by Ralph Hayes
‘Is it still like you said? With you and me?’ she asked quietly.
He sighed. ‘You know how much I like you, Molly. That ain’t never going to change. But I’m going to level with you, you deserve it. Whatever happens with me and McComb, I might never get back to Ogallala now.’
She felt dampness in her eyes. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.
‘Some things just don’t work out like you might want,’ he added.
There was a long silence between them. At last, Molly spoke.
‘Young Matt Dawkins has been coming around regular,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘I haven’t known how to handle that – because of you.’
O’Brien held her gaze silently.
‘Just before you all arrived back here, Matt asked me to marry him.’
O’Brien looked past her, across the room. It was unexpected, but he felt a moment of envy inside him. Molly was peeking at him for his reaction.
He looked back at her, at the pretty face, the blonde hair, the look of hope still in her blue eyes. Wishing he had met her later, when he had found out who he was.
‘Dawkins would be good for you, Molly,’ he heard himself say.
When Molly looked up again a tear ran down her cheek. ‘He comes from a good family, and he’s very likeable.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘I guess I’ll have to think seriously on it.’
‘I hope you do.’
Molly brushed at a damp place on her cheek, and rose. O’Brien stood, too.
‘I have to get back, O’Brien.’ She looked deep into his blue eyes. ‘If you never get back here, I wish you well.’
‘And I hope you make a fine life for yourself,’ he told her, the words coming out bitter to him. ‘That would please me.’
She started to respond, but couldn’t. She started to cry, so she turned and hurried from the office.
O’Brien figured he would never see her again.
That evening in the bunkhouse, O’Brien couldn’t look at Cahill’s old bunk. He was just pulling his stovepipe boots off when Walcott stopped past. He had a frown on his face.
‘Molly told me that just an hour ago she accepted a proposal of marriage from Matt Dawkins. Frankly, that surprised me, O’Brien.
‘I think Molly and me both know my future don’t hold no place for women,’ O’Brien said heavily. ‘I regret that, Walcott. You got a fine girl there.’
Walcott nodded somberly. ‘Well. What is, is. I wish it could have been another way. But God has his plans for us.’
‘I’ll miss both of you,’ O’Brien said.
‘Anyway, I got some news for you. I got this from Dawkins, as a matter of fact. Before Flannery left, he overheard McComb say to Navarro that he wanted to get back to Billings, Montana, some day. Said he had some wild days there when he was younger. He might just be heading in that direction now. Just a guess, but I thought you ought to know.’
O’Brien nodded. ‘Sounds like a good lead. Listen, if I don’t see you tomorrow morning, Walcott, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.’
Walcott took his hand, and felt the iron grip.
‘The same goes for me, O’Brien. Be careful.’
O’Brien smiled. ‘I expect to.’
O’Brien was gone the next morning two hours before dawn, and without saying another word to anybody there.
He decided to proceed on the assumption that McComb and Navarro were headed to Billings in Montana, unless for some reason he came across any evidence that pointed him in another direction. At a small frontier town in eastern Wyoming, O’Brien inquired at a local saloon. Two men of McComb’s and Navarro’s description had been in there several days ago, raising hell and shooting the place up. He knew he was on the right track.
After he had obtained that information from the bartender O’Brien ordered a bottle of planters’ rye and took a seat at a table. But he had barely sat down when a tall man in a dark suit seated at a nearby table called out to the bartender.
‘Don’t serve that fellow that whiskey, barkeep.’
O’Brien looked over there and saw who was speaking. The tall man was sitting with two others; they looked like ranch hands. The tall man was apparently the rancher.
‘That’s right, I’m talking about you,’ he said in a low growl.
O’Brien narrowed his eyes, looking the three of them over. This was why he preferred hardship camp to towns. You had to deal with all kinds of humanity in places like this. He didn’t have the patience for it. He turned back to the bartender.
‘I think you heard me, bartender. A bottle of planters’, and a glass.’
The bartender glanced at the rifle O’Brien had laid on the table beside him, and looked fearfully over to the rancher.
‘You heard me, too,’ the tall man said. ‘You serve that man, and I’ll have to have my boys commence on you.’
O’Brien turned a stony look on him. ‘What the hell are you up to, mister?’
The rancher downed a shot glass of whiskey. ‘You’re a buffalo hunter, aren’t you?’
O’Brien thought about that a minute. ‘I guess I am.’
‘A few weeks ago a few of my cattle strayed into buffalo country, and some men just like you shot and slaughtered them cattle with my brand on them.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ O’Brien said.
‘You’re a buffalo hunter. They’re all alike in my book.’
‘Yeah. All alike,’ one of his men echoed arrogantly.
O’Brien grunted. ‘You boys are feeling a mite juicy, ain’t you?’
‘We just don’t drink in the same establishment with buffalo hunters,’ the rancher responded. ‘Now, since you can’t drink here, I suggest you haul your carcass out of here while we’re still in a fairly good mood.’
O’Brien sighed heavily. He rose from the table, and picked up the Winchester.
‘Good.’ The rancher smiled. ‘You got more sense than I figured. Go chew on some buffalo hide.’
He laughed in his throat and the other men joined in. The bartender just stood motionless, watching.
But O’Brien had no intention of leaving. Instead, he walked over to the rancher’s table and stood in front of him. The hands of the two rannies went out over their guns. But the rancher was relaxed.
‘Oh, you want to talk about it?’ he asked O’Brien genially. ‘I don’t talk to buffalo men, boy. Get out of here while you can still leave under your own power.’
In a swift, smooth movement O’Brien swung the muzzle of the long gun up level with the rancher’s face; the man was now staring into the barrel of the deadly-looking gun. Both of his rannies drew their weapons. One man was slim and fast, the other one was more clumsy. Both guns were aimed at O’Brien’s torso. O’Brien didn’t even glace at them.
‘You want his head blowed right off his shoulders?’ he said quietly.
Behind the long bar the bartender had sucked his breath in and was now holding it, eyes wide.
The rancher, a middle-aged, bony man with dark eyes, looked very different suddenly. He swallowed hard and put a hand up to stop his men.
‘Hold it. This boy’s got my attention.’
‘Put the guns away,’ O’Brien said, still focused on the rancher.
The rannies hesitated, but their boss nodded to them. They re-holstered their weapons.
‘Now get this,’ O’Brien said. ‘I never rustled a steer in my life. I ain’t responsible for everything some jackass hunter does out there.’
The rancher stared down the barrel of the rifle. O’Brien called to the bartender without looking away.
‘Change that order to a dark ale and six boiled eggs.’
The bartender looked at the rancher, then went for the beer.
‘And I’d like to eat them eggs in peace,’ O’Brien said pointedly.
‘I mean, alone.’ He dropped the muzzle of the rifle to the floor.
The rancher just sat there for a moment. Then he blew a long breath out and smiled a crooked smile.
&nb
sp; ‘OK, hunter. You made your point.’ He rose. ‘Come on, boys. The place is his tonight.’
The other men got up, glaring at O’Brien. As the rancher moved past O’Brien he turned to say a last word.
‘You got guts, boy. But you better not be here the next time we come in.’
O’Brien just shook his head. Then the rancher and his men left the saloon.
A couple of days later, on a warm early-summer night in Billings, Montana McComb and Navarro were in a room that they had at the Langley boarding house just off the main street. McComb had put all the trouble at Ogallala well out of his mind and was enjoying being back in an area where he had had good times at a younger age.
Billings was on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains. It was a bustling, lively town. Wagons, carriages and buggies rumbled along its broad streets, and women carrying parasols decorated its boardwalks. The Wells Fargo stagecoaches stopped regularly at the largest hotel, and there were several stores on the main street as well as a bank, two other hotels and three saloons. The oldest saloon and the one that McComb sought out immediately upon their arrival, was the Occidental.
The sun was staying up longer now, and there was still light in the western sky when Navarro was looking around in a dry-goods store, hoping to purchase a new vest to replace his worn-out one.
The clerk, a small, bespectacled fellow, had brought out two vests for Navarro to look over. The Mexican held one up now and scowled at it.
‘This looks like the cow you took it from pissed on it as a parting comentario, my friend. Don’t you have something a little more … ranchero?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘I’ll take another look out back,’ he said testily. Navarro frowned, and drew his Remington Army .44, showing it to the clerk.
‘Maybe you don’t like serving Mexicanos, heh? Does this give you any more interest?’
The clerk’s face went a little pale. ‘I’ll look real good, mister.’
As the clerk exited the room through a rear door two men walked in from the street. Navarro turned to regard them openly. They walked over to stand beside him at the counter.
‘What you buying, Mex?’ the closer man asked with a slight grin. ‘I don’t think they sell them pretty decorated boots in here.’
Navarro stared hard at him. The fellow was rather tall and lanky, with strawlike hair sticking out from under his hat. But the thing that grabbed his attention was his steel nose. Above the nose was one cold-looking eye and one that wandered off to the side. Navarro had heard of such things as the nose but not seen the likes of this.
‘Jesus y Maria,’ Navarro mumbled.
The second man stepped away from the counter so that he could see Navarro better. He was a very thin fellow, an inch or so taller than his comrade, and the lower part of his face was pock-marked heavily. He wore two Wells Fargo revolvers on his belt, a Joslyn .44 in a shoulder holster under his left arm, and a Harrington pocket pistol tucked into his waist at his back. He was Luke ‘Iron Kid’ Purvis, and was deadly with all the guns.
His odd looking side-kick was Phineas ‘No Nose’ Foley, and his armor was a Schofield .45 revolver, displayed prominently on his belly.
‘What are you saying in Mex, Boy?’ Purvis said in a hard, gravelly voice. ‘Are you bad-mouthing us in that Mex gibberish?’
Navarro turned to face then warily, displaying his Remington Army .44 so they could see it and how he wore it. He rested his right hand on his belt, just over the gun.
‘I can speak English,’ he said easily. ‘I was just telling myself that your partner there is the ugliest thing I seen since a two-headed calf in Tijuana.’
Foley’s bizarre face grew a scowl. ‘Why, you damn greaser! Go for your iron.’
But at that moment the clerk returned from the rear. He did not notice the new customers.
‘I can’t find another vest for you, mister. But I found that shirt that Mr McComb wanted. Oh – I’ll be right with you, gentlemen.’
Purvis, the gun-bristling one, put a hand on Foley to slow him down. ‘Wait. Did you say McComb?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk replied.
‘Would that be Cyrus McComb?’ Purvis asked eyes narrowed.
‘Why, yes. That’s his full name, I believe.’
Purvis looked back at Navarro. ‘Why would you be picking up something for Cyrus McComb?’
‘Because he’s my partner,’ Navarro said, watching their faces. Purvis took a deep breath in.
‘Why, McComb and me go way back, Mex. When he was young and juicy.’ He gave a guttural laugh. ‘Foley here knows him, too.’
Foley relaxed, and dropped his hand from the Schofield.
‘I don’t really know him. I met him for five minutes. Years ago.’
‘Well, Mex. Any friend of McComb is a friend of mine. I’m the Iron Kid. Made John Wesley Hardin back down once. Last name is Purvis.’
He proffered his hand to Navarro, who hesitated, then took it.
‘Luis Navarro. I smoked a pipe with Geronimo once.’
They both grinned.
‘I think you’re going to work out just fine, Navarro. Now, where can I find my old friend?’
‘We’re at the boarding house near by.’ Navarro told him. Relaxed now. ‘But you’ll find us at the Occidental just about any evening. I think McComb has the fever for one of the girls there.’
Purvis laughed. No Nose Foley grinned and looked even more grotesque.
‘You going to be there tonight?’ Foley asked. His steel nose shone in the dim light, and Navarro couldn’t help staring. ‘I got me a real thirst for that Jamaican rum.’
‘We’ll probably be there. McComb might have business with you, too.’
‘Business?’ Purvis queried.
‘He’s got big plans,’ Navarro told him. He glanced at the clerk, who was arranging trousers on a shelf. ‘He’ll tell you about it.’
Purvis, who did most of the talking for them both, shrugged.
‘I’d talk with McComb about most anything. We’ll see you later, then.’
Navarro nodded, and looked over at Foley. ‘What happened to your nose, compadre?’
Foley frowned. It was a look under which most men would have paled.
‘Don’t you think maybe that’s my business, greaseball?’
Navarro’s face went sober. Purvis punched Foley on the arm.
‘Hey. This boy is alright, Foley. Go ahead and tell him.’
Foley sighed. ‘I met a grizzly on a mountain path. Before I could kill him he’d crushed a rib, scalped me, and bit my nose clean off. They put my scalp back together. But they never found my nose.’
Navarro nodded. ‘I knew a man once that lost both eyes to vultures. When he was disabled, you know. They didn’t touch him except for his eyes.’ He glanced at Foley’s left, wandering eye. ‘I see you got both of yours.’
Foley gave him a dark look. ‘So far.’
Navarro turned to the clerk. ‘You can wrap that shirt up for McComb. I’ll go some place else for the vest.’ He was gone soon after that.
When he returned to the boarding house, McComb was in their room, oiling his Colt revolver, sitting on a bed. He liked the shirt Navarro brought him. Navarro went to a dry sink, poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl and rinsed his face off.
‘I met an old friend of your at the store.’
McComb looked up at him. He looked just as tough and hard as he had at Ogallala, but had a more relaxed manner. He had big plans for himself, and ideas for a new life.
‘What old friend?’
‘He said his name is Purvis,’ Navarro said, towelling his face off. ‘He had guns all over him. And he was with the ugliest man I ever seen. Caramba! A man with a metal nose, I swear it. And his eyes make you dizzy to look into them. I swear by the Virgin!’
McComb grinned. ‘The Iron Kid. Because he carries so much hardware. That other one is a pinhead named Foley. Purvis introduced us once. I hear he can use a gun, though.’
Navarro came
and sat on the other bed, facing him. ‘I thought you should see them, Cyrus. Because of what you been talking about.’
McComb raised his eyebrows. ‘Hmmph. It’s an idea. We can’t embark on my new plans with just the two of us. What did you tell them?’
‘Just that you might want to talk with them,’ Navarro said. ‘They said they would be at the Occidental tonight.’
McComb paused, thinking. Then he nodded.
‘Good work, amigo. This might just be the break we need to start a new life here pronto. I’ll see how I react to them. We have to be able to trust them.’
‘We will find out tonight,’ Navarro said.
A few hours later it was a rather quiet night at the Occidental saloon. It was not a night when the ranch hands came to town, so most patrons were town people of various kinds. Most men wore suits with vests, or dungaree work clothing. Conversation was quiet, and the mood was tranquil. The Occidental management considered their saloon a notch above the other watering holes in town, with its Remington painting behind the bar, potted plants up by the front entrance, and preferred clientele.
When Purvis and Foley walked in through the swinging doors, they looked very much out of place. They had both lived in and around Billings most of their lives, but always frequented the rowdier places. They looked around and saw that McComb and Navarro hadn’t arrived yet, so they took a table off in a corner where they could watch the door. A waiter came across with a towel over his arm, and regarded them warily.
‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked with distain. He took a second look at Foley’s nose. Foley looked up at him with the wandering eye.
‘There ain’t no gentlemen at this table, fruitcake.’
The waiter lost the arrogant look.
‘Bring us an unopened bottle of your best rum,’ Purvis told him. His pock-marked jaws made his face all bumpy on the lower part. ‘And bring four glasses. We’re expecting company.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t bring no second-rate rum,’ Foley said hostilely. ‘I want the good Jamaican stuff.’
‘We only serve the very best brands of liquors,’ the slim young man assured him. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Purvis looked around the place. ‘I ain’t been in here for years. I think they went New York on us.’
