Easy Pickin's

by Marcus Galloway

  The entire town streamed out of various buildings where they’d either been hiding or taking part in Barbrady’s firing line. Locals emerged from the buildings surrounding the bank, walked down the street, or simply wandered in to get a look at what all the fuss had been about. After the dead were carried away, there was nothing left to do by those still lingering on the street but to chat among themselves, calm their nerves and try to make themselves useful after the recent ordeal. As time wore on, neighbors started to come together again. Robert helped the cleanup effort by feeding those who threw their backs into the job by bringing beer from the Dove Tail Saloon to serve with the ham sandwiches that were handed out by Mrs. Cassaday and some of the other women.

  All the while, Whiteoak sat on the steps of the Second Bank of Barbrady. Idly, he looked up at the broken building behind him and asked, “Where’s the First Bank?”

  “What?” Byron asked warily.

  “I just noticed this is the Second Bank of Barbrady. Where’s the First Bank of Barbrady?”

  “It burnt down three years ago.”

  “Oh,” Whiteoak said. “Interesting.”

  “Not really.”

  Such was the extent of their conversation until someone else finally decided to acknowledge the men’s existence. That person wasn’t a peace officer, but a certain woman with a strained smile and soft, light brown hair.

  “I brought you some lunch,” Lyssa said while sitting down between Whiteoak and her brother.

  Taking the food that he was given, Whiteoak said, “You managed to wrestle some of those sandwiches away from the others, did you?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But it wasn’t easy.”

  Byron’s face was pale and his eyes were those of a soldier who’d been too close to cannon fire for too many battles. He took the food and began stuffing it into his mouth.

  Noticing the other man’s dazed countenance, Whiteoak said, “Looks like Byron’s sandwiches were made with horse manure and dog meat.”

  Byron kept eating.

  “He’s been through a lot,” the professor said to Lyssa. “It does my heart some good to see so many folks come together to help each other after the robbery.”

  Gathering her legs up close to her chest, Lyssa sat with her arms wrapped around her knees and her skirts collected into a neat bundle around her. “You both have been through a lot. This town’s been through a lot as well. I didn’t see much of it, but I heard the shooting. It was terrible.”

  “Were you worried about me?” Whiteoak asked as he scooted a bit closer to her.

  “I was worried for my brother,” she conceded.

  “And?”

  “And . . . I was concerned that you might be killed.”

  Whiteoak smiled confidently. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

  “I’d probably be the one who’d have to bother with all the junk you left behind, since you spent so much time under my roof while here in Barbrady.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “True.”

  “I knew it!” Whiteoak beamed.

  Lyssa plucked at a loose thread in her dress, rolled it between her fingers and allowed the wind to carry it away. “You also owe me money.”

  “I what?”

  “You promised to compensate me for the meals I fed you,” she told him dispassionately. “If you died, I wouldn’t see a cent of that.”

  “Ahh. Have you seen the sheriff? He was supposed to talk to me after examining the inside of the bank. He went in some time ago and came out again a short while later. Haven’t seen him since. I fear he might have forgotten about us.”

  “Please, lord,” Byron muttered. “Say he forgot about us.”

  Lyssa reached out to rub her brother’s back. “I saw the sheriff and Avery discussing something behind the bank when I was on my way over here.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “Your brother seems to find his religion at peculiar moments,” Whiteoak mused.

  “And you,” Lyssa replied, “tend to take being shot at and involved with the law in stride.”

  Whiteoak shrugged. “No need in getting upset. What happens will happen. All I want is the opportunity to show my gratitude to my new friends.”

  “Gratitude?” Byron gasped as he looked directly at Whiteoak. “What the hell are you grateful for?”

  “We weren’t shot!” Whiteoak said. “We weren’t arrested.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh, calm yourself. If we were going to be arrested, we’d be sitting behind bars right now. I’d say the sheriff is merely trying to figure out what to do with us. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

  Willis and his deputy strode forward and approached them. The two lawmen had circled around the bank, talking to excited locals and calming the nerves of a few men in suits who frantically waved their hands toward the bank. Close enough to hear the professor’s voice, Willis said, “I have a few options where you two are concerned. Which one I choose depends on how you answer my questions.”

  Hearing that his fate was again tied to Whiteoak’s, Byron hung his head low.

  “Ask your questions,” the professor said.

  Standing with a hand propped on his gun and his deputy right behind him, Willis asked, “What happened to Mister Bailey?”

  “The bank teller shot him.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “My guess would be that he was in league with whoever was behind these robberies,” Whiteoak told him. “Right before Nash made his move, he took it upon himself to clear the place out. Ask any of the other customers who were in there.”

  All Sheriff Willis had to do was look over at one of the old women standing nearby to get a quick answer. The gray-haired lady had been desperate to overhear anything she could and was all too eager to reply, “It’s true! Benson couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. All of a sudden, he pushed me and Mister Lyme straight out the front door and locked it behind us. So rude!”

  “I never caught the teller’s name, but that sounds about right to me,” Whiteoak said.

  Whatever method Sheriff Willis used to catch a man in a lie, he used it then and studied his two subjects intently. While the conclusion at which he arrived didn’t bring him to arrest White-oak or Byron, it also didn’t seem to please him very much. “What were they after, Professor?”

  “Money, I would assume.”

  “And why weren’t you shooed out of there as well when the teller cleaned the place out?” Avery asked.

  “I wouldn’t presume to guess at the motives of a madman.”

  Becoming more flustered by the second, Willis asked, “How can you be so damn certain that Bailey wasn’t in on this grand scheme?”

  Whiteoak stood up and stretched his back. “If Bailey wanted to rob his own bank, I imagine he could have done so at his convenience. As for any other speculations . . .”

  “Right, right,” the sheriff grunted. “Motives of a madman.”

  “Well put, sir.”

  The lawmen were already jumpy by the professor getting to his feet without permission. When Lyssa stepped forward to insert herself into the conversation, both Willis and Avery visibly tensed.

  “Ma’am,” the deputy snapped, “please step back.”

  “Do you think my brother or Professor Whiteoak had any part of this other than as witnesses?”

  “Well . . . I can’t prove such a thing,” Willis admitted.

  “And did either of them do anything to hinder you when you and the others were shooting those thieving animals in the street?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “In fact,” Lyssa said while tapping her chin, “I heard the professor did a fairly good job of distracting Nash before he could shoot anyone else from their window.”

  Whiteoak hadn’t been expecting that, but was quick enough to nod enthusiastically when the lawmen looked at him.

  “Are you going to charge them with a crime?” she asked.

  Avery looked at the elder
lawman expectantly. All Sheriff Willis could do, however, was shake his head. “There doesn’t seem to be a need for that,” Willis said. “But you’re not to leave town,” he added. “Any of you.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Whiteoak said in a voice that carried all the way down Trader Avenue and past the corner where it intersected with Second Street. “What I was planning was to lift a glass to toast Barbrady’s valiant protectors.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Willis said.

  “On the contrary, good sir. I have seen these brave men fight back the tide of violence not once but twice since my arrival and I feel the need to thank them for saving my life. Considering they’ve protected the bank where I was depositing my personal funds, they protected my livelihood as well. Tonight, drinks at the Dove Tail Saloon are on me! Everyone is invited, but attendance by Barbrady’s heroic committee or anyone else who put their lives on the line today is absolutely mandatory!”

  The lawmen both seemed flustered by the announcement; a condition which only grew worse as Whiteoak’s offer for free drinks was met by applause. After waving to his audience, the professor closed the distance between himself and the sheriff so he could ask, “What became of Misters Davis and Halstead?”

  “Halstead got away,” Willis said.

  Livid, Avery groused, “You don’t have to tell this peacock anything!”

  “With all the flapping gums in this town, he’ll hear about it soon enough as is,” Willis replied. “Besides, I was hoping the professor might have something to say on the matter himself. He was the one to have last words with Mister Bailey and Jesse Nash and Benson as well.” Reading the question on Whiteoak’s face, Willis added, “The bank teller.”

  For a moment, Whiteoak was silent. When he finally did speak, there was a tremor in his voice that had the flavor of fear or conscience. For a man like Whiteoak, one almost certainly led to the other.

  “Mister Bailey’s last words,” Whiteoak explained, “as they are with most men who are surprised by their own end, weren’t noteworthy. The teller revealed himself to be a murderer and his words were as spiteful as one might expect.”

  “And Nash?”

  “He said that me and all the other rich sons of bitches could shove it up their asses.” When he saw the consternation that brought to the sheriff’s face, Whiteoak added, “You asked. Were you expecting a psalm?”

  “No,” Willis said. “I guess not. I won’t toss you into jail for now, but you’re not to leave town.”

  “Understood.”

  Recoiling as if his lineage had been insulted, Willis told him, “You step one foot out of Barbrady and I’ll hunt you down.”

  “Of course.”

  “To make certain you stay put, I’ll be taking your wagon.”

  Whiteoak bristled, which he quickly got under control with a few skilled shifting facial muscles. “That wagon is my life, sir.”

  “I know that, which is why I’ll be taking it with me and putting it under lock and key until this matter is resolved.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “Depends on how it goes. If there’s to be a trial in relation to these killings and attempted robberies, you’ll put on your finest suit and do your part. When this is done, if what you’ve told me is proven to be the truth, I’ll turn your wagon over to you and send you off.”

  “What about my demonstrations? My work?”

  “You can go inside your wagon and mix your tonics,” the sheriff said. “But that wagon won’t be moving unless you want to get on my bad side real quick.”

  “I guess that’s fair,” Whiteoak said stiffly.

  “Yes,” Lyssa said as she entwined her arm around the professor’s. “That is more than fair and he appreciates it very much. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

  Whiteoak may have been a magnificent orator, but his acting skills weren’t quite up to the task of putting on a convincing smile. He nodded once and allowed himself to be led away. Before he could get very far, a voice called out after him.

  “And don’t go sulking for too long,” Avery said. “You promised all of these folks free drinks and you’ll provide them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Whiteoak replied in a mildly respectful tone that the deputy ate up like a plate of biscuits.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “These people love you,” Byron mused. “How on earth do you manage it?”

  Byron stood next to Whiteoak at the bar of the Dove Tail Saloon. Most everybody in town was there as well, thanks in no small part to Deputy Avery’s diligent advertising campaign intended to hit the professor’s wallet as hard as possible. The locals who weren’t present at the time had made their presence known earlier that evening to collect their free drink.

  Professor Whiteoak was dressed in a suit that was the color of lightly spoiled cream. A gold watch chain crossed his stomach and a diamond stickpin decorated the silk tie wrapped around his neck. His hair was slicked down in a smooth wave and his eyes positively sparkled as he met the smiling faces around him with heartfelt salutations. “Why are you surprised?” he asked. “I’m a delightful fellow.”

  “Sure. A delightful fellow paying for drinks. You might want to keep a closer eye on the barkeep. I don’t think Robert is keeping track of which of these folks are coming back for seconds.”

  “It’s a small price to pay for the goodwill of your fellow man.”

  “And?”

  Whiteoak looked over to him after waving to an old man he didn’t recognize. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s always an ‘and’ with you, Henry.”

  For a moment, the professor looked offended. Once Byron waited him out for a few more seconds, Whiteoak nodded slightly and leaned in to confide, “Robert is giving me a bulk discount and he’s also working off a debt.”

  “What debt?”

  “You think this liquor tasted so good before I arrived?”

  “Oh, right,” Byron said. “I’d forgotten about that tonic you sold him after convincing him to purchase those tin cups.”

  “It’s more of a spiced mixture, but yes. He bought an awful lot of it and wasn’t able to pay when I made my delivery earlier this evening. Now, we’re square.”

  “So you got all of this for free?”

  “Not quite,” Whiteoak said, “but almost. I did have to part with a good deal of my special mixture, but I can always make more. Such is the boon of being a professional craftsman.”

  Byron shook his head while tapping the glass of free whiskey that had been placed in front of him. “Always an angle.”

  “Life is full of angles. You either learn how to ride along their edges or get speared by them.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Did anyone catch up to those two swindlers, Davis and Halstead?” Whiteoak asked.

  “I don’t think so. Why don’t we ask my sister?”

  Perking up noticeably, Whiteoak asked, “Is she here?”

  “She was to meet me. Ah, I see her over there with Mrs. Cassiday.” Byron stuck his hand in the air and waved it wildly until Lyssa looked up from where she’d been sitting. Whiteoak tugged at his jacket to make sure everything was in order and picked up his hat which had been placed on the bar near him. He put the wide-brimmed hat on his head long enough to tip it to her and place it right back onto the bar.

  “Have you finished those spectacles yet?” Lyssa asked once she was close enough to be heard. “Mrs. Cassaday is very anxious about them.”

  “I have them right here,” Whiteoak said while patting his vest pocket. “If I’d known the two of you were there, I would have delivered them personally.”

  Lyssa rolled her eyes. “She’s spent a good deal of her time trying to get this and every other saloon in town closed up. Says they’re dens of sin.”

  “How very true,” Whiteoak said. “Bless every last morally rotten plank within them.”

  “For someone who’s so self-righteous,” Byron chuckled, “the old
bitty doesn’t have any trouble knocking back her share of free liquor.”

  Responding to the smile on Byron’s face instead of the words she couldn’t hear, Mrs. Cassiday lifted the teacup she held between dainty fingers.

  “It’s tea,” Whiteoak said while also raising his glass. “My own special blend. The most expensive one, no less. Brewed from leaves and spices clipped from foliage sprouting in every corner of the globe.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Byron said tiredly.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Whiteoak said to Lyssa.

  She sighed and walked around her brother so she could lean against the bar on the professor’s other side. “I can answer your question right now,” she said. “I will not accompany you to dinner until you are free from involvement with the law for at least two days. And even after that, you’d have to take me somewhere other than the cheapest chophouse in town.”

  Whiteoak’s eyebrows lifted, right along with the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t going to ask anything of the sort, but it’s nice to know where your thoughts are dwelling.”

  Color flushed through her face, and her mouth formed a straight, tight line beneath her rounded little nose. “What did you want to ask?”

  “Since you have such a good relationship with the sheriff, I was wondering if you knew what became of the search for Michael Davis and George Halstead.”

  Lyssa’s expression showed a hint of disappointment before she straightened her posture in a way that erected a thin barrier between herself and Whiteoak. “Michael Davis was cornered in the back of his lumber store by Deputy Avery,” she reported. “He was so panicked that he fired a shot at Avery before being asked a single question.”

  “A guilty conscience can be a very powerful instrument,” Whiteoak mused.

  “Yes, well Davis’s conscience landed him in jail. George Halstead, Senior, on the other hand, is a different story,” Lyssa added, looking as if she’d found a piece of candy hidden in her pocket.