“Put that gun down!” I yelled. She lowered the pistol and looked embarrassed. “Never point a gun at someone … unless you plan to shoot them. Damn.”
“My husband said that. I apologize. I forgot.”
I walked to the buggy and held out my hand. “May I see your gun?” She handed it over. I emptied the chamber and dry fired it several times. It had not been modified. The pull was long and hard. I never liked double-action pistols because the trigger finger had to do all the work, which made it hard to shoot straight—especially for a second shot. A single-action pistol distributed the burden between the thumb and the trigger finger, making the actual firing so easy that a cocked pistol became dangerous—too dangerous for Mrs. Baker. Her husband had been a wise man.
After I reloaded the Colt, I handed it back to her and said, “Let’s see how you do. Take it slow. Hold the gun with both hands, aim, and squeeze the trigger.”
She looked at the line of bottles, raised the gun with both hands, and fired almost instantly. Before I could tell her to take it easy, she had emptied the gun. All the bottles were still safely intact.
I reloaded the Colt for her and handed it back, “This time, slow down. Focus on the front sight.” She took the gun and slowly brought it up on the bottles. “Take a deep breath.”
She inhaled slowly, but as soon as she expelled the breath, she fired all six shots in rapid order. She missed every bottle, but I had discovered her most serious problem.
“You’re closing your eyes,” I said.
She gave me a condescending look. “I am not.”
“You are. You’re scared of the gun. It won’t hurt you: It’s meant to hurt others. Relax. Shoot once, and count to three before you fire again.”
“I’m not scared. I’ve carried this pistol for six months. I’m as comfortable with it as I am with my fountain pen.”
“That’s a lie, Mrs. Baker. I’ve seen your penmanship. You write straight, and you stay on the piece of paper. Pens don’t make loud noises. You’re afraid of the bang.”
“Mr. Dancy—” She thrust her shoulders back again. “You put those bottles too far away, and I’ve shot only a few times. I’ll get the hang of it. I learn fast … and I’m not scared.”
“I apologize. I’m just irritated that I collected so many bottles. I didn’t know I’d need only a couple.”
“You have no cause to be impolite.”
I handed her the loaded pistol. “Please try again.”
We were into the second box of cartridges before she had hit two bottles. Finally, I asked, “Why do you want to learn to shoot?”
“To protect myself. I may be in that store alone, and I’ll certainly walk home alone at times. Men in this town believe that every unattached woman can be bought or simply taken.”
I examined the distance to the line of bottles. “Excuse my brazenness, but a man must be close in order to take advantage of you.”
She followed my eyes. “I told you that you put those bottles too far away.”
“I agree. My error. I was thinking like a man.”
I grabbed the burlap bag by a bottom corner and shook out the bottles. Then I tucked the edges of the bag into the rough bark of a nearby tree. I stood back and assessed the height—just about right for a man’s chest.
“Come here,” I said. “I want you to stand close—arm’s length. Put the gun in your coat pocket.” I pointed at the bag. “Pretend this is the hairy chest of an ugly brute that wants to rape you.” Her head snapped back at my use of the word rape. “Don’t use two hands, just pull the gun out of your coat and thrust it into his chest and pull the trigger—three times. Understand?”
“Perfectly.” She became calm but then looked hateful as she drew the pistol and put three bullets into the exact center of the bag. The burlap smoldered from the gun flash, but what I noticed was the grin on Mrs. Baker’s handsome face. “I told you I wasn’t afraid of guns.”
“No, you’re not.” I’d found something she feared more. “My error. Let’s do that again.”
We spent the next half hour practicing very close-range shooting. Mrs. Baker became increasingly proficient. She even asked to shoot at the bottles again and did better.
As I was about to assist her into the buggy, she said, “See, you placed those bottles too far away. No one can hit them all the time.”
I couldn’t resist. My Colt .45 filled my hand before I whirled around to blast all three remaining bottles in an eyeblink.
As the echo died away, I heard her whisper, “Oh, my God.”
Without a word, I took her elbow and helped her climb into the buggy.
Chapter 35
On the fourth day, our first Indian entered the store—it was Red.
Mrs. Baker was out, eating lunch with a woman friend, so we ignored Red until we finished serving other customers. Red wandered to the back and pretended to be interested in ropes and canteens. Once the other customers left, I sent my two young helpers to exercise Chestnut and Sharp’s horse. I had done this on most days and knew they would be gone for well over an hour. After they left, I closed the shade, locked the door, and put up a closed sign. When I turned around, I was surprised to find Red right on my heels. I hadn’t heard a footfall.
I opened with, “When did you arrive?”
“Two days ago.”
Sharp had joined us by this time and demanded, “Why didn’t ya let us know?”
“No need.” He turned toward the stove. “Got coffee?”
“Cold,” Sharp snapped. “Ya could have let us know without makin’ a big show of it.”
“Heat some.” Red made a sweep of the place with his eyes. “Not much stock.”
“We lowered prices and ended up selling more than we expected.” I led the three of us away from the door and toward the back of the shop. “We still have some basic necessities, and we’ll get a shipment from Denver in a couple of days.”
“Too late. We’ll be on the trail.”
“Somethin’s happened?” Sharp asked excitedly.
“No.”
We both waited for Red to elaborate, but he just glanced at the stove again. I hurried over and moved the morning coffee remains onto the hot stovetop.
When I turned around again, Sharp asked, “Have ya seen McAllen?”
“Yep.”
“Come on, Red,” Sharp prompted. “What did McAllen tell ya? Talk to us, for God’s sake. Words ain’t half eagles, ya know.”
For the first time since I had known him, Red looked taken aback. It had probably never occurred to him that his taciturn nature frustrated us. When he was on the trail, he was alone or with the almost equally terse McAllen. In settlements, he probably had learned the easiest way to get along with townsfolk was to keep quiet.
After a moment, he said, “Last night, McAllen told Vrable he hired on again with Pinkerton and demanded a letter from his daughter before he would go one step further.” He gave Sharp an intent look. “Ain’t got no more news. Like I said, nothing’s happened.”
“Hell, Red,” Sharp said lightly, “that’s news enough. It means we’re still workin’ the plan. That damn Ute might enter our store at any moment.”
“Bad plan.”
“Why?” Sharp demanded.
“Indian might go to another shop or already have what he needs for a short trip into the mountains.”
I jumped in. “No other shops cater to Indians, and our prices are the lowest. If he needs supplies, he’ll come here. Besides, he’ll probably need a pencil and paper.”
“Maybe … maybe not.”
Sharp shook his head. “Got any better ideas?”
“I’m encamped on that hill. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Figured out which one yet?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Then we got two ways to know if he leaves,” I offered.
Red shrugged. He obviously didn’t care for my scheme.
“Are you ready to ride?” he asked.
; “Everything’s already at the livery,” I said.
Red walked to the stove and poured himself a cup of boiling coffee. We both watched him gulp it down as if it were cold. Then he snapped the empty cup on the counter and walked toward the door. With his hand on the latch, he said, “If you got any more stock in the back, haul it forward and spread it around. You look like you’re goin’ out of business.”
“Any other words of advice?” Sharp asked.
“Nope, but your coffee tastes like bull piss.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Sharp answered. “Never tasted bull piss.”
The doorbell tinkled as Red opened and closed the door on his way out. We stood there for a second and then both burst out laughing.
Chapter 36
The next day, Bob Grant sauntered into the store. I was alone because Sharp had gone to the bakery to buy a loaf of bread for lunch, the boys were exercising our horses again, and it was Mrs. Baker’s day off. We hadn’t seen Grant since that dinner when he had met with McAllen. I felt uneasy about his visit, although I was glad our supplies had arrived, and we looked like a prosperous enterprise.
After glancing around a bit, he walked over to where I stood and leaned against the counter. “How’s business?”
“Better each day,” I responded casually.
“Seen the captain?”
“No. And it’s just Joseph McAllen now. He quit the Pinkertons.”
“Rejoined, I hear.” He gave me a queer look. “Thought you were friends?”
“He was in my employ once. My partner’s known him for years, but he says McAllen keeps to himself these days.”
“You friendly with other people in town?”
I didn’t like that question. “Only Jeff Sharp.”
“Mrs. Bolton?” he asked, with an arched eyebrow and menacing grin.
I used a rag to wipe the counter. “She slipped my mind.”
“You haven’t slipped hers.”
Where was this leading? I decided to take a cue from Red and remained silent.
After Grant saw that I wasn’t going to respond, he added, “I’m surprised to find a man of your talents tending a general store. I’d heard about that Durango killing, but I didn’t know about your gunplay in Nevada until Mrs. Bolton told me.”
I remained quiet and continued to wear what I hoped was a blank expression.
Grant leaned all the way over the counter until he rested on his forearms. “Don’t worry, I’m not in cahoots with that old battle-axe.” He winked. “She asked, but I got my own plans.”
“Glad to hear it. Otherwise, I’d have to shoot you where you stand.”
Grant jerked upright and looked a bit frightened. “I’m unarmed. That’d be murder.”
I pulled my gun and cocked it in his face. I tilted my head to the side as if contemplating whether to shoot him. After a moment, I said evenly, “I got plenty of guns under the counter. One of them would be fired and warm in your hand by the time the law showed up.”
He stared down the gun barrel as if he could dodge the bullet if he saw it coming. “You’d never be able to explain why I’d come after you, a known gunfighter.”
“I don’t know why, some damn feud with McAllen, I suppose. You probably thought I was on his side.”
He finally met my eyes, but his voice was a bit shaky. “Are you?”
I slowly holstered my Colt while I kept my eyes riveted on his. “If I was, I’d have shot you. Now, get the hell out of my store.”
Grant visibly relaxed. “Shooting me wouldn’t be doing McAllen a service. We’re partners.”
“Great for you. Now, get out … and when you see Mrs. Bolton, tell her you’ve reconsidered, and you won’t be doing her bidding.”
“I already told you I said no to her.”
I drew my gun again, but this time I laid it carefully on the counter. “For your sake, you better not be lying. I’ve killed a lot of men, and adding you to the list wouldn’t bother me in the least.”
“I’m not lying … I’m partnered with McAllen, not Mrs. Bolton.”
“I don’t give a shit about McAllen, but if I see you with Bolton or hear about you talking to her, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. And don’t try to wear McAllen like some kind of damn shield. He’s Sharp’s friend, not mine … and lately he hasn’t been too friendly to Sharp either.”
Grant turned his back to me and nearly sprinted out of my shop.
Had I handled this situation properly? I wasn’t sure. Grant took me by surprise, and I had gone with my instincts. He sure didn’t come in to tell me he had turned Mrs. Bolton down. Bat Masterson had warned me, but Grant didn’t have scruples. He had another purpose, and putting my cocked gun in his face diverted him from where he had wanted to take the conversation. The tactic had left me in the dark, but my threat had, I hoped, convinced him that Sharp and I were no longer connected to McAllen. Although he might have bought my attempt to jigger the truth, I reminded myself that the man was clever as hell.
A little later, Sharp returned with a loaf of bread and a block of cheese as I was bundling in brown paper two pairs of Levi’s, two shirts, and four pairs of socks for a customer. The boys came right behind, out of breath, jostling each other to see who got through the door first. Before leaving for the bakery, Sharp had done his magic with a can of beans, so we had enough food to feed the four of us.
As we ate, I told Sharp about Grant. He guessed that, despite what Grant said, he might be weighing the offer from Mrs. Bolton and had come in to size me up. If so, he thought my aggressive response might dissuade him from partnering with her. I certainly hoped so.
Close to seven in the evening, I sent the boys home. We were about to close, when a mean-looking Indian came into the store. I hadn’t noticed him at first because I had been in the back getting the stove and coffeepot ready for the morning. As I walked up front, my heart pumped faster when I spotted Sharp and this Indian in some kind of staring duel.
“Can I help you?” Sharp finally asked, with a challenging edge.
“Thought you was prospectin’ in the hills.”
“Ya beat on me in front of the only guides willing to leave town in autumn … ya kinda discouraged ’em.”
The Indian returned to staring. When he spoke again, his tone said he was not joking. “I don’t like you.”
“I gathered,” Sharp retorted.
For an instant, the Indian looked confused by Sharp’s lack of curiosity about why he didn’t like him. “Perhaps you didn’t gather well enough. You’re still hangin’ around.”
Without a word, Sharp ripped off his apron and marched around the counter. “Perhaps ya’d like to try again. This time I’ll see ya comin’.”
Another damn staring duel, but before I could intervene, the Indian simply said, “Not today. Got things to do.”
“Ya got money? If not, get outta my store.”
The Indian slid a double eagle onto the counter. “Will that do, storekeep?”
“What’d ya need?”
“Canned food, coffee, blankets, matches … four blankets.”
“Any particular canned food?” Sharp asked.
“Beans and fruit. Any kind of fruit. Twenty-eight cans of beans, fourteen cans of fruit.”
“Cornmeal, flour, sugar? Dried meats?”
“I’ll get corn and meat from my people. Got no use for sugar. Get me twenty feet of rope and fish hooks.”
I stepped up to the counter. “Jeff, you round up the supplies, and I’ll tot up the numbers.” I turned toward the Indian after getting Sharp out of the way. I pointed at the gold coin with my pen. “That may not be enough.”
He decided to try his skill at staring with me. After winning the contest, he said, “I got more. Get me what I asked.”
I nodded. “Need a hand carrying?”
“No. I’ll make two trips.”
“One of my boys can bring the goods up in the morning. No charge … other than a small tip, of course.”
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“You don’t listen good, do you?”
I feigned indifference. “Make two trips then, but we close at seven. If you haven’t returned by then for the second load, you’ll find the rest of your order stacked inside the door in the morning.”
“You wait. I need those goods first light.”
I stared now. After I thought I had made my point, I said, “Don’t dally, or you’ll find the door locked.”
“If I find the door locked, I’ll burn this store to the ground.”
“No, you won’t. The law’s probably already looking for an excuse to lock you up.” A subtle flinch told me that I was right. I hesitated. “We’ll wait a reasonable time, but I have an important dinner engagement.”
“Go. I’ll deal with your shopkeeper.”
“That’s my partner … and you can’t come in here when either of us is alone. Ever. You beat Mr. Sharp for no reason. Now you can do business in this store only if both of us are present.” I let my right hand drop alongside my Colt. “We wear guns. If you enter this store and see only one of us, stay by the door until the other can come out front. Otherwise, we shoot.” Another pause. “Do you understand?”
“I ought to kill you for talking like that.”
“You got that backwards, you son of a bitch. I ought to kill you for beating my friend. And before you do something foolish, ask around about me. Now, move back toward the door until we gather up your order.”
“You ask around about me, shopkeeper. I’ve killed men with a knife—men that thought they were good with a gun.”
I told myself to get control of my emotions. If we were right, this Indian wasn’t going to take this challenge too far, because he had been given a mission. We also weren’t going to start a fight with him, because for our plan to work, we needed him to complete that mission. It occurred to me that I had threatened two men today. With Grant it was mostly theater, but I had almost lost it completely with this Indian. In both cases, I had used my reputation—a reputation I told myself was an accident of circumstances. I needed to think about that. Civilized men don’t normally get into verbal spats that end in gunplay.
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