“My wager is simple,” Whiteoak said. “You win and I’ll hand over my lockbox quickly and quietly.”
“And if I don’t?” Sid asked.
“Then we’ll part ways with all belongings staying with their respective owners and call it a day.”
“So you could head into town and tell the law about what happened here? Hell, I could just shoot you now and be done with it.”
“Sure,” Whiteoak said. “But they hang killers much swifter than they do robbers. And the commotion of all that gunfire so close to Barbrady will surely attract some unwanted attention. Besides, you can’t honestly believe that a simple key or even a barrage of bullets will be enough to open my lockbox. That is, if you can even find it.”
“We can sure as hell find it by tearing apart that god-awful wagon piece by piece,” Lazy Eye threatened, spitting out every single word.
To that, Whiteoak merely shrugged. “You could certainly try, but I wouldn’t advise it. If you push one lever that’s meant to be pulled or touch one wrong item in there, several sticks of well-hidden dynamite will go off, turning that wagon into splinters. Most likely . . . very bloody splinters.”
Glancing once more into the wagon, Sid found plenty of levers, handles and even a few large dials embedded within the cabinets and floor of the awkward structure. “Why the hell would you go through all that trouble? What the hell you got in there, anyway?”
“I’m a businessman,” Whiteoak replied. “Much like you, I protect my assets. I’m also a gambler, so it’s more amusing to settle matters through more sporting means than gunplay. What have you got to lose, anyway? From where I’m standing, not much.”
Sid let out a haggard breath as his eyes drifted among all the intriguing bits and pieces stored within the wagon. “Just hand over the goddamn lockbox.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse.”
“Do it!” Sid barked as he raised his pistol.
Whiteoak didn’t flinch. “Kill me and you’ll only draw attention. Also, there’s the matter of finding my lockbox afterward. Even if you could find and defuse the explosive package, I doubt either of you two men have the time or patience to go through every last trap door you’ll find in there. My methods were taught to me by a Gypsy princess who was very talented in the art of—”
“What’s the wager?” Sid asked impatiently.
Stepping toward his wagon, Whiteoak asked, “May I?”
Sid nodded but kept his pistol aimed at the professor’s head.
Slowly, Whiteoak reached inside the wagon for one of the racks close to the door. When he took one of several unlabeled bottles stored there, he was careful to show it to the other man. Inside was a cloudy white liquid that looked like watery milk. Stepping back again, Whiteoak held out the bottle and said, “I bet you can’t hit the neck of this bottle when I toss it into the air.”
“Just the neck?”
“Yes. You know . . . the skinny part.”
“Yeah. I know the skinny part,” Sid sneered. “That’s it?”
Whiteoak nodded. “That’s it. You hit it and you win.”
Snatching the bottle from Whiteoak’s hand, Sid tossed it into the air and bent his gun arm to fire a single shot.
Sid, Lazy Eye, and even Byron watched the bottle go up before the bullet from Sid’s gun chipped a few shards of glass from the top of the bottle at the apex of its arc. With those men focused on that display of marksmanship, nobody noticed Whiteoak reach into the wagon for another bottle which he knocked against Sid’s temple with a hard swing.
“What the hell?” Lazy Eye shouted. “You’re—” Before he could finish, the robber was knocked from his saddle by the same bottle which Whiteoak tossed to hit squarely between his eyes.
“I know,” Whiteoak said. “I’m dead.”
For a moment, all Byron could do was look around to try and comprehend what he’d witnessed. Sid was still where he’d fallen and wasn’t moving except for the occasional twitch. Lazy Eye was lying flat on the ground with a face covered in blood and spilt tonic.
“You just . . . those men were about to . . . how did you . . . ?” Byron stammered.
After reclaiming his gun and holster from Sid, Whiteoak said, “If you’d like to discuss the matter further, I suggest we do it away from here. Those two aren’t likely to be very sociable when they wake up.”
Still breathless, Byron leaned forward to offer his hand. “I owe you my life. How can I repay you?”
“Doing a good deed is payment enough, my good man.” Wincing as he shook Byron’s hand, Whiteoak added, “That’s a mighty strong grip you have there. Might I suggest something to improve it further? I have a special blend that can make you strong enough to pull the ears off a bull. How about I tell you more on the way into town?”
“Anything you say, mister. I’ll take whatever you’re selling.”
“Just be sure to spread the good word once we’re in Barbrady,” Whiteoak said with a friendly nod. “And, please, feel free to call me Professor.”
CHAPTER TWO
Both carts were pulled into town at the same time, but only one of them caught much attention. While Byron’s disappeared into the closest livery, Professor Whiteoak’s wagon drew curious glances from everyone who wandered past the lot where he parked it. The professor himself walked into a place called the Dove Tail Saloon where he chose a spot at the bar ideal for peeking out the window at the chattering locals studying his wagon.
“You gonna stand there admiring the view or are you gonna order a drink?”
Whiteoak turned toward the sound of that voice and found a tall, muscular fellow glaring back at him from the other side of a bar. Removing his hat to place it upon the beer-stained surface, Whiteoak declared, “I’ll have a bottle of your finest whiskey, my good man!”
Nodding, the barkeep reached for a small shelf behind the bar where the dustiest and most decorative bottles were kept. Before touching the cork, he asked, “You got enough money for this?”
“How much is it?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“How much for a glass?”
“Three.”
“Well then,” Whiteoak said while grasping his lapels with both hands, “better make that a bottle of your second-finest whiskey.”
The barkeep let out a huffing grunt, put the first bottle away and grabbed one from a more crowded and larger shelf beneath a painting of an equally large woman. After filling a glass and setting it next to the bottle in front of Whiteoak, he said, “That’ll be five dollars for the bottle.”
“Why, I’ve been to plenty of places that serve a fine brand of whiskey for half that price.”
“You want horse piss? I got plenty of it under the bar.”
Whiteoak picked up the glass, doffed it to the barkeep and swallowed its contents in one gulp. After setting the glass down again, he dug out some money from one of his pockets and placed it next to the bottle. “Very nice, sir. If I may be so bold, perhaps you’d like to attend my demonstration this evening? I have some wares that could greatly improve your spirits. And, by spirits, I mean your whiskey.”
“I know what you mean,” the barkeep replied. “That means you’re the one who drove that garish wagon into town?”
“You were already told about my arrival?”
“Nobody can steer a thing like that down Main Street without everyone taking notice,” the barkeep said with no small amount of distaste in his voice.
“Well, one man’s garish is another man’s flair.” Noticing the confused tilt of the barkeep’s eyebrow, Whiteoak added, “Yes. That’s my wagon.”
“So what’s wrong with my whiskey?”
“Nothing at all.” Leaning forward to rest one elbow upon the bar, the professor dropped his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “One of my concoctions could filter, purify, and otherwise enhance the liquor kept beneath your bar well enough for it to be moved to more . . . shall we say . . . revered real estate.” With those last words, Whiteoak pointed to
ward the uppermost shelf of dusty bottles.
The barkeep glanced over his shoulder. When he looked Whiteoak up and down, he seemed to regard the sharply dressed professor as something other than a minor annoyance. “You could do that?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, the process is so complete that rearranging your wares wouldn’t even be considered a misrepresentation by the finest connoisseur. If you would come to my—”
Suddenly, another voice trampled over Whiteoak’s pitch. “So you’re the one who just got into town?” it said.
The barkeep jabbed a finger past Whiteoak toward a pale man with thick blond hair sprouting from his face and snapped, “Wait your turn, Swede. I’m talkin’!”
Whiteoak positioned himself so one elbow remained propped against the bar, one boot was crossed over the other and both other men were in his line of sight. Although there were other folks in the saloon, none seemed prepared to do more than watch the impending spectacle.
“It’s quite all right,” Whiteoak said. “I don’t mind the occasional good-natured interruption. To answer this man’s question, I most certainly did just arrive. If you’re curious as to my reason for being here, all you’ll have to do to get the answer is attend my demonstration at half an hour past sundown on this very night.” When he said that last part, Whiteoak raised his voice so the time of his show could be heard by everyone in the saloon.
Swede was no kid, but his light hair and facial features gave him the appearance of someone younger than his twenty-odd years. Stepping up to within a few paces of Whiteoak, he dangled his left arm to his side while placing his right palm upon the grip of a holstered pistol. “I don’t give a damn about no medicine show. I know why you’re really here.”
His eyebrows perking up ever so slightly, Whiteoak said, “You do? And why might that be?”
“You’re one of those men the sheriff was told about. He’s ready for you. We all are.”
“You have the wrong idea, young man,” Whiteoak chuckled.
“The hell I do.”
When the barkeep’s hand slapped down on top of the bar, it rattled every glass on it. “I already told you that’s enough, Swede! I don’t want any trouble in my place!”
“He’s the one that brought trouble,” Swede countered. “And if we let him be, he’ll only bring more of it. Ain’t you heard about the men that’re supposed to be scouting this town?”
“That’s nothing but a rumor.”
“Rumor or not, maybe the sheriff would like to know about a fancy-dressed gunman posing as a huckster in a funny wagon.”
Whiteoak stiffened and his expression lost the good humor that had been there since he’d walked in. “Huckster?” he said. “That’s an unsavory term without the benefit of having seen my wares.”
“I already seen enough,” Swede said as he squared himself up with the professor. “What the hell does a salesman need with such a fancy shooting iron?”
Nodding, Whiteoak eased back the left section of his waistcoat to fully reveal the silver-handled Smith & Wesson .38 hanging beneath his arm. “I encountered a bit of trouble on the way into town and thought it might be wise to take precautions. I believe there’s a young man at the stable who’ll speak on my behalf in that regard.”
“You know what a gun like that says about a man?” Swede asked.
“That he can afford a set of silver grips to match his stylish cufflinks?”
The barkeep as well as most everyone else in the room snickered at that. Swede, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling so jovial. “That’s the kind of weapon a gunfighter carries,” he said. “We don’t wanna see any gunfighters around here.”
“And, by gunfighter, you’re referring to someone who might shoot another in cold blood?”
“That’s right.”
“From where I stand, that doesn’t appear to be me,” White-oak pointed out.
The barkeep brought a shotgun to his shoulder and said, “Enough’s enough, Swede. Get the hell out of here before you wind up in a pine box.”
The light-haired man muttered a few unkind words in Whiteoak’s direction as he stomped through the saloon’s front door.
“Sorry about that, Professor,” the barkeep said while replacing the shotgun into its spot behind the bar.
Dusting off the front of his waistcoat as if he’d taken a roll through a dusty field, Whiteoak said, “Quite all right, although I don’t know if I should show my face in an establishment where I’m not welcome.”
“Aw, don’t get yer knickers in a twist. I’d still like to hear about that device or whatever you was talking about that would improve my whiskey.”
“I don’t know,” Whiteoak grumbled as he wrung his hands and nervously fidgeted with his waistcoat. “Confrontations play havoc on my nerves. Of course, a man’s opinion of an establishment like this one would greatly improve if he had something to calm those jangling nerves.”
“How’d another drink be?” the barkeep offered. “On the house.”
The professor’s demeanor brightened as if someone had thrown a switch inside his head. “That would be splendid! And in reference to that other matter, why don’t I sample something from the top shelf? That way, I’ll be able to prepare something by tonight’s demonstration to perfectly suit your needs.”
The barkeep pulled in a breath, furrowed his brow, and studied the professor carefully. Just when it seemed he would refuse the request out of principle, he exhaled and reached up for the dusty selection. When he retrieved one of the ornate bottles and poured a splash of whiskey into a fresh glass, he gazed down at it as though he was handing off his firstborn.
“Ahh,” Whiteoak said while picking up the complimentary drink. “My spirits improve by the second.”
CHAPTER THREE
It was a cool night. Cooler than normal, which did nothing whatsoever to keep folks away from the lot beside the town’s most prominent livery. Whiteoak’s brightly colored wagon may have looked boxy and unbalanced, but it unfolded into a silent calliope, swaying and entrancing every eye fortunate enough to be cast upon it.
An awning extended from the side facing the street and lanterns hung from three of the wagon’s four corners. Their flickering orange glow illuminated multilingual testimonials scrawled along the bottom of the wagon’s cover, framing an array of picture advertisements painted upon the wooden structure that detailed the exotic wonders to be found within.
When Professor Whiteoak began his presentation, less than half a dozen locals wanted to take their attention away from his wagon to hear what he had to say. By the time he wrapped up his second demonstration, he had more than triple the original number gathered around the small platform he used as a pedestal. His silver-handled .38 was nowhere to be seen. Dressed in a freshly starched shirt and trousers sporting creases that were sharp enough to split an apple, he spoke in a booming voice that he wielded better than any firearm.
“Now this may sting for a moment,” Whiteoak said to an elderly woman who stood stretching her hand up to him. The few drops of light green liquid he spattered onto her wrist caused her to recoil, but he patted her withered forearm and reached for a second glass vial on a rack behind him. “Fear not, m’lady. This is a cure that works in two stages. While the formula was inspired by a scholar from the Far East, the technique is my very own.”
“This is a Chinese potion?” the old lady asked.
“Not that far east,” Whiteoak corrected with a quick wink. “New York City.” The crowd chuckled and Whiteoak used the same dropper that had carried the green liquid to draw up some of the clear fluid from the second vial. Both tonics were mostly water mixed with coloring and a few ingredients used mainly for effect, but the exotic diagrams on their containers’ labels inspired as much curiosity as confusion.
Once there was the right amount of fluid in the dropper, he held the glass tube above a bulbous wart sprouting from the woman’s second knuckle. The wart had been the center of this particular demonstration and now the entire crowd leaned i
n as if that lump of discolored flesh was a diva preparing for an aria. The solution hissed the instant it touched her skin, sending up a wisp of smoke that startled the crowd almost as much as an appearance from the devil himself.
“No need to be alarmed,” Whiteoak said while removing a handkerchief from his pocket so he could dab the old woman’s hand. “Merely the first treatment. Tell me, madam, do you feel any ill effects?”
She looked down at her hand where the raisin-sized growth was still smoking like a freshly snuffed candle. “Stings a bit, I guess.”
“That means it’s working! Now tell me . . . do you see any differences in that unsightly blemish?”
She studied the wart for a few moments, shrugged and replied, “Looks a bit smaller.”
Since Whiteoak had been the one to doctor the second solution with the precise amount of acid to hiss and smoke on contact, he wasn’t surprised. The scholarly man from New York City to whom he’d referred was a watchmaker who’d used the acidic solution to clean the gears and other metal parts in his creations before they were handed off to their owners. The mixture did a fine job of burning away tarnish and a bit of rust, but also cleanly removed a few layers of skin. Not only was the wart on the old woman’s hand smaller and a somewhat different shape, but it was smooth and shiny as well.
“What about headaches?” Whiteoak asked to divert attention from her hand. “Do you suffer from headaches?”
“Why, yes, I do!” she replied, freely admitting to sharing an ailment with most people on earth.
“Then, as a gift for allowing me to demonstrate my miracle wart remover, allow me to present you with a tonic that eases headaches as well as most other pains associated with the cruel harshness of life.” With a flourish, Whiteoak produced a vial that was half the size of the one containing the acid. He handed it to the woman, who stared at it suspiciously.
“I suppose this is laudanum?” she asked.
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