by J. T. Edson
‘Take the stage to Widow’s Creek, if I can get on it.’
‘How about your horse?’ Burbury asked.
‘Figured on taking him tied to the stage,’ Smith replied.
‘They’ll be pushing hard, changing teams every ten miles or so,’ Burbury warned. ‘Even without toting weight, your horse won’t be in much of a condition time you get to the Creek.’
‘I don’t want to take time to come back for him when I’ve got my saddle fixed,’ Smith pointed out.
‘So I’ll fetch him up for you,’ the drummer offered. ‘I’ll not be travelling as fast as the coach, but I’ll be there around noon tomorrow.’
‘Sounds like a smart notion to me,’ the sheriff remarked.
‘And me,’ Smith drawled. ‘I’ll be obliged if you’d do that, Ric’
There was nothing to be lost, and plenty to gain, by letting Burbury take the horse. No matter who, or what, the burly man might really be—and Smith felt certain he was no ordinary drummer—the Texan was sure he could be trusted to deliver the bayo-lobo to Widow’s Creek. With the stagecoach stopping only long enough to change teams, Smith’s mount would have no time to rest and graze. So Burbury offered the best solution.
‘There’s a seat for you, Mr. Smith!’ Derham announced, entering at a rapid walk. ‘Only you’ll have to get there straight away.’
‘I’ll see to your horse, Wax,’ Burbury promised. ‘You get going.’
‘Lemme tote your rig,’ the old timer offered.
Allowing the old timer to carry his saddle, Smith gathered up his bed roll and rifle. They left the barn and went to where the stagecoach stood, its team hitched and passengers on board, outside the station building. Smith passed up his bed-roll, then took and handed his saddle to the shotgun messenger. Waiting to make sure that the rig was laid on its side and not stood upon the skirts, Smith looked inside. The farmer, his wife and the two Eastern women occupied the rear seat. In front of them, the pair of dudes and Capey ‘dovetailed’ with the drummers. Apparently the prospector had either reached the end of his journey, or was waiting for another stagecoach, for Lily had nobody facing her on the centre seat.
‘Hey, Wax,’ the blonde greeted, looking through the window. ‘Are you coming on the stage?’
‘Why sure,’ the Texan replied and opened the door. Rifle in hand, he swung inside and sat facing the girl. ‘I have to.’
‘Somebody steal your horse?’ asked the largest drummer, sullenly watching Smith’s right knee resting against the material of Lily’s travelling costume.
‘Why?’ Smith answered, setting the butt of his rifle on the floor against the door. ‘Have you got it?’
‘Mercy!’ Lily put in. ‘I thought it was so you could be near me.’
Disapproving clucks came from behind Smith, but the blonde ignored them. She smiled at him and he could feel the drummer at his side moving restlessly. Before any more could be said, or done, the driver cracked his whip and the stagecoach started moving. Burbury stood at the doors of the barn and raised a hand in a cheery wave as the vehicle went by. Leading out their horses, the sheriff and his nephews mounted and followed the stage.
Watching the range fall behind him. Smith thought about the damage to his saddle and why it had been inflicted. Then he turned his gaze to the interior of the coach. In all probability, the person who had cut the girths was riding with him. Smith doubted if the McCobb brothers had done it out of spite. Nor did the sheriff’s theory hold water. Sure the three men had been sent to prevent Smith from reaching Widow’s Creek. But they had intended to kill him, not merely delay him. So the knife had been used after their attempt had failed. Not to stop him getting to Widow’s Creek, though. At best the damage would have only held him until he could have it repaired. No. The girths had been cut so that he would not arrive before the stagecoach could carry warning of his coming. So one of Smith’s travelling companions must be the culprit. Unless it had been Burbury. Yet there seemed no logical reason for the burly man to have done it. If he had wished to prevent Smith’s arrival, he would have let Moxley kill the Texan. Nor had the damage to the saddle caused Smith to arrive at the town later than Burbury, in the buggy, would reach it.
There was Lily Shivers to consider. Smith had no way of knowing whether she had left the station building during the night. If she suspected his employer’s identity, she might have taken steps to make him arrive later than expected.
Thinking of the blonde led Smith to look more closely at her. She seemed to take pleasure in antagonizing the other female passengers. A conversation had started among the dudes and drummers, in which Lily took an active part. Witty, without being coarse, she kept the men amused and the women annoyed. Watching her, Smith sensed that it was the latter result she was aiming at.
On rolled the stagecoach, making good time over the well-worn trail. At the first relay station, the McCobbs took their departure, having reached the county’s boundary line. Nobody seemed unduly alarmed after the peace officers had ridden off.
Another twenty miles and two changes of teams fell behind the travelers. Coming over a hill, the trail ran parallel to the southern bank of the Sweetwater River’s Big Elk Fork. Across the stream, the land appeared to be of better quality than that flanking the trail.
‘Looks like they got over the winter of ‘Eighty-Six better across that side than over here,’ Smith remarked to Lily.
‘Sure,’ agreed the blonde. ‘Mind you, Charlie Hopkirk and Poona Woodstole always showed better sense than most ranchers.’
‘How come?’ Smith asked, ignoring Capey’s pointed glance at the mention of the latter name.
‘You maybe know how it was before ‘Eighty-Six,’ Lily replied. ‘Ranchers were running every head they could—’
‘And more,’ the biggest drummer interrupted. ‘They overgrazed the range.’
‘Not all of them,’ Lily contradicted. ‘And for sure not Charlie ‘n’ Poona. For a limey, Poona’s a smart, cattle-knowing feller. So they ran their spread with what he called a long-term view in mind. Built up their herds with picked stock, instead of raising anything and everything. They developed their land, took care of the grazing. Maybe they didn’t make so much money as the others, but they came out of the big die-off with cash in the bank and cattle carrying their brand. That side of the river’s the best grazing land in the Territory.’
‘How about this side?’ Smith inquired.
‘You can see,’ growled the drummer. ‘It’s the leavings, all that farmers ever get given.’
‘Time was they didn’t want it,’ Smith pointed out.
‘Times change,’ the drummer observed.
‘Land doesn’t, unless it’s worked on,’ Lily pointed out. ‘Which this side of the river wasn’t before ‘Eighty-Six. Now farmers’re moving in and finding they can’t make eating-money.’
‘Not this side of the river,’ the drummer agreed.
‘Across it’s C Lazy P land, with a clear title bought, worked for and earned,’ the blonde said coldly. ‘Nobody’s got the right to homestead on it.’
‘And nobody’s got the right to glom on to that much land,’ the drummer declared. ‘Only the big ranchers’ve done it and sure aim to hold on to what they’ve got.’
‘Meaning?’ Smith asked quietly, knowing that the man’s last sentence had been directed his way.
‘Nothing,’ grunted the drummer. ‘Except maybe the big ranchers won’t have it all their own way from now on.’
That’s a strange-looking rifle, Wax,’ Lily remarked. ‘I’ve never seen one like it.’
‘It’s a Colt New Lightning, Lily,’ the elder of the dudes informed her.
Allowing the man to explain the virtues of the ordinary production-line Colt New Lightning rifle, Smith digested the information he had just gathered. One of the possibilities he had considered as the cause of the urgent summons was trouble between ranchers and homesteaders.
Going by her comments, Lily tended to favor the ranchers. Maybe Mayo
r Jeffreys supported Governor Thomas Moonlight, a man known to be sympathetic to the cause—and, some said, the extra voting-potential—of the homesteaders. That could be the cause of their animosity.
A question about the Colt rifle’s capabilities as a hunting weapon took the Texan’s attention from his thought-train. Nor did he find time to return to it, as the discussion lasted until the stagecoach arrived at Widow’s Creek.
The Big Elk Fork split the town into two sections. Looking around him in the fading light, Smith decided that the stream served as a dividing line between the better-off and poorer sections of the community. That showed in the quality of the buildings, which was of a much higher standard north of the river. To the south lay the main business section, the stores, places of entertainment and homes of the working classes of the town. Capey and the drummers headed in that direction. Not unexpectedly, the dudes had their baggage carried over one of the bridges into the northern section.
When Smith had asked Lily’s advice about obtaining accommodation, she suggested that he should use the Simple Hotel. In addition to offering good food and clean beds, it had the advantage, she claimed, of being close to her place. Somewhat to his surprise, after gathering a trio of loafers to carry her bags and his saddle and bed-roll, Lily had led him across the stream.
Passing through a prosperous street given over to professional men’s business premises and civic buildings, Lily pointed with pride to her saloon. Two floors high, solidly made of stone, the Happy Bull glowed with light and rang with the sounds of people enjoying themselves. Facing it across the street, dark and deserted, stood Jeffreys’ Bank.
‘I’ve got a new sign for out front that’ll knock Wil—folks bow-legged,’ Lily remarked. The hotel’s just down there. If you have trouble getting a room, tell the clerk I sent you.’
‘Will that help?’ Smith grinned.
‘What I know about him, he’ll not dare keep you out,’ the blonde chuckled. ‘After you’ve settled in, mind you come along for a drink.’
‘I’ll be in after I’ve cleaned up and fed,’ Smith promised.
‘You’ll come and have supper with me,’ Lily corrected. ‘Unless you’ve got other arrangements—?’
‘None that I know of,’ Smith assured her and, after she had disappeared into the saloon, walked on in the direction of the Simple Hotel.
Obtaining a room did not call for the power of Lil’s name. Although remarking that the hotel was filling up, the desk clerk stated that Smith could have accommodation for as long as he cared to book it. Making his arrangements, the Texan went up to his quarters, paid off the man who had carried his gear and tipped the bell-hop who had acted as their guide. Then he made ready for his visit to Lily’s saloon.
Almost an hour later, washed, shaved and dressed in clean clothes, Smith walked into the Happy Bull. Its big main barroom was as elegant and well-equipped as any he had ever seen. Already a fair-sized crowd of customers was making use of its drinking or gambling facilities. Gaily-dressed girls moved amongst the cowhands, farmers, soldiers and townsmen while the saloon’s male employees carried out their duties quietly, capably and in a friendly manner. Everything Smith saw told him that he was in a well-run place. What he had seen of Lily Shivers had made him expect to find it that way.
Crossing to the long, shining bar, Smith could see no sign of Lily. Then he grinned. It was loco to expect her to make an appearance so soon. She would take longer than a man to freshen up and change.
While waiting for Lily, Smith fell into conversation with a couple of prosperous-looking townsmen. He had left his jacket at the hotel, but the rest of his clothes hinted at his having money. Probably the pair took him for a Texas rancher and, as such, worth cultivating. From what they had to say, the man regarded Lily as a woman of ability and integrity. They also found considerable amusement in her flouting of conventions and made laughing comments about how she put a burr under the ‘good’ women of the town’s saddles with her behavior.
Half an hour went by before Lily made her entrance. When she did, it became obvious to Smith that the majority of her customers shared the townsmen’s high opinion of her. Her hair had been tidied, face made up, and she wore a green satin dress which clung to her voluptuous body like a second skin as she came down the wide staircase from the first floor.
‘What’d you bring back for us from the big city, Lily?’ a man yelled.
‘Why, me? the blonde answered. ‘What else?’
Excusing himself to the two townsmen, Smith walked towards the stairs. Another man intercepted Lily before Smith reached her. Tall, slim, wearing a well-cut brown suit, white shirt and red necktie, the man would be in his early twenties. His dark hair had been slicked down with bay rum, but now looked rumpled, while his handsome face carried an expression of mingled condescension and indignation.
‘What’s all this, Lily?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve lost all my money playing black-jack and the dealer says he won’t accept my IOU.’
‘That’s right,’ the blonde answered calmly, keeping walking. ‘It’s the house rule, Stanley.’
Shooting out his right hand, the young man caught hold of Lily’s left bicep as she went by. Anger flickered on the blonde’s face. Clenching her right fist in a capable manner, she swung to face him.
‘Just take your cotton-picking hand offen the lady,’ Smith ordered.
Annoyance glinted on the young man’s handsome face as he looked at the speaker. Clearly he considered himself to be a person of privilege and authority, who should not be addressed in such a manner by a stranger. Releasing Lily’s arm, he stabbed his hand under the left side of his jacket.
‘Who the hell do you think you’re talk—?’
‘Boy!’ Smith cut in, barely louder than at a whisper. ‘Unless that hand comes straight out and empty, I’ll draw on you. And I never fetch my gun out unless I’m fixing to kill the man who made me pull it.’
A hush fell on the tables nearest to the scene and spread across the room. Smith stood with his gloved thumbs tucked into his waistband, eyes fixed firmly on Stanley’s face. There was something in the Texan’s gaze which made the young man look away.
‘What’s this, Lily?’ Stanley hissed, bringing his empty right hand into view. ‘Have you started fetching in-—’
‘If you’re fixing to say what I figure you are,’ Smith interrupted in the same flat, yet savage voice. ‘Don’t.’
‘If you want broke money, Stanley—’ Lily began.
‘I don’t want, nor need, your charity!’ the young man blazed, then spun on his heel and stamped out of the building.
‘Who was that?’ Smith inquired, as talk rose all around and the various activities of the customers resumed.
‘Stanley Jeffreys,’ the blonde replied, a mocking smile twisting at her lips. ‘Our esteemed mayor’s younger brother.’
Chapter Seven – The Mayor of Widow’s Creek
‘Come this way, please, Mr. Smith,’ requested the lanky, miserable-featured bank teller with an air of solemn politeness.
The time was ten o’clock on the morning after Smith’s arrival in Widow’s Creek and he had come to interview his prospective employer.
After Stanley Jeffreys’ departure, the Texan had spent an enjoyable evening at the Happy Bull saloon. Receiving no other introduction than ‘Mr. Wax Smith of Texas,’ he had been accepted by the other customers. In fact, he had been accorded their respect when it had become obvious that he was regarded favorably by Lily Shivers. Although he had heard plenty about the various sporting and social events proposed for the forthcoming county fair, he had received no hint of why the mayor might require his specialized services.
When Smith had suggested that Wil Jeffreys might come and complain about the disrespect shown to his younger brother, there had been much hilarity. He had been assured that the mayor would never think of entering a saloon. Wishing to avoid arousing Lily’s suspicions, Smith had let the matter drop. Probably Jeffreys belonged to one of the religious sects w
hich disapproved of drinking and other pleasures connected with saloons. Putting off further attempts at obtaining information about the mayor, Smith had settled down to enjoy himself.
Having spent a comfortable night at the Simple Hotel, Smith had risen late. He had breakfasted, made use of the hotel’s barber’s shop and, neatly-dressed and clean-shaven, set off to meet the mayor. Remembering that Wil Jeffreys was also the banker, he had called in at the bank. On seeing the telegraph message which had brought him to Wyoming, the teller had hurried into a room with ‘W.S.P. JEFFREYS. President’ inscribed on its door.
Going through the gate in the front office’s dividing rail, Smith wondered what kind of reception he would receive from the banker. If Brother Stanley had gone home tale-telling and described Lily’s protector, Jeffreys would probably identify Smith as that man. In view of the enmity between the banker and Lily, he might even decide against hiring the Texan. In which case, Smith decided, he would be justified in retaining his advance payment.
Entering the bank president’s spacious, comfortably furnished office, Smith found another reason, besides religious objections, why Wil Jeffreys would not go into a saloon. Looking across the large desk which faced the door, he flashed up his right hand to remove his hat.
‘Well, Mr. Smith,’ said the mayor of Widow’s Creek. ‘Now that you have seen me, do you object to being hired by a woman?’
Coal-black hair, taken back tight into an unattractive bun, could not wipe away the beauty of Wilhemina Jeffreys’ face. She had schooled her classic features into an expression of coldly serious aspect, but they were tanned and glowed with health. An unadorned black Basque-waist jacket, as severe as a martinet Army officer’s regulation tunic, a plain white blouse, and a black balmoral skirt fought to conceal the fact that feminine curves lay underneath them. Yet Smith sensed that the garments hid something most women would, secretly anyway, wish to possess; a figure as rich, full and voluptuous as Lily Shivers’ gorgeous frame. Clean, strong hands devoid of jewelry and with the nails cut short, rested on the top of the desk. Brown eyes looked from behind gold-rimmed spectacles, examining the Texan with as much interest as he studied her.
