Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “I wish I could take credit,” replied Consuela. “But the marshal here made all the arrangements through the Bluebird Café back in town. This whole outing, as a matter of fact, was a surprise he sprang on Bucky and me—including his entry in the upcoming shooting contest.”

  “It appears to be a surprise that everyone is enjoying,” Delaney assessed. “And if this lemonade is an example of what they serve at the Bluebird Café, then I guess I know where I’ll be taking most of my meals while I’m in town.”

  “The lemonade is just a start.” Bob tipped his head to indicate the remaining contents of the picnic basket spread out on the blanket. “Like I said, there’s a sandwich there you’re also welcome to help yourself to. Was some pie once upon a time, but I fear that’s long gone.”

  “I regret not having an appetite right at the moment. But, like I said, I definitely will be checking out the Bluebird in the near future. And, when I do, I’ll make sure that I go there good and hungry.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” Bob told him. Then, trying to make the words sound casual and just a natural extension of their conversation, he said, “Figure to be staying long in Rattlesnake Wells, Mr. Delaney?”

  Consuela gave Bob a look, signaling her disapproval that the lawman in him seemed ready to turn their conversation into an interrogation of the stranger.

  If Delaney read it that way, however, he didn’t seem to mind. “I rather doubt it, Marshal. Not that I find anything wrong with your town, mind you. But I’m seeking a somewhat larger community to settle in. I’ve recently spent time in both Omaha and Denver and found each of them to be a little too big and fast for my tastes. Cheyenne has a certain appeal, but I haven’t made up my mind yet.

  “The thing is, you see, I recently came into a bit of money via an inheritance. Nothing outlandish, I assure you, but nevertheless more than I’ve ever had at my disposal all at once before in my life. Enough so that I’ve made up my mind I want to invest it in something—some business undertaking—that will allow it to take hold, maybe grow a little, and provide me a comfortable income. Does that sound so crazy?”

  “Not at all,” said Bob. “Lot more sensible than the wild schemes too many fellas seem to chase after when they get their hands on some sudden money. What kind of business you thinking about getting into?”

  Delaney emitted a short laugh. “That’s about as undecided as where I’m aiming to settle. Thanks to an uncle who raised me from a little kid after my folks died in a tragic church fire, I gained some background in the hardware business. Uncle Nick had a small but well-established shop in Columbus, Ohio. He did some gunsmithing on the side that almost equaled what the hardware store brought in. He not only knew the workings and peculiarities of practically every kind of gun there was, he was the surest rifle shot I’ve ever seen. He taught me until I was mighty good myself. I could never hold a patch to him, but was still pretty decent.”

  “Is he the relative who left you the inheritance?” Consuela asked.

  “Yeah, much to my surprise, he was.”

  “Why do you say to your surprise? Sounds like you and him had a kinda special relationship,” Bob said.

  Delaney’s eyes took on a vague, faraway look. “We did . . . until a little disturbance called the Civil War came along. Uncle Nick was too old to go off to join the fighting. But I wasn’t. Trouble was, we had drastically different ideas on which side I ought to go serve. Not even worth saying anymore which way we disagreed. But when I went against him, the last thing he said to me, as I was going out the door, was not to bother coming back because I was no longer any kin of his and there’d be nothing waiting for me if I ever showed up . . . So I never did.”

  “How tragic and sad,” Consuela said in a soft voice.

  Delaney looked at her with his faraway eyes, as if bewildered. Then, blinking several times, his expression cleared and his mouth broke into a wide, somewhat sheepish grin. “Holy cow, listen to me!” he exclaimed. “First I barge in on your picnic and then I depress everybody with my long, mopey tale of woe. What an ungrateful guest I turn out to be.”

  “You were only responding to questions put to you,” Consuela said, sending another disapproving look in Bob’s direction.

  “Maybe so,” said Delaney. “But you can’t deny my response was awfully long-winded. The meat of it—what I should have gotten to a lot quicker in answer to the marshal’s question—is that the kind of business I’m thinking about getting into is a modest hardware store or maybe a gun shop. Or maybe a combination of the two, like Uncle Nick had. After all, he did leave me the money, which means he must have forgiven me to some extent. So it kinda seems right that I pay him back by continuing the same line of business. Plus it’s the only one I have any personal experience with.”

  “It sort of falls in line,” Bob agreed.

  “You could also say,” Delaney added, “that even this shooting contest at the Crystal Diamond fits in with that line of reasoning. Almost like an omen or something. Down in Cheyenne is where I heard about the big shoot being planned up this way. Talk is that those prize guns are worth as much as two or three thousand dollars. That’s a very tidy sum to add to what I’ve already got. So I win the contest on account of the shooting skills my uncle taught me, cash in the guns for as much as I can get out of ’em, and add that to my inheritance money, then find the right place to buy into and keep Uncle Nick’s line of business continuing almost unbroken.”

  “It does almost sound like destiny,” mused Consuela.

  Bob’s brow wrinkled skeptically. “Destiny . . . Omens . . . Hell, if it’s so preordained, I may as well shoot myself in the foot right now and not even bother showing up for that contest on Friday.”

  Bucky, returning from taking care of Delaney’s horse and catching just the tail end of Bob’s remark, looked equal parts puzzled and concerned as he said, “Why in the world would you want to do something as crazy as that, Pa?”

  Bob gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nothing to worry about, pal. It was just a figure of speech. Nobody’s getting shot in the foot, least of all me.”

  “But you’re still gonna do some more target shooting, though, ain’t you? You and Mr. Delaney, like you said?”

  As mentioned earlier, Bob had only just gotten around to telling Bucky and Consuela about his entry in the Crystal Diamond shooting contest on the ride out to the meadow. Consuela’s reaction had been more or less neutral. Bucky, however, had been instantly enthused to the point of looking like he might blow up and bust if he had to wait all the way until Friday.

  “If you’re up for running some more targets and Mr. Delaney is still interested,” Bob told his son, “I won’t argue against giving my Yellowboy a bit more of a workout.”

  Delaney nodded. “Fine by me. Like I said, it’s what I came out here to do anyway.”

  For the next forty-five minutes, Bob and Delaney took each other’s measure with their rifles. In so doing, each man was pushed near to his limit, and together they put on an exhibition of marksmanship about as fine as anybody was likely to ever witness.

  Bob shot with the ’66 Yellowboy that was his personal favorite. Delaney used a Winchester ’73. The latter, which Bob knew was the same model Vern Macy would be using in the contest and also the same as he’d seen carried by the confident, buckskin-clad Ben Eames at the signing earlier in the day, was fast becoming the most popular lever action rifle in the West. Bob expected he would be shooting against several ’73s come Friday, so he welcomed the test of going up against this one in the hands of someone as skilled as Delaney.

  Using targets supplied at the sign-up, duplicates of what was scheduled to be used in the official shoot, Bucky was kept busy running back and forth with the results of each round and then setting up fresh papers for the next. Each sheet was roughly double the size of a standard playing card, plain white background with a one-inch-diameter black circle in the center.

  The targets were impaled at equal heights on the snapped-off branches o
f two saplings standing four feet apart off toward one edge of the meadow. The men fired three-shot rounds at each target on each tree before Bucky would bring in the results. Starting at about eighty yards back, the spread of the shot patterns for each rifleman kept repeating at no more than a whisker’s difference. Bob’s might be a tiny margin tighter on one round, but then Delaney would better him slightly on the next.

  Gradually, they kept dropping back, increasing the distance from which were shooting. By the time they got to about a hundred and forty yards, the light had faded to a point where they were aiming as much by guess as by actual sighting. On the final round, Delaney outshot Bob cleanly. For the first time the difference in the spreads were significant—two of Bob’s rounds, one on each target, just barely catching the black dot bull’s-eye.

  “That’s it for me,” the marshal announced. “We back up any farther, I won’t be able to see the tree, let alone the target. You whipped me, Delaney.”

  “Naw, more like the darkness did both of us in,” Delaney countered. “We go at it again in full, bright daylight, I’d hate to be anybody going up against us. You’re one mighty fine marksman, Marshal. If I have to lose to somebody, I surely would find no dishonor in it being to you.”

  “Same goes for me,” Bob told him. “Let’s hope the bullets sail as true for us on Friday. If they do, I reckon we can at least expect to be in the thick of things.”

  “At the very least,” Delaney amended.

  CHAPTER 25

  It was dark by the time they got back to town. Delaney, unfamiliar with the area, rode on ahead to take advantage of as much of the dusk as he could. Bob was in no hurry with the team and buggy.

  The moon hadn’t yet risen but there was plenty of silvery illumination from the early wash of stars. In fact, it made for a nice, soft-feeling mood. Bucky, on the seat between his father and Consuela, was having a hard time keeping from nodding off. He lost the battle frequently as they rolled along, his head and thick tangle of red hair tipping over onto Consuela’s shoulder until a bump in the road stirred him into wakefulness again—though not for long.

  More than once, when the boy’s head was tipped in that manner, Bob glanced over at the picture made by the pair, together that way, and he would wonder what the hell was wrong with him for not accepting and openly embracing the obvious—that he was as much in love with Consuela as she was with him and all he had to do was say the word and the three of them could be officially bonded into the family they obviously already were.

  He hadn’t forgotten Consuela’s words from just the other day: “So I wait. And will continue to wait . . . But not forever.”

  If he wasn’t careful, he warned himself, he would again be faced with the kind of empty ache he’d had to endure after the passing of Priscilla. That’s how his forever would end up. The love of two beautiful, special women in a single lifetime was more than any one man had a right to expect. He’d better get his head straight before it all slipped away . . .

  Bob dropped Consuela and Bucky off at the house before returning the buggy and team to Peterson’s livery. When Bucky climbed down to go inside, Bob called after him to be sure and say his prayers before climbing into bed. Between yawns, the boy promised he would. In the doorway, Bucky stifled yet another yawn and looked back to say, “If the light had held, you could’ve beat Mr. Delaney at shooting. Couldn’t you, Pa?”

  Bob grinned. “I’d like to think so, pal. But he’s mighty good.”

  “I guess,” Bucky allowed grudgingly. Then, his mouth curving into a sly grin of his own, he added, “But nobody can outshoot Sundown Bob when he really sets his mind to it. Can they, Pa?”

  “Reckon we’ll find that out on Friday,” Bob told him. “Now scoot on in to bed.”

  After the boy had disappeared, Bob reached up and lifted Consuela down from the buggy. Once her feet touched the ground, his hands stayed on her waist for some added seconds. When he took them away, she remained standing very close.

  Gazing up at him, she said, “I had a very lovely time this afternoon, Bob. I hope you surprise us again in such a manner—and not wait so long next time.”

  “I’ll make it a point not to,” Bob promised. His expression souring a bit, he added, “I hope I didn’t ruin it by getting into a shooting contest with that Delaney fella. I meant for it to be just the three of us. I had no way of knowing he’d be showing up, of course, but when he did I . . . Well, like I said, I meant for it to be just the three of us.”

  “That’s all right,” Consuela said, touching his arm. “We had a perfectly fine time both before and after he came around. To tell the truth, once the two of you started shooting I found it kind of exciting. And there’s certainly no doubt that Bucky did. Now I’m looking forward to the contest on Friday more than I expected.”

  “You gonna be disappointed in me if I don’t win?”

  “Of course not. I may be disappointed for you, but never in you.”

  Bob’s brow wrinkled. “How about Bucky? You reckon he might think less of me if I come up short?”

  Consuela put her hands on her hips. “That’s too ridiculous to even answer. The way that boy looks up to you, how can you think anything would diminish you in his eyes?” She paused, an impish twinkle forming in her luminous dark eyes. “Of course, if you did call upon your inner Sundown Bob to help give you a bit of an edge, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind that, either . . . Nor would I.”

  * * *

  When Bob got to Peterson’s livery, he was somewhat surprised to find Joe still there, at work in one of the stalls on a nice-looking young stallion that had pulled up lame. Bob had intended to take care of the buggy team himself, stripping them down and releasing them into the corral. Joe told him not to bother, that he’d take care of it as soon as he was done wrapping the stallion’s leg.

  After sticking around to chew the fat for a few minutes, Bob headed up Front Street feeling loose and relaxed, feeling good. The jail was in the next block, however. Even though he had full confidence everything was in good hands and that stopping might only unsettle his mood, the marshal couldn’t bring himself to just walk on by and continue straight home.

  Vern Macy was sitting in a wooden chair in front of the desk, cleaning his rifle, when Bob walked in. “Hey, Marshal,” he greeted. “Wasn’t expecting to see you any more tonight.”

  “Just dropped off the buggy and team we were using. Thought I’d poke my head in for a minute,” Bob explained.

  “Well, everything is okay, the town’s nice and quiet, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Vern. “Leastways, as far as I know. Unless Fred and Peter come back from patrol and report something different.” He paused, flashed a faint grin. “But I ain’t heard no shooting or explosions or anything.”

  “That’s always a good sign,” Bob said dryly. He nodded toward the cell block at the rear of the building, accessible through a heavy door that stood a few inches ajar. “How about our guests? They behaving?”

  “More or less . . . Long as you don’t count stinkin’ to high heaven.”

  “You could close the door all the way,” Bob suggested. “That’d block most of it out of the front area here.”

  “Yeah, but it would bottle it up all the worse back there. Sooner or later one of us would have to go back into the thick of it. Might be more than a human body could bear.” Vern gave an exaggerated shudder before adding, “Besides, when Fred was training me and Peter he told us about a hundred times that when you got prisoners in the lockup you ought to leave that door open at least a crack so’s you got a better chance of hearing ’em in case they’re up to trying something sneaky.”

  “Can’t argue that. Come to think of it,” Bob said, “I think I was probably the one who drilled that into Fred when I was breaking him in.”

  “That would explain it, then. Fred holds pretty tight to most everything you say.”

  “The prisoners have any supper yet?”

  “Corn bread and molasses. Some black coffe
e,” Vern reported. “You said to keep it simple.”

  “That I did. Ain’t like they’re deserving of anything better.”

  “Hey! Is that the marshal I hear talkin’? Is that you out there, Hatfield?”

  The raspy, unmistakable voice of Moses Shaw called out from the cell block. Bob made a sour face, cursing himself for not listening to his own better judgment when he’d had the chance to keep right on walking past the jail. He toyed momentarily with the thought of signaling Vern to deny his presence but rejected that as a display that would look too spineless to his deputy.

  Sighing, Bob called back, “Yeah, I’m out here. What of it?”

  “How long you figure on keepin’ me and my boys penned up in this shithole, that’s what of it. So I let the liquor take hold of me and my tongue a little too strong. Wasn’t no serious harm done—just a good old-fashioned, knuckle-skinnin’ scuffle is all. You can’t keep us behind bars for very long just on account of that, can you?”

  “Sorta depends on what all I decide to charge you with,” Bob answered. “Skinning your knuckles on the heads of regular folks might not be such a big deal. But trading punches with law officers in the course of performing their duties, now that moves the bar up a few notches.”

  “You and your boys came out on top. Don’t that count for nothing?”

  “Not all that much”

  “Aw, come on, man! I can’t take bein’ caged up like this. I’m already feelin’ all itchy and squirmy and my throat is closin’ up so’s I can hardly breathe!”

  “He ain’t kiddin’, Marshal,” came the voice of one of the Shaw sons. “He’s lookin’ all wild-eyed and he’s pantin’ like an old dog pacin’ on the end of a chain when he’s caught the scent of a nearby bitch in heat.”

  “How about I have my deputy bring in a pan of cold water you can throw on him?” said Bob, at the same time giving Vern a wink. “But, then again, the splash of clean water on his mangy old hide might pitch him into an even worse fit.”

  “That ain’t funny, you cocky damn badge-toter!” roared Moses. “Come say that to my face without a set of bars between us.”