Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “For the love of Pete, fellas,” he growled. “You three have been shuffling your feet and looking cow-eyed to the point of practically slobbering a time or two tonight. And now you look like a bunch of sick pups. You act like you’ve never been in the presence of a pretty woman before.”

  “I ain’t,” said Vern. “Leastways none like Miss Alora.”

  “I hate to bust your bubble, kid, but under all that perfume and makeup she’s near old enough to be your ma,” Bob told him.

  Vern blinked innocently. “So what? That don’t make her no less beautiful.”

  “He’s got you there, boss,” Fred pointed out. “Besides, you’re just joshing again, right? You don’t think she’s really that old, do you?”

  “Okay, you caught me. I’ll admit, your Mrs. Nyby has probably got her shaded by three or four years.”

  Fred cocked his head back. “Now I know you’re joshing.”

  “Besides,” spoke up Peter, “what difference does it make? She can be a hundred, but she’s still beautiful.”

  “And that ain’t to shortchange the other ladies, either,” said Fred. “They’re mighty pretty, too. But them being married and all, and with their husbands sitting right there . . . well, you all know what I mean. But when it comes to Miss Alora, there’s no getting around how special she is.”

  Bob rolled his eyes. “You three are pathetic. I hope to hell after a good night’s sleep at least one of you wakes up tomorrow morning with a clear head. Miss Dane is a mighty pretty woman, it’s true. But in spite of the spell she seems to have cast on the lot of you, she ain’t no doggone goddess or anything.”

  Vern opened his mouth to say something, but then changed his mind and bit off whatever the remark was going to be. Instead it came out, “Whatever you say, Marshal.”

  Bob scowled. “What I say is this: I suggest you all call it a night. If you happen to pass by a cold watering trough on your way home, stop and take a good long soak in it. Then, maybe, I’ll have a chance of seeing some of that clearheadedness I’m hoping for in the morning. It would come in handy, since I figure tomorrow’s gonna be another busy day.”

  “But what about tonight?” asked Peter. “Shouldn’t a couple of us take a turn around town before—”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Bob said, cutting him off. “You and the others just do like I told you. Work on getting your brains unscrambled.”

  CHAPTER 13

  As he watched Fred and the Macy brothers drift off down the street, Bob loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Never a fan of ties for any purpose, he was particularly puzzled by the custom of knotting one on and then sitting down half-strangled to partake of a big meal. Unfortunately, it hadn’t stopped him from stowing away more than his share of the delicious fare he’d just been served. Which made a late patrol around town not just an obligation, but also a good chance to walk off some of what he’d overconsumed.

  Pulling out his watch and checking it, he saw that it was past nine; later than he’d thought.

  Except for the Shirley House, the only other Old Town business still open at this hour was Bullock’s Saloon, located diagonally across the street. Bob’s first thought was to have a peek in there on his swing back, after working his way down Front Street checking locks and so forth on this side before turning back at the far end and returning on the other side. But then, on a whim, he decided to cross over and make Bullock’s his starting point for patrolling this part of town.

  One reason for this was that Bob fully expected Mike Bullock had heard by now about the dinner the marshal and his men had just attended. Given Bullock’s testy feelings about Gafford and his high-handed ways, there was little doubt he’d have a disparaging remark or two. So Bob figured it would be better to go ahead and let him get whatever he had to say off his chest rather than let him stew about it all night and have even more of a head of steam built up by tomorrow.

  The air was still and crisp as he crossed the street. A cold-looking slice of silver moon hung low overhead in a cloudless sky.

  Keeping to habit, Bob paused just outside the entrance to Bullock’s and gazed in over the tops of the batwings, giving the interior a good looking over before going in. There was only a modest crowd on hand tonight; two tables of card players and a half-dozen men lined up along the bar. Two scantily clad hostesses were milling about, one sticking close to the card tables and the other hanging nearer the bar.

  As she did from time to time when other duties weren’t required of her, Maudie was sitting in on one of the games. Her ample charms, though strictly untouchable, riveted the attention of most of the men in the room to the point of making the two hostesses all but invisible. Even Bob’s gaze lingered for an extra beat or two as he scanned the room.

  It might have lingered even a bit longer if it hadn’t been drawn by another presence also seated at Maudie’s table. Off to her right, two seats down, was Simon Quirt. When Bob’s eyes settled on him, he found the black man already looking back in that cool, calm way he had.

  Bob pushed open the batwings and walked on in. When he leaned his tall frame against the bar and hooked a boot heel over the brass rail, Mike Bullock was right there on the other side, waiting for him.

  “Well, well. It’s heartening to see that—for the time being at least—our stalwart town marshal is willing to leave the trappings of higher society and still come to mingle for a time among us common folks.”

  Bob grinned. “Is that the best you got? I’m disappointed, if it is. I figured you’d be ready to unload some real ear-blisterers on me.”

  “Good. I hope you are disappointed,” Bullock said sourly. “Then you’ll have an idea how I felt when I heard you and your whole crew was over at the Shirley breaking bread with Gafford and his dancing girls. Did they flash their legs and put on a private show for you?”

  “Nope. And thank God they didn’t.” Bob shook his head. “I already have three starry-eyed deputies looking like they got mule-kicked to the head and walked away with their brains scrambled.”

  Bullock grunted. “I can understand that. I got me a good look at that Alora Dane when their wagons came into town from the train station and I gotta tell you . . . If ever a fella could be knocked loopy from just the sight of a gal, she’d sure as fire be the one to do it.”

  Bob couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh no. Not you, too,” he groaned.

  “What?” said Bullock, bristling indignantly. “Don’t I have the right to take note of a pretty woman when I see one?”

  “I wouldn’t deny any man that right,” Bob replied. He waved his hand in a flourish. “By all means, take note all you want. It just surprises me, that’s all, that you’d look with favor on anybody—even a pretty package like Miss Dane—who’s got anything to do with Gafford.”

  “Me and him sort of buried the hatchet. Don’t you remember?” said Bullock. “First, at the prodding of you and Maudie, I agreed to be one of the judges in his shooting contest. And then, after those skunks tried to burn him out last night . . . well, it set me to thinking about some of the talk I’d been throwing around careless-like. Yeah, I don’t like the thought of how much business he might cost me with that fancy-ass setup he’s getting ready to open. But, if it comes to that, if he bites into my trade too deep, then I got two choices—either I throw in the towel and give up the match, or I jazz up my place here and go right back at him, head to head. That’s the way I’ve always done it before.”

  Bullock paused and frowned deeply. “That other fella, the one doing all the bellyaching and whining these past couple days, that wasn’t me. Just like throwing in the towel wouldn’t be. Never been my way in the past and I don’t intend for it to be anymore going forward. Thinking back on it, I don’t much care for that other hombre and don’t want to meet him again.”

  “Good words to hear. To tell you the truth, I didn’t care much for that other fella, either.” Bob made another gesture with his hand. “What say we drink on it?”

 
Bullock’s frown faltered. One furry eyebrow arched high. “You mean you’re gonna have a drink with me?”

  “Special occasion.”

  “It must be. I was wondering if you were ever gonna get around to plunking down some money for something, considering all the time you spend in here.”

  Now it was Bob’s eyebrows that arched high. “I didn’t say anything about buying, did I? I just said we should drink to a special occasion.”

  Both men had a good chuckle as Bullock said, “And so we shall,” while filling two shot glasses with amber liquid. The drinks were tossed down and the emptied glasses clapped back onto the bartop.

  That’s when Simon Quirt walked silently up and leaned against the bar on Bob’s left side.

  CHAPTER 14

  “If I’m not interrupting, Marshal,” Quirt said in his easy drawl, “Gafford keeps remindin’ me that you’re wantin’ to talk to me. Thought maybe now might be a good time.”

  Bob turned his head to look at him, then cut a glance momentarily over at the card game continuing without him. “Done with your game, I take it?”

  “More like the game’s done with me. At least for tonight. Cards just ain’t fallin’ my way.”

  Bob nodded. “Happens like that sometimes. Takes a smart man to know when it’s time to step away for a spell.”

  “If I was real smart, I’d stay away for good. Over the years I fear I’ve pushed considerably more money into pots than I’ve pulled back out.” Quirt shrugged. “But a man’s got to fill his idle hours some way or other.”

  Bob looked around and his eyes fell on an empty table near the back of the room, the same one he’d been sitting at with Maudie and Bullock the other day before the trouble broke out with Jax Verdeen and his companions. He turned back to Bullock and jerked a thumb, saying, “Mind if we use that back table for a few minutes to do some chin-wagging, Mike?”

  “Be my guest. It ain’t like there’s a big crowd fighting to lay claim to it. You gonna want anything to drink?”

  “Coffee, for me, if you’ve got any made up. Otherwise I’m okay,” said Bob.

  “Sounds good. Same here if you’ve got some,” said Quirt.

  Bob led the way back to the table and they seated themselves, each man hitching his chair so that he was facing more or less toward the front door and had his back angled toward a slice of the side wall. They’d barely gotten situated before one of the hostesses came over and placed two steaming mugs of coffee in front of them. Quirt spread some coins on the table and told her to keep the change.

  “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks,” said Bob.

  “I believe in payin’ my way.” Quirt lifted his mug and blew across the top, clearing the steam. The pool of coffee in the cup was only slightly darker than his skin. He had handsome, almost delicate facial features and was groomed to near perfection. A carefully trimmed mustache flared back on either side and connected with sideburns barbered just as precisely.

  After taking a sip of his drink, he said to Bob, “You’re staring. That’s not polite.”

  Bob flashed a somewhat sheepish grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking what you said a minute ago—about filling your idle hours.”

  “Oh?”

  “As neat as you got your mustache and sideburns trimmed, I reckon that must fill up a good deal of time right there.”

  Quirt looked puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? My grooming habits?”

  “No, not hardly.” Bob took a drink of his coffee. “Although maybe I should. I got reminded just recently, as a matter of fact, how shoddy my own grooming habits are on the brink of becoming.”

  “That sounds like a problem you can probably get turned around all on your own, Marshal. If you don’t mind, I’d like to move on to whatever it is you’re wantin’ to discuss with me.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Bob said. “Mainly, I’m interested in your intentions as far as how long you might be sticking around Rattlesnake Wells. Are you just here to get Gafford’s prize pistols delivered, or will you be staying beyond that?”

  “Would it be a problem if I said I was plannin’ to stay for a spell?”

  “Not necessarily. Not unless you make it one.”

  Quirt slowly took a cheroot from his shirt pocket and hung it from a corner of his mouth. Offering one to Bob got a headshake in response. So he snapped a match to flame with his thumbnail and lit up his own, puffing blue smoke.

  “I never set out to make problems, Marshal,” he said, shaking out the match and dropping it into an ashtray near the edge of the table. “Way I see it, I’m often called on to keep ’em from happenin’.”

  “That would fit with your history as a Pinkerton man. Preventing or solving trouble that the law sometimes can’t—or won’t—handle on their own.”

  “So you understand.”

  Bob nodded. “Up to a point. Couple things to add, though. First off, you’re no longer with the Pinkertons. Secondly, I represent the law around here and I kinda like to think that me and my deputies do a pretty fair job of handling whatever troubles come our way.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Also crosses my mind that you’ve made a name for yourself outside of your time with the Pinkerton agency.”

  Quirt smiled thinly. “Which term do you prefer? Gunfighter? Gunslinger? Hired gun? I’ve been called each of those things and don’t really mind any of them. Fact is, I’m pretty good with these guns I carry and so I do make a living based on that. Like I’m doing now with this job of work for Gafford. But I’ve never broken the law with my guns or done anything to end up with my name or likeness on a wanted poster.”

  “Nope. You haven’t, for a fact.”

  “So why are you so worried about the thought of me stickin’ around your town for a while?”

  “Never said I was worried. Just curious, that’s all,” Bob replied. “You ought to know as well or better than most what’s likely to happen when a fella with your kind of reputation settles in one place for any length of time. Sooner or later, some beer-brave jackass or some punk on the prod, looking to make his own rep, will come around looking to challenge you.”

  Quirt nodded. “I’ve encountered that kind of thing, it’s true. When I have, I’ve gone out of my way to try and walk wide of it. Sometimes I’ve been able to, sometimes not. When I couldn’t, I always faced ’em straight up and made it a fair fight. You can’t expect a man in my position not to defend himself.”

  “Of course not. All I’m asking is that—if you are planning on being around for a while, and such a situation arises—give me and my deputies a chance to help you walk around it.”

  “Sounds reasonable. But, just so you know, there’ve been times in the past where I couldn’t count on the law, even if there was any around, to back me that way. Seen cases where the local badge-toters were the ones cheerin’ loudest for the local proddie to put me in my place.”

  “I’ve heard tell of cases like that. Damn shame,” said Bob. “But it ain’t like that around here. We get our share of jackasses and troublemakers, especially with the flow in and out of New Town thanks to the gold boom—and sometimes me or my deputies have no choice but to plant some of the damn fools on Boot Hill ourselves. But I’d just as soon keep it where we are the ones making that call . . . whenever possible.”

  “Like I said, sounds reasonable. Should anything like that come up, I’ll do my best to allow you and your men a piece of it . . . whenever possible.”

  Bob took a drink of his coffee. “Which brings us back around to the question of whether or not you intend to be staying in town for a while.”

  “To be perfectly honest, I ain’t made up my mind yet. And that’s not a dodge,” Quirt said. “Originally, you see, Gafford hired me to get the prize guns here safe and guard ’em on through the contest. Soon as that was done, I more or less figured on takin’ the next train out. But then this business about those polecats tryin’ to burn down his place came up a
nd now he’s offered me a job to stay on longer and oversee keepin’ the Crystal Diamond safe from any more attempts to do harm before it ever gets off the ground.”

  “Sounds like pretty good thinking on his part, if you ask me,” said Bob. “Me and my deputies make regular patrols and try to keep a close eye on all the businesses in town. But we can’t cover one particular place all the time.”

  “Gafford knows that. He’s got the highest regard for you and your men. But he also knows, just like you said, that you can’t be everywhere at once. That’s why he wants me to keep steady watch over the Diamond.”

  “After the trouble last night, I’m surprised—even though you haven’t agreed to anything long term yet—he doesn’t have you stationed there now.”

  “Matter of fact, that’s where I’m headed in just a little bit and where I’ll be the remainder of the night. And you’re right, I would already be there if I hadn’t run into a fella I worked with in the past and recommended him to Gafford for taking on part of the duty.”

  “This fella got a name?”

  “Yates. Cecil Yates.”

  Bob shook his head. “Can’t say as I know him.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. I know him from down in Arizona. He just got into town and was looking for work to finance a grubstake in order to go try his luck up in the gold fields. Starry-eyed fool, just like so many others. But he’s a good man with a gun—not a fast draw necessarily, but steady-handed and sharp-eyed all the same. For the time being at least, his turning up was a break for me and a chance for him to start earning some money.”

  “Speaking of earning money, or earning my keep anyway,” said Bob, “reckon I need to get about doing my job. I only meant to stop in here briefly at the start of taking a nighttime turn around the town. Still need to get that done.”

  “Didn’t mean to keep you.”

  Bob drained his coffee. “You were just responding to what I’d been asking for. I appreciate that.” He rose from his chair. “I’d appreciate it, too, if you let me know when you decide about whether you’re staying on or not. Either way, for however long you’re here, I hope you’ll keep in mind what we discussed.”