Easy Pickin's

by Marcus Galloway

  “Nice?” she challenged while leaning back to get a good look at him. “Hero? I don’t know which of those words offends me more.”

  “You have no good cause to be offended at all,” the professor said.

  Making sure to keep his voice down, Byron made his way to a small cabinet where the liquor was kept while muttering, “Oh, dear lord.”

  “First of all,” she said while allowing her brother to slip out of the room, “I can be any way I choose inside my own home. Nice, rude or anything in between.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And as far as the other title is concerned, I’d rank you as more of a nuisance than any sort of hero.”

  Whiteoak cocked his head to one side like a vaguely confused dog. His face went through a series of changes ranging from heartbreak and disbelief before settling on perturbed. “Perhaps you didn’t see how I saved that deputy’s life.”

  “I saw plenty. Perhaps Avery wouldn’t have been in need of saving if you hadn’t stepped in where you weren’t needed.”

  “Things were going straight to hell already, which is something you would have noticed if you’d been there.”

  After taking her wet rag and throwing it at Whiteoak, Lyssa placed her hands on her hips and said, “Things were going according to plan. Everyone was doing what they were supposed to.”

  At that moment, some of the confusion drifted back onto Whiteoak’s face. It didn’t last long, however, before he brightened up and snapped his fingers. “Of course! The sheriff gave the signal and everyone took their places.”

  “And I thought you were supposed to be this big, smart professor.”

  “You’ll excuse me if this sort of thing is somewhat out of my range of experience. A man can’t be an expert in all things. Has the bank been robbed before?”

  “There were a few who’ve tried.”

  “How many?”

  “Enough for the sheriff and some of the others in town to organize a committee to . . . what’s so funny?”

  Covering his mouth to hide a grin, Whiteoak quickly attempted to disguise his subtle laughter by turning it into a cough. “Oh, nothing. Something caught in my throat.”

  “You were laughing.”

  He lowered his hand and shrugged apologetically. “Not laughing at you, in so much as at the words themselves. Why is it that when women form a committee it’s to organize a picnic or a quilting circle? When men form a committee, it’s usually to shoot something.”

  “This committee was formed to help protect the town and its bank from dangerous outlaws.”

  “And,” Whiteoak added with a gently raised finger, “to shoot said outlaws.”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  Seeing that she meant to leave the room, Whiteoak got to his feet and moved forward to take hold of her arm in a gentle yet firm grip. “You’re right.”

  Although she’d tried to squirm free of him the moment the professor took hold of her, Lyssa eased up when she heard those words. Picking up on how difficult it was for him to say them, she looked him in the eyes and asked, “What was that?”

  Whiteoak let out a haggard breath. “Today has been very trying. I started off in jail. I was in a gun battle.”

  “Say what you said one more time.”

  “You’re right,” Whiteoak repeated. This time, however, it was as though he was forcing the words through an iron mask clamped to his jaw.

  Lyssa raised herself to his level by standing on her tiptoes so she could give him a quick kiss. “You should learn to humble yourself more often,” she said while giving his cheek a quick pat. “It suits you.”

  Remaining steadfast so as not to give her the pleasure of seeing him flinch when she patted his bruised face, Whiteoak replied, “No. It doesn’t. Tell me more about this committee.”

  “It’s more of a plan of action, really. When there are outlaws spotted in town or if there are suspicious men lurking about, a group of folks who live here are put on notice.”

  “So Nash was seen in town before he attacked your brother and I?” Whiteoak asked.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Would you know if he was?”

  “There isn’t a lot of excitement in Barbrady,” she said. “Something like that would keep this town mighty busy.”

  “I suppose one of Nash’s men could have been spotted.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Again, Whiteoak snapped his fingers. “The shooting involving me and your brother last night! That’s what put everyone on their guard!”

  “No,” she said timidly. “That wasn’t it.”

  Timidity suited Lyssa almost as well as a harness fit a duck, which made Whiteoak immediately suspicious. “What was it, then?”

  Eventually, she told him, “You. You’re the suspicious character that put the committee on their guard.”

  “And what might happen if I draw more of their ire?”

  “It’s likely they’ll just keep an eye on you,” she told him.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” Whiteoak asked, gingerly testing the waters.

  Her face became grave. “You’ve seen the worst,” Lyssa replied. “The worst is shooting down from the windows, filling the streets with lead and blood. I hate it when it comes to that, but sometimes such things are necessary.”

  “Ah.”

  “I hope you’re not offended,” Lyssa assured him, even though the grin on her face said otherwise. “It’s just that the folks around here are suspicious of a lot. They need to be.”

  “Really? And why is that?”

  She recoiled slightly. “This town was founded by elderly folks and elderly folks like to settle here. They say they like the quiet, but they never stop gossiping and spreading rumors, which makes them all twitchy. I tried to tell you everything was under control once the sheriff arrived at the bank,” she said. “And even after that I tried to get you to come with me where you’d be out of harm’s way.”

  “I did manage to take care of myself. And, despite being unaware of the entire situation, I also managed to hold my own as well as pick up some of the slack. If this committee had such a good plan worked out, that deputy didn’t seem to be fully aware of it.”

  “Avery is new around here. He tends to get rattled.”

  “So you’ve seen him under fire before?” Whiteoak inquired.

  “There was one other time when some rough men came through town looking to stir up some trouble. We were forming our committee, and some of the men thought it would be a good test.”

  “We?”

  Lyssa shrugged her shoulders. “I may have come up with part of the committee’s formation.”

  “So it was a trial run,” Whiteoak said.

  “Exactly.”

  “A trial with a dubious amount of bullets.”

  She narrowed her eyes as if that would make her displeasure burn Whiteoak’s skin even more. Strangely enough, it worked.

  “A town has a right to defend itself.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Does it matter?”

  When Lyssa relaxed, her entire body became softer and she drifted a bit closer to the professor’s side. “Sheriff Willis isn’t always here. He has to ride to neighboring towns a lot. Also, with the bank . . .”

  “What?” Whiteoak asked as she allowed her words to drift off into silence. “What about the bank?”

  “It’s a juicy target for men like those robbers today. Without something like you saw today, it would be in the sights of every rough gang of men that rode through Kansas. Even more people would be shot.” Suddenly, Lyssa’s face went pale and she placed a hand to her mouth.

  Recognizing that she’d become unsteady upon her feet, Whiteoak took hold of her before she fell. The instant his hands were on her, she wilted like a flower in a vase that had gone bone dry. He guided her to a chair, sat her down and picked up the rag. “What is it, Lyssa?”

&nb
sp; “Missy Stanson,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The woman who works . . . worked . . . at the bank. The one that was shot. She’s gone, isn’t she? I heard she was shot.” Her mouth kept moving slightly, but no words could make it past her trembling lips.

  Tears threatened to assault her eyes and before they could fall, Whiteoak sat beside her and took Lyssa’s hand. “You heard right. She’s gone. I’m sorry.”

  “But maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe the doctor can tend to her.”

  Now Whiteoak had to distract himself as the gruesome memory of that previously unnamed woman’s death played through his mind. When she was just another terrified face in a chaotic drama, it had been difficult enough. But now that she had a name, friends, and people that would miss her, that woman’s passing took its proper spot among a cruel world’s many tragedies.

  “She’s gone,” Whiteoak said again, simply because he didn’t know what else to tell her.

  Lyssa nodded and leaned over to rest her head on Whiteoak’s shoulder. When he gently stroked her soft, fragrant hair, she closed her eyes and let out a vaguely contented breath.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The stink of burnt gunpowder and panic still clung to Whiteoak like the stained fabric of an old, filthy shirt. It crawled up into his nose, reminding him of the events of the last several hours as he walked down First Street in something of a daze. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot at and it wasn’t the first time he’d seen others cut down by gunfire, which did nothing to soften the blow delivered by a morning such as the one he’d endured.

  After excusing himself from Lyssa’s frail company so she could collect herself in private, Whiteoak thought some fresh air would clear his jumbled thoughts. The dusty wind swirling through town did carry the scent of distant prairies and wildflowers, but wasn’t quite enough to do the job. Once he’d turned a corner and made it to the end of Wilcoe Avenue, he spotted the very thing that he needed.

  “Whiskey,” Whiteoak said as he stepped into the Dove Tail Saloon.

  The barkeep smiled, placed a glass in front of the professor, and filled it. He watched Whiteoak down the firewater with so much beaming pride that one might have thought he’d fermented the liquor himself.

  “Another,” Whiteoak said after setting the glass down. It was refilled and he was proven correct in thinking that, while fresh air was nice, fresh air and whiskey was a whole lot nicer.

  “Can you tell?” the barkeep asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “That whiskey. It’s been sloshed around inside those cups you sold me.”

  “Oh, yes,” Whiteoak said as he went through a practiced set of motions that made it appear as though he was examining the drink in his hand. After swirling the liquid in his glass, holding it up to the light and sniffing it, he nodded and drank what remained. “Very nice, indeed.”

  “So far, nobody’s complained that I started charging more for my cheaper brands. Whatever them cups do, they work great.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”

  The barkeep placed both hands on the warped wooden surface in front of him and studied his customer. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I was present at the trouble earlier today.”

  “Oh, the bank robbery?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I heard about what happened to poor Miss Stanson,” the barkeep replied. “Crying shame. She was a good gal.”

  “Does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

  “Not for a while. Not after what happened to the Garza brothers.”

  Now that the whiskey was working its way through him, Whiteoak felt somewhat better. The sugary residue smeared within the cups he’d sold to the barkeep tonic left a familiar taste in the back of his throat, but didn’t do anything to take away the liquor’s natural bite. “The Garza brothers were here?”

  “You know them?”

  Silently cursing the effect of the hard morning combined with that of the whiskey, Whiteoak quickly said, “Garza is a fairly common name. Why don’t you tell me about the ones you were referring to?”

  The barkeep was all too happy to tell his story and saw straight past any discomfort that might have shown on Whiteoak’s face. “They took a run at the bank and were gunned down like dogs. Didn’t even make it off Trader Avenue, if I recall.”

  “They were gunmen of some repute?” Whiteoak asked, despite already knowing the answer all too well.

  “They thought they were, anyway. Now they’re nothing but fertilizer in some field outside of town. Ain’t even a marker to show where they were planted. Serves ’em right if you ask me.”

  “Doesn’t that whole course of action strike you as somehow . . . I don’t know . . . barbaric?”

  It was unclear which of those words had confused the barkeep, but the haze behind his eyes made it clear that he’d been lost somewhere along the way. “Having the law around is one thing,” the professor restated. “Don’t you think slaughtering innocent men in the street is going too far?”

  “Innocent? Ha!”

  “Fine, then. Slaughtering any man in the street seems quite savage to me.”

  “No more savage than stringing them up and making a day of it,” the barkeep pointed out. “Bring the young ’uns. Pack a lunch!”

  Whiteoak had to smile at that. “A friend of mine met his wife at a hanging in Abilene.”

  “And I suppose that’s perfectly civilized to your delicate sensibilities?” the barkeep asked in an English accent that was thicker than the paint over a pair of bullet holes in the wall near the front door.

  “Hanging a man is within the letter of the law,” Whiteoak said. “And it happens after a trial.”

  “Usually. And have you ever been to many trials?”

  “Yes. Plenty of them.” At such events, the professor was more than a bystander, but he decided not to expound on that particular aspect.

  “And can you tell me that some of those men wouldn’t rather get shot down outside before going through all the headache of them men in suits talking gibberish in front of another idiot with a hammer in his hand?”

  After taking a moment to form a logical retort, Whiteoak admitted, “It sounds silly when you put it that way.”

  “Sounds silly because it is. This way, if a bunch of armed men get caught in a bad spot, they get what’s comin’ to them. Adios, hermano. You want another?”

  Following the barkeep’s line of sight to the empty glass in his hand, Whiteoak shook his head. “No, this is my limit. At least for this time of day.”

  “Needed to steady the ol’ nerves, huh?”

  “Precisely. I am suitably settled.”

  “And since you got them words out without a hitch, I know you ain’t drunk.”

  “You’re a man of good humor,” Whiteoak said. He then furrowed his brow and turned to look at the barkeep directly. “I never caught your name.”

  “It’s Robert.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Robert. Since it seems I’ll be staying for a while, is there a chance I can start an account at this fine establishment of yours?”

  “After all them tonics you sold, you need a line of credit?” Robert asked. “Don’t take me for a fool. You must’ve made more at that show than I make in a week.”

  “Not as much as you might think, but I see your point.” Whiteoak dug into his pocket and fished out a small bundle of cash. He made sure it was plainly visible to the barkeep and peeled off a few bills. “This should cover my drinks,” he said while handing over what he knew to be more than double the necessary amount. “And you can keep the remainder if you do me a favor.”

  Having already taken the cash and squirreled it away beneath the bar, Robert asked, “What’s your favor, Professor?”

  “I’d like to know a few things about your sheriff. Also, tell me about this committee I’ve heard about. The one that organized Barbrady’s unique methods for guarding its bank.”

  Robert started his tale a
t the beginning when he arrived in Barbrady and went through several years of his experiences without pausing long enough to take a full breath. Although Whiteoak was partially listening to the barkeep, much of his attention was diverted elsewhere. Mostly, he observed the other people inside the Dove Tail and those who walked past its large front windows.

  Whiteoak’s eyes darted from one spot to another, taking his gaze outside to the street and back again to various points within the saloon. All the while, his ears soaked up every word Robert was saying. Most of it wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been pieced together on his own or with a few short conversations with the locals, but it did him some good to hear it all from one of the most reliable sources in town. Bartenders were never to be taken fully at their word, however. Whiteoak had learned that lesson well enough over the years. Even so, enough of what Robert told him rang true when compared to what Whiteoak had seen earlier that day.

  According to the barkeep, Sheriff Willis had been in town for a few years and did a good job of mopping up drunks and escorting rowdy transients out of town. There wasn’t much violence in Barbrady to speak of and what few scuffles there were had ended with the participants in a cell for a few days.

  On the few occasions when there was real trouble, extra steps had to be taken. That’s where the committee came in. According to Robert, nearly every man in town old enough to sprout whiskers from his chin was a member of the committee. The group had been called into action only a few times, each resulting in something similar to what the professor had witnessed for himself. In one instance, the men looking up at all those rifles pointing at them from the windows had taken the sheriff’s offer and surrendered. Other times had turned into a bloodbath.

  “Very effective,” Whiteoak said.

  Having reached the end of his story, Robert glanced over to Whiteoak as though he’d almost forgotten he had an audience. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I suppose you could say that. Them boys didn’t bother anyone again after that day, let me tell ya.”

  Whiteoak wasn’t certain who, exactly, Robert had been talking about but it didn’t matter. Setting his glass down, he said, “It looks like you’ve got more customers to tend.”