by J. T. Edson
‘Because they’re rich enough to hire poor bastards like me to come and do it,’ Burbury replied. ‘I met you when I came in, Mr. Gilpin.’
‘This’s Mr.—’ Gilpin began, giving a hint for an introduction.
‘Smith,’ the Texan supplied and grinned. ‘Damned if I don’t change it to Featherstone, or some such, way folks look when I tell them.’
‘I’ll bet you have trouble taking your wife into a hotel where they don’t know you,’ Burbury chuckled. ‘Had a friend called “Brown” once and he had to quit taking his wife on the road with him because of it.’
‘I’m not married,’ Smith replied, just a touch bitterly. Then he stiffened slightly. There was no sense in brooding about Sally. Her folks had not considered a man without forefingers capable of supporting her and had taken her away from Texas. ‘But I still have trouble getting into hotels.’
‘So do I,’ Burbury admitted. ‘Anyways, I was never much on “mistering”. Some’d say I should be, seeing that my pappy done a meanness and had me christened Cedric. My friends call me “Ric”.’
‘Say “Wax” if it comes easier than “Smith”,’ the Texan offered. ‘How about having another drink on me, gents?’
‘Let me set them up,’ Burbury requested. ‘Say, did you fellers hear about the little coon who was always running away to play in the woods?’
‘Can’t rightly say’s I have,’ Smith admitted.
‘Well, gents, it was this way,’ Burbury elaborated, with the easy delivery of a skilled bar-room raconteur. ‘His mammy got worried about it and figured to give him some advice. “Rastus,” she says, “You’s going to get lost running in dem woods. So if you does, this’s how you gets home. You spreads your arms like dis—”’ Pausing, he elevated his hands, palms up, to shoulder level. ‘And you say, “Lord, I’s lost!” and de Lord will give you guidance.” About a week later, Rastus went into the woods and, sure enough, he got lost. After a spell, he remembered his mammy’s advice and did like she said. And just then a bird flew over and dropped some, right in the palm of his hand. Rastus looked up into the sky and shouted, “Lord! You-all stop handing me that shit. I really is lost!”’
The laughter which greeted the story coincided with the arrival of the stage coach. That put an end to Smith’s hopes of learning about Widow’s Creek and its mayor. Raising the bar’s entrance flap, Gilpin stepped through and headed towards the door. Coming from the kitchen, Mrs. Gilpin joined her husband on the porch to welcome and check the numbers of the guests. Turning, Smith hooked his elbows on and rested his back against the counter. Then, in a casual-seeming gesture, his left hand moved across to grip the fingers of the right glove. Until he saw who had arrived, he figured it best to be ready for trouble. Apparently attaching no importance to the Texan’s movements, Burbury continued to lean by Smith’s side.
‘Wonder if there’s anybody on board worth knowing?’ the drummer remarked, finishing his drink and setting down the glass.
‘Schuyler, Hartley or Graham might be along,’ Smith suggested.
‘Sure,’ Burbury replied. ‘You often see folks you don’t want to come off a stage.’
Pondering briefly on the drummer’s cryptic utterance, Smith listened to the commotion outside. Followed by the passengers carrying their overnight bags, Mrs. Gilpin returned. Although the rain was falling heavily, the people from the stage had avoided it until making the brief journey from the stage to the porch.
Neatly dressed in a stylish, but practical, grey serge travelling costume—which emphasized rather than concealed a magnificent hour-glass figure—with a dainty hat perched on her somewhat disheveled blonde hair, a tall, eye-catching young woman was in the lead. There was a maturity and confidence to her beautiful features and a glint in her eyes that suggested experience mingled with cynicism. She seemed obvious of Mrs. Gilpin’s cold, distant manner as the other indicated the door to the women’s sleeping quarters.
‘Now there’s a gal who’s used to being looked at by men and frowned on by “good” women,’ Burbury commented, studying the blonde with frankly lascivious approval. ‘I’ll bet she’s in the theatre, or works in a saloon.’
‘Likely,’ Smith agreed, having formed a similar opinion from the beautiful woman’s poise and sensual, almost feline, hip-swaying prowl of a walk. ‘Mrs. Gilpin sure doesn’t cotton to her.’
‘Nor the other women on the stage, I’ll bet,’ Burbury grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind “dovetailing” with her, though.’
‘Or me,’ Smith admitted. ‘I wonder who got her?’
‘I’ve never been that lucky,’ Burbury declared. ‘Last time I “dovetailed”, it was with a fat widow-woman, and I thought I’d have to fight my legs free.’
Smith grinned sympathetically, while studying the other travelers. When a stagecoach had to carry a large number of passengers, an extra seat would be fitted inside. Those occupying it had to interlock, ‘dovetail’ their knees between the knees of the person who sat facing them. It was not a situation regarded favorably by ‘good’ women compelled to travel that way.
In the assortment of passengers following the blonde was a cross-section of the population west of the Mississippi. Two obviously well to do dudes and their wives—the latter clearly sharing Mrs. Gilpin’s antipathy towards the blonde—headed the party. Behind them ambled a small, black-hatted and dressed man whose austere cast of features suggested that he might be a preacher. A burly farmer in his best go-to-town clothes and undented chimney-pot hat, with the narrow, curly brim favored by the Grange, stalked glumly on the heels of a runty, grizzled old timer who looked like a desert-rat prospector cleaned up a mite for travelling. Clad in sunbonnet, cheap coat and gingham dress, the farmer’s wife scuttled in. She darted glances over her shoulder at a trio of flashily and nattily attired drummers who exchanged remarks as they fetched up the rear of the group. Unless some of them had been riding on top, they must have been ‘dovetailing’ during the journey.
Seeing the McCobb brothers hovering on the porch, Smith prepared to draw off his glove. They stood aside, allowing the stationmaster to enter accompanied by a man who must be their uncle. Carrying a Stetson hat with its crown raised in a Montana peak, Sheriff McCobb was clearly aware of his exalted post in the county. Tall, thick-set and overweight, he wore a town suit and Napoleon-leg boots. The star on his jacket’s breast pocket glinted as if polished regularly. Slanting down to his right leg, a gunbelt supported a Remington 1875 Army revolver.
As the brothers followed their uncle, they scowled in Smith’s direction. Gilpin was called over by one of the dudes and Billy stepped up to the sheriff. Holding his voice down, the deputy spoke quickly and Smith knew that he was the topic being mentioned. Joining his brother and uncle, Angus added his quota to the brief conversation. While the trio talked, McCobb fanned his surly, sweating face with the Stetson and looked Smith over from head to toe.
‘That lawman seems tolerable took with you, Wax,’ Burbury remarked.
‘Us Texans get folks that way, sometimes,’ Smith answered. ‘Well, they do say attack’s the best means of defense.’ With that, he pushed from the bar and strolled towards the McCobbs. ‘Evening, sheriff.’
‘Howdy,’ the peace officer answered, seeming a mite disconcerted. ‘My neph—deputies tell me they had trouble with you earlier.’
‘Just a misunderstanding,’ Smith corrected, conscious that the drummer had followed him from the bar and stood listening to what was said.
‘I don’t follow you,’ McCobb began.
‘They should have showed their badges, instead of counting on folks knowing they was peace officers,’ Smith explained. ‘Which I don’t have to tell a lawman of your standing that, according to Article Eleven, Section Twenty-Three, Line Sixty-One of the Wyoming Territorial Charter, every officer of the law, unless on special assignment authorized by his superior, must wear his badge of office visibly at all times. ‘Course, they might be on a special assignment—’
‘Er—Humph! Yes,’ t
he sheriff barked. They are.’
‘If they’d said so, instead of rough-talking, I’d’ve been more inclined to listen,’ Smith continued. ‘I don’t need to explain to a man like you how I can’t let just anybody roust me around, sheriff.’
‘Well, I—’ McCobb commenced, hesitantly.
‘The Gover— I’m not showing my badge, either,’ Smith went on. ‘So they wasn’t to know.’
Being aware of his nephews’ natures, the sheriff did not doubt that they had provoked the trouble. Nor had he believed their version when they had told it to explain why they had been delayed in meeting the stagecoach. Like them, he could not place Smith and felt equally impressed by the Texan’s command of legal knowledge. McCobb had never seen a copy of the Wyoming Territorial Charter, but had no intention of admitting his ignorance.
‘You’re working for—?’ the sheriff started to say.
‘I’m not showing my badge,’ Smith interrupted pointedly. ‘It’s nothing in your county, sheriff, but I can’t say any more.’
‘Of course not, nor need to,’ McCobb boomed. The boys acted a mite hasty and’re sorry they did. I hope there’s no hard feelings?’
A man on a special assignment for the Governor must not be antagonized.
‘Not on my part,’ Smith answered in the manner of conferring a favor. They’re young is all. But with an officer of your caliber to guide them, they’ll grow to be a credit to law enforcement.’
‘What was all that about?’ Burbury inquired as McCobb strode away in a self-important manner.
‘I had doings with those two knob-heads,’ Smith replied, watching the sheriff addressing the brothers with sotto voce vehemence. Throwing worried looks his way, they brought their badges from under their jackets and pinned them on the lapels. ‘Let’s eat.’
‘I’m for that,’ the drummer admitted. ‘Only not at the big table. Most of them bunch from the stage’d put me off my food.
Hey, though, you must know the Wyoming Territorial Charter real well, way you quoted that Article down to its line.’
‘Let’s put it this way,’ Smith drawled, leading the way to a side table. ‘I wouldn’t even know if they have a Charter, but I figured the sheriff didn’t either.’
Chapter Three – A Friendly Game of Put-and-Take
Having taken seats facing each other, Smith and Burbury turned their attention to the other guests. Smith noticed a sardonic smile flicker to the drummer’s face as the passengers gathered at the long main table in the centre of the room. Clearly Burbury shared the Texan’s feelings at the manner in which the social distinctions were being maintained.
Drawn like iron-filings to a magnet, the drummers and the McCobb brothers gathered around the blonde as she sat at the left hand end of the table. Pointedly, the dudes’ wives left several empty chairs between their party and the blonde’s. Looking smugly important, Sheriff McCobb placed himself next to the elder male dude. The soberly-dressed little man and the old prospector selected places at the opposite end to the blonde. After studying the others, the farmer directed his wife to occupy one of the small side tables.
‘I’ll bet those dudes’re wishing they didn’t have their wives with them,’ Burbury commented. They keep eyeing that blonde gal real interested.’
‘So do you,’ Smith pointed out.
‘I’m smart,’ grinned the drummer. ‘I don’t have no wife to bring along.’
Mrs. Gilpin’s kitchen staff appeared and she told a girl to serve Smith and Burbury. Coming over, the girl set down her loaded tray. While she was handing the Texan a plate of boiled potatoes and stew, the front door opened to admit a man.
Halting just inside the room, the newcomer shook water from his sodden Stetson and subjected the occupants to a wary scrutiny. He was tall, gaunt, unshaven and clad in dirty range clothes. Unlike the hat, his other garments had only a slight sprinkling of rain on them although his boots were muddy. As his eyes roamed from face to face, he kept his right hand dangling close to the wooden grips of the Peacemaker in its tied-down holster.
Although Smith gave no sign of noticing, he was aware that the man’s gaze halted on him for a couple of seconds. Acting casually, the Texan lowered his hands out of the man’s sight under the table. Even as he started to ease off the right glove, the eyes left him. From Smith, the newcomer turned to study Sheriff McCobb. Displaying no concern over the peace officer’s presence, the newcomer slouched towards a table on the opposite side to the farmer and sat down facing the main door.
‘That’s a mean-looking bastard,’ Burbury remarked and grinned apologetically at the girl. It’s Eye-talian for a nice feller, honey.’
‘Last feller who said it reckoned it was German for somebody’s uncle,’ she replied, passing the drummer a knife, fork and spoon. There’s apple turn-over next.’
‘Did you know that feller, Wax?’ Burbury inquired, after the girl had gone to serve the farmer and his wife.
‘Can’t come out and say “yes” to that,’ Smith answered. ‘Should I know him?’
‘Likely not,’ the drummer admitted, whipping out a large white handkerchief and tucking it like a napkin into his shirt’s detachable celluloid collar. ‘Hey! This stew looks real good. I’ve had some mighty bad meals at way stations.’
‘And me,’ drawled Smith, then started to eat.
‘Do you do much travelling?’
‘Some. I work for the Smith Land and Cattle Company down in Texas.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it.’
‘We’ve not been going long,’ Smith explained.
‘Good cattle country, Texas,’ Burbury remarked. ‘Bet you’ll not be sorry to be getting back.’
‘Yeah,’ Smith replied flatly. A roar of laughter rose from the blonde’s party and he nodded towards them. ‘Sounds like they’re having fun.’
‘Sounds like,’ the drummer agreed and tucked into his stew with evidence of a good appetite.
Two more men entered while Smith and Burbury were waiting for their apple turn-over to arrive. Although they each carried a gun in a fast-draw holster, neither exhibited the caution of the earlier arrival. Both were tall, slim and elegantly dressed. The younger had a handsome, if sullen face. Under his open fish, his clothes might have served for an illustration of the latest cowhand fashion. Swarthily good-looking and maybe ten years his companion’s senior, the other looked as if he had just left a card game on a Mississippi river-boat. He sported a white, flat-topped, broad-brimmed planter’s hat. Removing his cloak coat showed him to have on a cutaway jacket, white frilly-bosomed shirt, string tie and light-grey trousers tucked into muddy Wellington half-boots.
‘Fancy pair,’ Barbury remarked as the couple walked by and took a side table. ‘Wonder if the young ’n’ ever worked with cattle?’
‘His partner sure never handled anything heavier than a deck of cards, or a gun,’ Smith guessed. ‘I didn’t hear them ride by.’
‘Or me. Which they’d have to if they’d come east along the stage trail,’ the drummer replied. ‘Let’s hope the apple turnover’s as good as the stew.’
Flicking a glance at his companion, Smith felt puzzled. Burbury sat back on his chair, gazing blandly to where the blonde and her party were making a noisy meal. There was something wrong about the drummer. Just what, Smith could not put his finger upon. While he acted in an amiable, friendly manner, he still caused the Texan to have an uneasy sensation that all was not as it should be. Maybe it was his habit of asking questions, or making comments which ran parallel to Smith’s own thoughts.
With their meal over, Smith and Burbury crossed to the bar. At the main table, various diners rose and left. Laughing and promising to come back, the blonde walked away from her party. Followed by almost every male eye, she disappeared into the women’s room. Having been deprived of their mutual bond, the brothers and the drummers separated.
About to follow the drummers to the bar, the brothers were halted by their uncle. Smith had watched the sheriff excuse himself fr
om the dudes and guessed that he would be the reason for McCobb’s actions. Sure enough, the sheriff started to talk quietly but with some emphasis. Smith could not catch the words, but figured McCobb must be warning them about their conduct. When Billy and Angus left their uncle, they went to the far end of the bar. That put the drummers and some distance between them and the Texan; which suited Smith admirably.
Dad Derham took up position behind the bar, a soiled apron over his working clothes. Greeting Smith, he explained Gilpin’s absence. Apparently the party of dudes were important Chicago folks, with letters of introduction from the Governor and other civic dignitaries at the capital. So they had been asked to spend the night at the Gilpins’ house, instead of having to share the ordinary passengers’ accommodation. Having ingratiated himself with the visitors, McCobb had been included in the offer.
‘Likely they only fed in here to see how the poor folks live,’ grinned the old hostler. ‘Anyways, I don’t reckon we’ll see any more of them tonight.’
‘Which I’ll live through,’ Burbury declared. ‘Who I do want to see is that blonde gal.’
‘You mean Lily Shivers?’ Derham asked. ‘She’s some gal. Runs the Happy Bull saloon in Widow’s Creek. Her and Wil Jeffreys don’t get on too good.’
‘How about some service, barkeep?’ called one of the drummers.
‘Be right there,’ Derham promised.
‘Afore you go,’ Burbury said. ‘Do you know that mean-looking cuss there?’
‘Nope,’ the old timer admitted. ‘I could guess what he is, though.’
‘And me,’ Burbury admitted. ‘How’d he come in?’
‘Dunno,’ Derham replied and stumped off to answer a further request for service from the three drummers.
‘You seem tolerable interested in that hombre,’ Smith remarked to Burbury.
‘His kind make me uneasy,’ the burly man confessed. ‘I’m carrying a fair-sized wad of folding money. Enough to make a hold-up worth trying.’
Leaving their wet hats and outer jackets at the table they had used, the gambler and his dandy-dressed companion crossed to the bar. They took up positions between Smith and the trio of drummers.
