“It’s best that you let him be however he wants to be.”
“Why? Does he get worse?”
“When it comes to Mister Bailey,” Salvatore said warily, “it could always be worse.”
“What else have you heard about him?”
Suddenly, the barber didn’t seem so eager to gossip. In fact, his hands went through the motions of scraping the lather from Whiteoak’s chin with such haste that the professor was hesitant to move for fear of getting his throat slit. Proving to be a true master of his craft, Salvatore finished the shave without so much as a nick in his customer’s flesh.
Once it was safe to sit up, Whiteoak swung his legs down from the chair and took a towel to wipe away the stray flacks of soap that remained. “You only mentioned three of the Founding Four,” he said.
“Oh. The last one’s George Halstead. Not to be confused with his boy, George Junior. They made their money building carriages and selling horses to pull ’em.”
“You don’t seem to hold these men in very high regard.”
“I shouldn’t speak out of turn.”
Whiteoak watched the barber for a hint as to what had caused his sudden change in spirit. Before long, he couldn’t help but notice the older man’s eyes drifting toward the front window of his shop. When Whiteoak took a look out there for himself, he picked out two men standing across the street staring into Salvatore’s shop.
“Who are they?” Whiteoak asked.
Without looking through the window himself, the barber replied, “Couldn’t say.”
“They seem fairly interested in your shop. Perhaps they need their hair cut?”
“If they do, they’ll come in.”
Judging by the tone of Salvatore’s voice and the faint tremor beneath it, the barber wanted anything but for that to happen.
Whiteoak stood up, put his back to the window and positioned himself so he blocked the older man from being seen by anyone outside. “I’ve already crossed paths with Bailey and it was far from pleasant,” Whiteoak said. “Come to think of it, much of what’s happened to me since arriving in this town has been unpleasant.”
“Then perhaps you should leave.”
“No man can let himself be pushed around by unpleasantness, whether it be from impolite people or harsh circumstances.”
“Professor, you seem like a good sort. I even bought some of your vitamin tonic and I haven’t felt better.”
That was a common accolade given to that tonic, which wasn’t surprising considering the amount of barley, hops and poppy oil that was mixed into it.
“Speaking ill about the Four ain’t a good idea,” Salvatore continued. “They’ve got eyes and ears all over this town.”
“Do they run Barbrady?”
“No more than any other men with influence. They have interests here and protect them with everything they got. Trust me, they have a lot.”
“You’re talking about their committee?” Whiteoak asked.
“Not really. Hell, I’m a member of that committee and proud of it. We don’t do much more than protect our homes and town from getting busted up by the occasional bunch of rampaging animals.”
“But what would bring those animals to Barbrady? This isn’t the only bank in Kansas and it’s not even close to being one of the largest.”
Salvatore was growing more anxious with each passing second. Even Whiteoak could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up the longer he stood with his back to that window. Unfortunately, that was the only way he figured he might keep the barber talking.
“There are two men outside,” Whiteoak said in a hurry.
“You’ve seen them too.”
“Yeah.”
“They can’t tell what you’re saying to me right now, so tell me who are they?”
“The squat fella is Yance and the skinnier one’s Eastman. I don’t know which of the Four they work for, but it’s one of them for certain. Maybe more than one.”
“What do they do to earn their money?”
“If you don’t go soon, you’ll find that out for yourself,” Salvatore said while nervously looking past Whiteoak and through the window. “They’re headed this way.”
“Then perhaps they want a trim.”
“Perhaps,” Salvatore said. “Or perhaps not. If it’s the latter, I’d rather the lot of you not be inside my shop amongst so many breakables.”
Whiteoak could see the sense in that reasoning. “You’re sure they’re coming this way?”
“Yes,” the barber replied less than a second before the shop’s front door was pulled open.
Whiteoak turned on his heels and smiled at the new arrivals. “I was just leaving,” he said to the two men standing in the doorway. With all the ease of a man casually about to stroll out the door after getting a haircut, Whiteoak reached for the jacket he’d hung on a rack and draped it over his arm. That way, the two pistols hanging from the holster strapped around his shoulders could still be seen.
If the men in the doorway were at all concerned with the silver-plated weapons, they gave no indication. Instead, one of them stepped forward so the other could also have a clear view into the shop.
“Excuse me,” Whiteoak said cordially while placing his wide-brimmed hat on top of his head.
The man closest to him was Yance. Several inches shorter than Whiteoak, he still outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. The professor tested that bulk by attempting to bump him aside as he passed. Since most of that bulk was muscle, he bounced off of Yance instead of pushing him from his spot.
“Excuse me again,” Whiteoak said while slipping into his coat. Once he stepped around the stout barricade and reached the door, he was face-to-face with Eastman. “Would you mind?”
“Why don’t you help Fancy Britches out?” Yance said in a scratchy snarl of a voice.
Eastman had high cheekbones and a pug nose that most likely earned him some attention from the ladies. That was about all of the younger man’s face that Whiteoak could see before he was picked up by the coat and collar like a cat being lifted by the scruff of its neck. Both of the other men laughed as the professor was tossed outside where he landed on his feet and used one hand to straighten his lapel.
“That’s the nice thing about simpletons,” the professor said loudly. “Doesn’t take much to amuse them.”
Yance emerged from the shop and stood at the edge of the boardwalk. “What did you call me?”
Stepping up to within a foot of the squat man, Whiteoak matched Yance’s severe tone when he said, “You heard what I said. Or are you so simple that you don’t understand my words? Shall I try to use shorter ones?”
“You got a smart mouth, Fancy Britches.”
“And you’ve got an ugly face. I’d say that still puts me ahead of the game.” Whiteoak looked over both men and scoffed distastefully. “If you’re done acting like dumb animals, I’ll be on my way.” Adding insult to more insult, the professor turned his back on them and calmly walked away.
“Son of a bitch,” Yance growled.
When he heard a calloused hand slap against leather, White-oak stopped and extended the arm that had been covered by the coat draped over it. “Looking for this?” he asked while displaying the pistol he’d lifted from Yance’s holster when he’d bumped into him inside the barbershop.
Not only did Yance slap at his empty holster a few more times, but he also had to look down to make absolutely certain his weapon was gone. Much to his displeasure, he was just as weaponless now as when he’d checked the first time.
“You’re the leader between the two of you, am I right?” Whiteoak asked.
The silence between the other men was more than enough to tell the professor that he was correct.
“And,” Whiteoak continued, “as such, I would imagine you’re the better shot. Now you, Eastman. Care to try your luck outdrawing a man who was fast enough to take your boss’s weapon away without him realizing it was gone? Come to think of it, who’s to say I didn
’t take your pistol as well?”
As if on cue, Eastman looked down to check his hip. That gave Whiteoak plenty of time to pluck one of the silver-plated .38s from his shoulder holster. When Eastman looked up again, he got a good look at the smiling professor.
“How’s that for a Fancy Britches?” Whiteoak chided.
Too stunned to act, Eastman and Yance could only glare menacingly at the professor.
“Who sent you boys?”
“Boys?” Yance said through clenched teeth.
“Sorry. Upstanding men of this fine community. Scholars. Gentlemen. Whatever you prefer. Who sent you?”
“We’re not telling you shit.”
“Then why did you come to bother me?” Whiteoak asked. “Clearly it wasn’t for a haircut even though you both need one.”
Although surprised at first, Yance had regained his composure enough to approach Whiteoak without showing much concern for the guns in his hands. When the professor thumbed back both hammers, the metallic click served as a very good reminder.
“You’re to pack up your things,” Yance said, “and drive that god-awful wagon out of town.”
“Is that it?” Whiteoak asked. “All this trouble just to try and shoo me away? I’m almost disappointed.”
“You’re nothing but a thief who sells dressed-up liquor in little bottles. You’ve been in the right place at the right time too many damn times.” Stretching out one hand, Yance asked, “Now are you gonna return my property?”
“Why would I do that? So you can take a shot at me?”
“That’s what I thought, thief. Come on,” the squat gunman said to Eastman. “This son of a bitch thinks nobody’s smart enough to figure out the part he played in robbing our bank.”
“Wait a second,” Whiteoak snapped. “You think I had something to do with that robbery?”
Yance’s eyes narrowed as he studied the professor. “I know a scallywag when I see one.”
“And I know killers when I see them,” Whiteoak countered. “You were here to do more than try to frighten me off.”
“Maybe we was,” Yance replied. “If you’re so sure about that, you’d best put bullets in both of us right now. Otherwise, we’ll just come around some other time and get the job done. What do you say, Fancy Britches?”
“Here,” Whiteoak said as he tossed Yance’s pistol to him. “You shouldn’t force another man’s hand when you don’t have the slightest notion of what kind of hell that man is willing to unleash.”
While Eastman looked at Whiteoak with the same amount of ill intent as before, there was something different in Yance’s eyes. It was a small measure of trepidation mixed with the slightest hint of respect.
“I guess we’ll see what kind of hell that is,” Yance said. “From both of us.”
“Yes,” Whiteoak replied. “We certainly will.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The rest of the day passed and the only thing to bother Professor Whiteoak was making preparations for that night’s medicine show. Although he would vehemently deny that they were shows in the strictest sense of the word, that’s exactly what they were. Calling them demonstrations or expositions made them sound more official and upstanding, but showmanship was a large part of his craft and everyone knew it.
The longer he stayed in a particular town, the better acquainted the professor became with the quirks and eccentricities of its residents. He also needed to consider the climate, local concerns and some bit of history to put together the approach he would take as well as a batch of tonics that would best appeal to his audience. All of those things went into play as Whiteoak strutted in front of his wagon while touting the virtues of his newest concoction.
“And this, my good friends,” he said to the audience gathered around him that evening, “is guaranteed to cure those sleepless nights, bestowing upon you the most refreshing couple of hours you’ve ever experienced.”
“And give us some sweet dreams, I imagine,” groused one old man who’d taken it upon himself to complain about the amount of laudanum he’d gotten in one of his pain relievers. Laudanum wasn’t any kind of secret ingredient, but it was usually not something folks complained about.
“Actually, this is for sleep,” Whiteoak said. “If you’re looking for intoxication, might I recommend the Dove Tail Saloon on Wilcoe Avenue.”
“I know where the Dove Tail is,” the old man grumbled as the man beside him gave him a nudge with his elbow.
The size of the audience may have dwindled slightly with each one of Whiteoak’s shows, but the people who came were a profitable mixture of those loyal to his products and fresh faces passing through town. The professor spoke to each one of them in turn, locking eyes with every single person in front of his wagon at least once. That was all he needed to pick out sources for the night’s income.
There was a ripple of laughter after the grumpy old-timer was needled back into silence. Whiteoak picked up another bottle and launched into a pitch that was as convincing as it was colorful. During his flamboyant presentation, Whiteoak’s attention was diverted slightly by two faces in the crowd. They weren’t customers and they weren’t even there to shout criticisms. Yance and Eastman stood silently on the periphery of the group with arms crossed and eyes narrowed into predatory slits.
“But my eyes are strained by the sun!” Byron said from the same general direction as the two gunmen. Using a simple technique to goose a sagging crowd along, he played the part of a customer so Whiteoak could further his pitch. “How could that possibly help me?”
Shaken by the appearance of Yance and Eastman, Whiteoak had to look down at the bottle in his hand and read part of the label to formulate a response. “Of course you might believe that,” he said, “but these drops have been specially blended to relieve strain from the sun as well as from reading or even a stray kick from a mule.”
Byron scowled in a convincingly skeptical fashion while shaking his head as if he’d heard the most ridiculous thing imaginable. Having just arrived at the demonstration, he hadn’t had time to notice the foul temper of the two gunmen beside him. “That’s plain crazy.”
“A man in Leadville, Colorado, was kicked by his mule and was told he’d go blind,” Whiteoak proclaimed, picking up steam in his speech. “Only a few weeks of applying these drops to his eyes reduced swelling, relieved pain and saved the precious gift of his sight.”
From there, Whiteoak and Byron went through the banter they’d practiced an hour beforehand. Although the professor’s performance was polished and charming, his heart wasn’t fully invested. Even so, the presentation went over well and managed to draw some more spectators who were interested in the new product. Samples were given, a few volunteers were allowed to sample the drops and several bottles were sold. While he was packaging up a small box of wares for an old woman who’d been in his audience since the first night, Whiteoak allowed a somewhat genuine smile to drift onto his face.
“I simply cannot thank you enough for what you did to your celery tonic,” said an old woman with one of the kindest faces Whiteoak had ever seen. She had the solid build of a farmer and a nose that more closely resembled a small potato set beneath wide, friendly eyes. “Once you added that extra ingredient, my hands have never felt better.” Whenever she spoke, she was as earnest as could be. If he could find a way to bottle that for himself, Whiteoak knew he could really do some damage as a salesman.
“My pleasure, Sophia. In fact, why don’t you take this extra bottle? My compliments.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Don’t be silly,” Whiteoak insisted while placing the bottle in with the rest of her order. “I couldn’t sell it anyway since I brewed it especially for you.”
“Really? What is it for?”
“Headaches.” With a wink, he added, “The kind that you get from long days and hearing too much guff from your husband.”
She pulled out the stopper, sniffed the bottle and chuckled. “This isn’t medicine.”
&n
bsp; “Good for whatever ails you, as my grandpa used to say. And if it was good enough for him, who lived well into his nineties I might add, then it’s good enough for you. Enjoy.”
“You are too kind,” she said while reaching up to pat his cheek. “Next time I see you, I will bring you some of my potato kugel. I promise, you will like it.”
“Can’t wait.”
Whiteoak couldn’t stop smiling after Sophia walked away. He then turned his attention to the display he’d constructed in front of his wagon and started taking it down.
Once the crowd had completely dispersed, Byron worked his way over. “I think that went well,” he said in a hushed voice.
Making certain to speak in a normal tone, Whiteoak replied, “I’d say so.”
“Some of them did seem to be a little leery of me, though. I think they know we’re on friendly terms.”
“Of course they do. One of the biggest mistakes a man can make in this business is assuming your audience is stupid.”
“Then perhaps we should do something differently?” Byron offered hopefully. “Maybe I shouldn’t try helping you during your shows?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because we’re not fooling anyone.”
Now that his samples had been packed up, Whiteoak folded the display counter back up into the side of his wagon and latched it in place. “The point tonight wasn’t to fool them. It’s to make them listen and, once they’re listening, to make sure they hear what they need to hear.”
“So you’re saying you never set out to fool anyone?”
“That’s not what I said. That just wasn’t the point tonight.”
Byron followed Whiteoak around to the back of the wagon and helped load some boxes into the wagon where they could be stored with the rest of the professor’s supplies. “So you do set out to fool people sometimes?”
“Of course, but only at first. That first show and maybe the second. Those are the only ones where you have any chance to lay groundwork. After that, it’s too late. They either already have you pegged as a charlatan or have written you off completely. If either of those things happen, it’s time to pack up and move along to the next town.”
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