘Of course, Miss Belinda Holdridge. It has been such a pleasure meeting you. I do hope I will have the pleasure of more of your charming company in the near future.’

  Unsure how to respond, she said nothing. She walked on past, and he did nothing to impede her passing. A few steps later she glanced back over her shoulder. He was standing there smiling, obviously waiting for her to turn. As she did, he lifted his hat to her again.

  She whirled back in the other direction and collided with Hildagarde Swenson, who was just exiting Lowenberg’s Mercantile Store with a bag of merchandise.

  ‘Oh! Oh, my! Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs Swenson! I … I’m afraid I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, of course, my dear,’ Mrs Swenson replied. ‘I’ve been run into harder than that by one or another of my children every day of the week.’

  As she answered she looked back over Belinda’s shoulder at McCrae, who was grinning broadly. ‘Is that a friend of yours?’ she asked, her voice almost accusatory.

  ‘Oh, no! No. He just … just … well, I’m not really sure what he just did.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? Did he bother you?’

  ‘No! Yes. No. Not really. He … he just, sort of stopped me as I was walking by. He managed to introduce himself to me and to ask my name, and … and, well I’m afraid I was just a little bit flustered.’

  ‘Why, how forward of him!’ Hildagarde huffed. ‘A lady can’t even walk down the sidewalk these days without being accosted by some ruffian.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he is that,’ Belinda protested. ‘He … he talks like he’s very sophisticated.’

  ‘Hmmph! If he had any measure of sophistication he certainly wouldn’t be causing sidewalk collisions between respectable ladies.’

  ‘I think he must be new in town.’

  ‘Hmmph! Half of the people on the street are new in town these days. Why, one hardly knows whom to speak to and whom to avoid. You must mention the incident to Dwight. I’m sure he will have more than just a passing interest in a stranger who accosts his betrothed on a public sidewalk.’

  Belinda almost giggled at the self-righteous umbrage that was so incongruent in such a raw and often crude place. She managed to conceal her feelings, however. ‘Well, I apologize again for almost knocking you down, Hilda. I am, as a matter of fact, just on my way to Dwight’s office. He’s taking me to supper tonight.’

  Hildagarde brightened at once. ‘Oh, how nice! You’ll be eating at Sven and Helga’s?’

  ‘Uh, no, I think he mentioned being hungry for something that Ling Xao makes.’

  Hildagarde’s visage darkened instantly. ‘Oh. I see. I much prefer good American food, myself.’

  Belinda couldn’t resist the urge to say, ‘Yes, like lutefisk and lefse.’

  Hildagarde missed the sarcasm entirely. ‘Oh, my, yes. Exactly. So much better than those foreign foods, made out of goodness knows what. Well, I must be going. Please do say hello to Dwight for Soren and me.’

  Before she told Dwight anything else, Belinda related her conversation about the competing eating establishments, and Hildagarde’s failure to grasp her almost snide humor. He laughed aloud at the picture.

  Then Belinda told him the reason for her near collision with Hildagarde, and his visage darkened instantly. ‘Did he bother you? Did he touch you? I’ll beat him within an inch of his life!’

  She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be so protective! Of course he didn’t touch me. He only wanted to wrangle an introduction.’

  ‘Did you let him know you was taken?’

  ‘Taken?’ she asked, arching her eyebrows. ‘Taken? You mean as if you lined up the eligible women in Headland and said, ’I’ll take that one,’ like you were picking out a heifer for a herd of cows?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he replied, growing angry because he knew his face was suddenly red. ‘Did you tell him you and me are engaged?’

  ‘Why, darling, I do believe you are blushing! Yes, dear. I made sure to tell him I was engaged to be married. I did not tell him that if the man I am engaged to doesn’t get around to making a married woman out of me pretty shortly, I may well change my mind, however.’

  He gaped at her as if he coul
dn’t believe she had said such a thing. ‘But … but … but we agreed that we needed a place to live an’ all that, afore we went an’ tied the knot.’

  ‘And just what do you call your house? Isn’t that a place to live?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but … but … well, there’s some things I been savin’ up for, that I really wanted to have in the house afore I went an’ asked you to go ahead an’ marry me an’ start livin’ there.’

  She giggled at his discomfiture. ‘Stop stammering, dear. I know exactly what you are doing. But I am getting tired of waiting. I want to be your wife. I want to have children. I’m not getting any younger, you know.’

  At a loss for an adequate answer, he opened and closed his mouth a couple times, then changed the subject completely. ‘I … had another guy shoot at me today.’

  ‘Oh dear! Another one? I didn’t even hear about it. What happened?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Plumb outa nowhere. Tried to bushwhack me from between a couple buildings. I caught a flash o’ sun off’n his gun barrel just afore he shot. I took a dive an’ he missed. I shot back, but I was just shootin’ blind into the space he was in. Didn’t hit ’im. It seemed almost like somebody’d sent ’im into town just to get rid o’ me.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Belinda said again. ‘Oh, dear! That’s what you thought about the man you had to shoot the other day, too. Why ever would somebody do that?’

  He frowned. ‘Danged if I know. Worries me, though. He showed up just after this other fella shows up an’ comes to me askin’ where he might find a job. Most folks never think o’ asking the marshal about jobs. Then this other fella bothers you. You said he was a stranger in town, too? What did he look like, anyhow?’

  ‘He’s about your height, maybe an inch or two shorter. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Wears a hat that’s sorta different from most.’

  Dwight’s eyes widened. ‘Sorta small for a Stetson, but bigger’n a bowler or a derby?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

  Instead of answering, Dwight said, ‘Does he talk kinda highfalutin’. Real proper English and all that?’