Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  Bucky’s eyes remained closed but he sensed that his father was looking at him. “Pa,” he said quietly, “do you think it would be okay if I was to add on a little something and ask God maybe to give you a bit of extra luck in the contest tomorrow?”

  Bob grinned. “I don’t think it would necessarily be a bad thing,” he said. “But I expect God has got His hands plenty full with a whole bunch of other stuff way bigger and more important than guiding the aim of one particular man in a shooting contest. Don’t you think it would be more reasonable to thank Him for the skill he’s already given me—as well as the other fellas in the contest who are all likely pretty good, too—and then leave it up to us to take those skills and go the rest of the way on our own?”

  Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes closed and his lips pressed tight together for a minute.

  Then: “Yeah, I reckon that way is the best, Pa . . . Amen.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The morning of the big day dawned sunless and gloomy. The sky was a flat sheet of metallic gray with a few wisps of darker, sooty-looking clouds curling around the edges. The air held a damp chill, and off to the northwest, somewhere above the mountains, a low belch of thunder could now and then be heard.

  On the tongues of some—mostly those who preferred thumping the Good Book over pulling the cork on a good bottle—there was dour talk that all the hype and hoopla paid for by August Gafford to see his saloon get off to a bang-up start meant nothing if a heavenly dousing was on tap against it.

  But so far not a drop had fallen, let alone a deluge, which left Gafford to loudly and confidently assure everybody that, at worst, if the rains came and postponed the shooting match, there would still be plenty to celebrate and enjoy when the Crystal Diamond officially opened its doors for business.

  Bob arrived on the scene early, milling amidst others who seemed to be steadily gathering in spite of the threatening sky. Consuela, who’d gotten there even ahead of him, served him a cup of coffee from the Bluebird Café booth. She had on a blue-checked gingham dress and a frilly white apron this morning, as opposed to the brightly colored off-the-shoulder blouses and skirts she usually wore around the house. Her glossy black hair was parted in the middle and pulled back into a loose bun. But none of it really mattered, Bob thought to himself; you could dress her in a gunnysack and hide her comb for a week and her smoldering beauty would still show through. And in a crowd of people, it only stood out all the more by comparison.

  “You’re staring. What’s the matter?” said Consuela, glancing down at herself and then reaching up to touch her hair. “Is there something wrong with the way I look?”

  “If there is, I sure can’t see it,” Bob told her. “The only problem might come when Alora Dane and her Diamond Dollies show up. If they see a pretty gal like you out here serving sandwiches and pie, they might refuse to take the stage until you’re removed from the premises—knowing they wouldn’t be able to compete, no matter how much leg they show or how high they kick.”

  Consuela blushed. “What’s gotten into you? A surprise picnic just the other day, a long evening spent at home last night with Bucky and me . . . and now compliments? I’m not saying I mind, I just don’t know where it’s all coming from so suddenly.”

  “Maybe I’m just smartening up in my old age.”

  “You’re not that old, but I won’t argue for fear of turning off whatever has triggered these changes.”

  Bob drank some of his coffee. “You know, I’ve been doing some thinking about those prize guns. I mean, I thought about ’em before but not necessarily from the perspective of being the one who might win them.”

  “You should have thought about them in that way all along. You’re an excellent shot and you have as good or better chance than anybody. Most people around town, in fact, see you as the favorite.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging. But there are a lot of other good shooters on that list, too. You already know Vern and you saw another one the other day in that Delaney fella.” Bob took another drink. “But what I was getting at is this: If I did happen to win, it could mean a lot to us. We could afford to fix up some of the chinks in that old house. Put in better windows, some nice curtains like you’ve talked about. Buy you a better stove and other foofaraws you’ve had to go without on a marshal’s wages. Put a little aside for a rainy day, even some for Bucky to go to engineering school or some such when he’s older. There’s value in those guns way beyond just as show-off pieces, ’Suela. Value enough to even start thinking about—”

  “Coming through! Important delivery coming through!” Bucky’s announcement as he arrived carrying a tray stacked with sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper cut off his father in midsentence.

  Consuela, who’d been hanging on Bob’s every word, thrilled by every mention of “us” and “we” and wildly anticipating where he was headed next, had all she could do to hold back an outburst of frustration over the interruption. But she managed to control it somehow, saying merely, “Put the tray here” as she patted a spot on the booth’s serving surface.

  Bucky delivered his load, completely innocent of knowing he’d inserted himself into the middle of anything. “These are beef sandwiches,” he told Consuela. “Mrs. Tuttle said she marked them with a B so you could tell. I have to go back now for some ham sandwiches and they’ll be marked with an H.”

  “B and H,” echoed Consuela. “That’s simple enough.”

  “Mrs. Tuttle also said to tell you that in a little while, before it’s time for the match to start, she’ll be sending another lady to take over the serving here at the stand so you and me can go watch Pa shoot.”

  “That will be fine.”

  “Do you have any dirty dishes for me to take back for washing?”

  “Hold out your tray. Here are some coffee cups you can return.”

  As Consuela piled on some cups, Bucky smiled up at Bob. “Won’t be long now, eh, Pa? You’re gonna win those fancy guns, I know you are.”

  “I’m gonna do my darnedest, pal,” Bob told him.

  “There you go,” said Consuela rather hurriedly as she put the last of the dirty cups on Bucky’s tray. “Be off with you, then. Careful not to break any. Try to bring back some clean ones along with the sandwiches. Tell Mrs. Tuttle that right now coffee is going the fastest.”

  “Will do.”

  As Bucky moved away, Consuela turned expectantly to Bob, hoping he would pick up with what he’d been about to say when he got cut off. But before he could say anything at all, another interruption showed up in the form of Deputy Fred hurrying through the throng.

  “Better grab your Yellowboy, boss, and get on over to the firing line,” he said. “They’re wanting all contestants accounted for and ready so they can start off right on time, ahead of that rain that looks like it might be moving in.”

  “Isn’t it awfully early? There’s still plenty of time,” Consuela protested.

  “Yeah, but it’s probably a good idea,” Bob said. “By the time they get the order picked, the targets set, and everybody where they want ’em . . . sometimes it can be like herding cats.”

  “Just so you know, the Shaws showed up a few minutes ago,” said Fred.

  “That’s too bad,” Bob muttered.

  “Looking rougher and ornerier than ever.”

  “They can look however they want to look. I can’t help that. But at the first hint of trouble, we’ll land on ’em with both feet.”

  “Don’t let them distract you from the contest. They’re not worth that,” Consuela advised.

  “Don’t worry about that, Miss Consuela,” Fred told her. “Me and Peter will keep a sharp eye on those Shaws so the marshal and Vern can concentrate all they need to on their shooting. I feel in my bones that one of ’em is gonna win.”

  “So do I,” said Consuela. She reached out and took Bob’s coffee cup with one hand. The other she brought forward and rested on his forearm for a lingering moment. Gazing up at him, she said, “I know b
etter than any how the path of your life has not always been an easy one. You are a good man who deserves some good luck. My wishes are that today is that time. And the hopes and plans you spoke of . . . I . . .”

  “I know,” Bob said softly when she was unable to find the right words to finish. Then he grinned. “But hey, don’t go painting that my luck has been all bad. I’ve got you and Bucky in my corner, don’t I?”

  CHAPTER 30

  The contest started precisely at ten.

  The range was marked out over a flat, open area directly behind the Crystal Diamond. Mike Bullock, Angus McTeague, and banker Abraham Starbuck were the somber-faced judges sitting on wooden folding chairs near the firing line. The prize guns, guarded by an even more somber-faced Simon Quirt, were displayed on a folding table that had been set up close by. A handful of nimble young boys who would serve as target runners were crouched in a pack on the sidelines, eagerly awaiting the call to bring in the first targets.

  August Gafford, not surprisingly, did the announcing for the event. He started by introducing each of the contestants—to varying degrees of applause, the lowest response being only the meager hand-claps of the three Shaw sons for Moses Shaw—and then giving a quick review of the rules.

  The initial round would be the twenty-four men shooting in six groupings of four, three shots each. The targets were initially set at eighty yards. Any round cutting outside the boundary, even marginally, of the one-inch-diameter center circle, meant immediate elimination. Rounds within the circle would be measured for distance of spread. The narrowest ones (ties were permissible) would advance; spreads measuring too wide would also mean elimination.

  Bob shot in the third grouping of the first round. By the time he stepped to the firing line, three men had already been eliminated. The marshal grouped his shots at just a whisker over a quarter inch. Two other men in his group tied him, one was eliminated.

  By the end of the first full round, seven of the starting twenty-four had been eliminated. The approaching thunder was growling more frequently and getting closer.

  To hurry things along, the judges unanimously ruled to skip the ninety-yard increment and set the targets for the next round at one hundred yards.

  Bob shot in the second grouping this time and once again advanced, keeping the spread of his rounds almost as tight as before. When the second round was completed, eight more men had been eliminated. The crowd of onlookers was increasing in size and buzzing louder with excitement. Bob blocked them out, concentrating on nothing but his rifle and the targets, taking cursory stock of the men left shooting against him.

  Vern was also still in the thick of it, grinning sheepishly the couple of times he caught Bob looking his way.

  Moses Shaw was still in it, too. No smiles, sheepish or otherwise, from him. Only an expression of grim concentration. The same expression, Bob thought, that he likely had worn as a Union sharpshooter picking off enemy soldiers. The long-standing question of whether or not those claims were true seemed to be answered once and for all here today. If the varmint hadn’t shot in the war, like he said, he sure as hell was proving to possess the skill to have been capable of it. What was more, the scarred, battered old Henry repeater he was chewing up targets with looked like it might have been around for just about as long.

  Nine men faced the targets at a hundred-ten yards. They were scheduled to shoot in three groupings of three.

  Bob took the line first. He fired his rounds at a steady, unhurried rhythm, and the trigger stroke of each one felt good, solid. Like they’d gone right where he wanted them to. Still, at that distance, he knew his spread wasn’t as tight as the previous times.

  When the targets were brought in and examined, he learned he was correct. His spread was pushing close to half an inch. Fortunately, so were some others. When the measuring was done, four more shooters were eliminated. Five advanced—and Bob was one of them.

  Five men now. Bob, Vern, Moses Shaw, Clayton Delaney, and Ben Eames, the buckskin-clad man looking to win himself some “tonier” winter digs.

  A hundred-twenty yards to the targets. With the sky growing steadily darker, the clouds showing movement, the thunder getting louder. But no one in the crowd was departing, not even the women or the aged. If anything, more were still packing in. And none of the officials dared even think about stopping or postponing the balance of the contest.

  The shooters took the firing line. As soon as he squeezed off his third round of this set, Bob knew he’d pulled it slightly. He cursed inwardly, certain he’d just scored an elimination. Once again, when the targets were brought in and examined, he proved to be correct. His third bullet had punched out near the edge of the circle, not breaking the boundary but nevertheless giving him an overall pattern spread of nearly three quarters of an inch.

  “Tough break, Bob,” said Mike Bullock, looking up from his judge’s chair as he held out Bob’s target.

  Bob’s mouth twisted wryly as he took the paper. “Guess I won’t be able to let you hang those fancy guns over your bar for a spell after all, Mike.”

  “Sonofabitch!”

  Looking around at the sudden exclamation, Bob saw Moses Shaw, standing before another of the judges, only a few feet down. He was crumpling up his paper target and throwing it to the ground. Bob turned and moved toward him. He sensed Vern fall in step beside him.

  “Trouble?” Bob asked in a neutral voice.

  Abraham Starbuck, the judge who’d apparently handed Shaw his target results, said, “Mr. Shaw didn’t fare too well that last round and is unhappy with the evidence.”

  “You’re damned right I ain’t happy about it,” Moses fumed. “This match should have been held off on account of these weather conditions.” He whirled one hand in the air to help make his point. “The thunder, the wind pickin’ up—it’s too distractin’ for a man to rightly concentrate, says I.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, I suppose,” said Starbuck. “But those conditions were being experienced by everyone else, too. There was nothing that focused them unfairly on just you.”

  Moses’s sons were edging up to the front of the crowd only a short distance away. They looked sullen and ready for trouble, their eyes narrowed, their mouths curled into sneers. Each had a rifle in the crook of his arm. On either side close behind them, however, Fred and Peter stood poised and ready in case they tried to make trouble.

  Bob saw fit to give them and their father a none-too-subtle reminder. “I warned you what would happen if you came back to town and started anything, Moses,” he said. “I allowed you to return for the sake of trying your luck in the contest. Well, you put in a damn good showing but you came up short. Just like me and a lot of other fellas. I don’t like it much, either, but that’s the way it is. The only thing that leaves is to accept it like a man, not bellyache and whine about it like a spoiled brat.”

  “Yeah, I’ll accept it,” Moses snarled. “I’ll accept that once again the Shaws get the shitty end of the shovel, just like always. Don’t know why I ever let my hopes get built up that there was any chance for it to turn out different.”

  “Never mind that high-talkin’ marshal and this whole stinkin’ town, Pop,” said Harley. “To hell with all of ’em. Us Shaws don’t need no fancy-ass set of guns to make us amount to something.”

  “That’s right, Pop,” chimed in Cyrus. “They can take their stupid prize guns and stick ’em—”

  “That’s enough!” barked the marshal. “You were given a fair chance, you came up short, and now all you’re doing is delaying the contest for everybody else who wants to see it finish up. So, since you’ve proven once again that you can’t act civilized around civilized folks, take your lousy attitudes and dirty mouths and get out of here.”

  Moses stood his ground, glaring hard at Bob for a long, tense moment. Then he tipped his head in a barely perceptible nod. “Okay for now, Hatfield. Okay . . . for now.”

  A long, low growl of thunder rumbled across the sky as Moses spun on hi
s heel and bulled off into the crowd, his sons leading the way, roughly shouldering a path through whoever got in their way.

  Bob gestured to Fred and Peter. “You know the routine. Follow ’em to the edge of town, make sure they don’t do anything rash. Get on back here as quick as you can.”

  A sudden, cold gust of wind whipped across the firing range and into the crowd, lifting hats and bonnets and causing ladies to bend forward quickly in order to keep their skirts from billowing up.

  “We’d better hurry up and get on with this,” hollered Angus McTeague, clutching a handful of fluttering paper targets to his chest. “This storm ain’t gonna hold off much longer.”

  “By all means,” agreed August Gafford. “The targets are now set at one hundred–forty yards. Who are our remaining shooters?”

  “That means you. Better step up there, kid,” Bob said to Vern.

  Vern shook his head. Then, with a lopsided grin, he held up his last target and said, “Afraid not. I didn’t get a chance to show you before ol’ man Shaw cut loose, but that last distance did me in, too.” The target he was holding out showed how one of his latest set of rounds had sliced a hair past the outer boundary of the center circle.

  So it was down to only two remaining shooters. Clayton Delaney and Ben Eames.

  The men stepped up to the firing line. Each looked very intent. Increasing gusts of wind buffeted them.

  “Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” said Gafford, the expression on his face having turned oddly anxious.

  The men put their rifles to their shoulders and fired quickly, confidently. Six shots cracked amidst another rumble of thunder. And then, like an exclamation point marking the conclusion, a pitchfork of lightning sizzled down across the western sky.

  The target chasers came racing back with the targets. The three judges took the pieces of paper and leaned together, murmuring, heads bobbing.

  After a brief examination, Abe Starbuck lifted his head and announced in a loud voice, “We have a winner—Mr. Clayton Delaney!”