“When will we know?”
“Later in the day, I guess,” Kennedy replied. “Seems he sent out some telegrams and he’s waitin’ for some replies.”
“Can we find out what those telegrams said?”
“Not legally.”
“But you could—”
“I won’t, Ben,” Kennedy said. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”
“Well…if they’re leavin’ town, even for a while…that should give us a breather…”
Kennedy knew the only one who needed a breather was the mayor. Carter had been as tense as a guitar string since the Shayes first arrived in Winchester.
“Okay…well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Carter said. “We’ll, uh, do like you said and wait and see.” He went to the door, opened it, and turned back. “And let’s talk about that…that badge thing, huh?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, havin’ them as lawmen here might even be good for the town.”
“Right.”
“Not that I want to replace you…”
“Of course not.”
“Just…you could probably use the competent help, right?”
“Right.”
“All right,” Carter said, appearing calmer than when he’d entered, “okay. I’ll, uh, wait to hear from you.”
“I’ll let you know what happens, Ben.”
Carter nodded, looked as if he were going to say something else, then thought better of it and went out the door.
It must have been even more than the year they’d lived in Winchester since any of the Shayes had worn a badge. Sheriff Kennedy wondered if any of them were itchin’ to put one back on. Even having one of them as a deputy would give him something he’d never had before—as Mayor Ben Carter had put it, a “competent” deputy.
8
Sheriff Harvey Dillon of Epitaph, Texas, had also sent Dan Shaye a telegram telling him he’d check Pearl River Junction to see if the girl still lived there. That meant that they didn’t know anything they hadn’t known before.
“When another response comes in,” Shaye told the clerk, “one of us should be at the Golden Garter Saloon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside Shaye told Thomas and James the news, which was no news.
“So what do we do now?” James asked.
“We stay around town until we hear somethin’,” Shaye said.
“And if we don’t hear?”
“We’ll leave in the morning,” Shaye said. “Head for Pearl River Junction. Whatever happens happens.”
“When’s the Golden Garter open?” Thomas asked.
“Today,” Shaye said, “when we get there. Come on…”
When they reached the Golden Garter Saloon, Dan Shaye banged on the door with his fist.
“What the hell—” The doors swung open and the owner of the saloon, Abner Moore, a black man in his sixties, appeared.
“Come on, you old geezer, open up. Me and the boys are thirsty.”
“Dan Shaye, that you?” Moore asked, squinting against the sun. “When the hell did you start drinkin’ early?”
“Today,” Shaye said, “only we aren’t gonna do much drinking unless you let us in.”
Abner looked at Thomas.
“What’s got into this man, boy?”
“He just found out he might be a grandpa,” Thomas said.
“Well, hell’s bells, man,” Abner said, staring at Shaye. “Why didn’t you say so?”
He stepped back, unlocked the batwing doors, and let the Shayes enter.
“Blessed events is somethin’ that’s got to be celebrated,” Abner said. “What’ll you boys have?”
“Three beers, Abner,” Shaye said, “and make ’em cold ones.”
If Dan Shaye had one friend in Winchester, it was Abner Moore. The two had hit it off from the moment they first met.
“My beers is always cold, goddamn it.”
Abner drew four beers and set them on the bar.
“Why four?” Shaye asked.
“I’m celebratin’ with ya,” Abner said. “Which one of you boys made your pa a grandaddy?”
“Neither one of us,” James said. “It might’ve been Matthew, our other brother.”
“Might’ve been?”
“We’re not sure,” Thomas said, picking up his beer.
“Is there or is there ain’t a baby?” Abner asked.
“There is,” Shaye said,” but we’re not sure if it’s family or not.”
“So what the hell did I let you in my saloon early for?” the black saloon owner demanded.
“Gives you an excuse to have a cold beer early in the day, you old faker.”
“Well,” Abner said, picking his up, “there is that.”
By the time the Golden Garter officially opened for business, the Shayes were into their second beer.
“Nurse this one, boys,” Shaye said when Abner set them on the bar. “We might be here for a long time.”
“If you gonna be here for a long time, you better be buyin’ more’n two beers each,” Abner complained. “Don’t be takin’ up no space at my bar if’n you ain’t drinkin’.”
“Abner,” Shaye said, “you’ll have plenty of men in here drinking in no time. We won’t be getting in anybody’s way. In fact, we’ll just take these beers and go sit at a table.”
With that the Shayes picked up their mugs and walked to a back table while one was still empty. The Golden Garter was the most popular saloon in town and usually started filling up the moment Abner opened the doors. There were so many regular customers that there was never any danger of Abner having a bad day. This was also the reason Abner always noticed a stranger—and today four of them came in and bellied up to the bar together. He reached under the bar and briefly touched the shotgun he kept there because he didn’t like the way these four hombres looked—and he was usually a good judge of character.
Somebody at the bar wondered aloud what Dan Shaye and his sons were doing in town and Abner noticed the four men look over at the Shaye table with interest.
“I help you boys?” Abner asked, stopping in front of the four men.
“Beer,” one of them said, “four of ’em.”
“Comin’ up.”
Abner drew four beers and set them in front of the men.
“Did we hear right?” one of them asked. “Those are Dan Shaye and his sons?”
“That’s them,” Abner said.
“What are they doin’ here?” one of the other men asked.
“They live around here,” Abner asked. “What’s it to ya?”
“Hey, ol’-timer,” a third man said, “take it easy. We’re just curious, is all.”
“You know what they say about curiosity, don’t ya?” Abner asked.
“No,” the fourth man asked, “what?”
Abner hesitated, then said, “If’n ya don’t know, I sure ain’t gonna tell ya.”
9
The four men were on the run, but they weren’t wanted in Wyoming. They’d come to Winchester to hide out for a while, but this opportunity was too good to pass up.
“I never heard of them,” Paul Brocco said with a shrug.
“That’s because you’re stupid, Paul,” George Griffiths said.
Paul sniffed, the way he always did when one of the other three men called him stupid.
“Don’t gotta be smart to hear a name,” he argued. “I ain’t never heard of no Dan Shayne.”
“It’s Shaye, you moron,” Lem Sanders said. “Dan Shaye and his two sons. They cleaned up the Langer gang.”
“All of ’em,” the fourth man, Ray Dolner, added. “I heard the pa, he got Aaron, and the oldest son, he got Ethan.”
“Thomas,” Griffiths said, “Thomas Shaye. I hear he’s pretty good with that handgun.”
“And the other one?” Paul asked. “He looks real young. Can’t be all that tough.”
“I tell you what, Paul,” Griffiths said. “You can have the young one.”
“Have him?” Paul asked. “For what?”
Dolner turned to face the others, who closed ranks so they couldn’t easily be overheard.
“We’re gonna take Shaye and his boys, are we?” he asked.
“Ain’t they lawmen?” Sanders asked.
“I don’t see no badges on them,” Griffiths said. “I think they was lawmen, but they ain’t no more.”
“We come here to lie low, George,” Dolner said.
“I know that, Ray,” Griffiths said, “but we didn’t know they was here. We take ’em fair and square and we’re gonna have big reputations. A fair fight’s a fair fight.”
“You wanna take ’em fair?” Dolner asked.
“Hell, why not?” Griffiths asked. “There’s four of us and three of them.”
“That don’t sound fair,” Paul said.
“Shut up, Paul,” the other three men said.
Brocco fell silent and pouted.
“Where do we do it?” Dolner asked. “In here?”
“No,” Griffiths said. “That barkeep’s got a shotgun behind the bar for sure. You see the way he was eyein’ us?”
“Outside, then,” Sanders said.
“Yeah,” Griffiths said. “Outside.”
“When?” Dolner asked.
“No time like the present,” Griffiths said. “We finish our beers and wait outside. They gotta come out sooner or later.”
“Okay, then,” Dolner said.
“Fine with me,” Sanders said.
“Me too,” Paul chimed in.
“Shut up, Paul!” they all said.
Abner carried three fresh mugs of beer over to the table the Shayes were seated at.
“Fresh one,” he said.
“We ain’t done with these—” Thomas said, but Abner shushed him by slamming the mugs down on the table.
“Four men came in,” he said. “They look like bad ones and they was interested in you.”
With that he collected the other half-finished beers and took them back to the bar with him.
“Pa?” James asked.
“I saw them when they came in,” Shaye said. “They’re a wrong bunch, all right. See? This is why we stay out at the ranch most of the time.”
“You think they know who we are?” James asked.
“If they didn’t know, they heard it from somebody,” Thomas said.
“Likely,” Shaye said.
“What do we do?” James asked. “They’re gonna be waitin’ outside, ain’t they?”
“Likely,” Shaye said again.
“I could go out the back way and get the sheriff,” James said.
“That might work,” Thomas said, “except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” Shaye asked.
“Ain’t no back way out of here, Pa.”
10
“One of us could go out a window in the back,” Thomas said.
“Which one of us were you thinkin’ of?” James asked.
“Well…you.”
“I ain’t goin’ out no window!”
“Well, I’m not—”
“That’s enough,” Shaye said. “Nobody’s going out a window.”
“So what are we gonna do?” James asked.
“Maybe,” Shaye said, “they’ll just get tired of waiting.”
The four men at the bar filed outside. Facing the Shayes on the street would take the bartender and his shotgun out of the play.
Outside Paul asked, “Now what do we do?”
“We wait,” Griffiths said. “We just wait.”
When the four men left the saloon, Abner called over a man named Pete Winchell, who mopped up the saloon every night and got to sleep in the back room for the privilege.
“What’dya need, Abner?” Winchell asked.
“I need you to go to the sheriff’s office and tell him there may be trouble,” Abner said. “Big trouble.”
“Sure, Ab,” Winchell said. He ran his hand over his dry mouth and Abner could hear his dry flesh scraping over his gray stubble. “Can I get a drink first?”
“No,” Abner said, “no drink until you get back.”
“Aw, Ab—”
“Now move!”
Griffiths watched the old drunk stumble through the batwing doors. He righted himself briefly, rubbed his mouth, and squinted at the sun. On a hunch, he stepped into the man’s way.
“Where ya goin’, ol’-timer?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“A man with money for a drink is askin’.” Griffiths took some coins from his pocket and let them jingle in his hands.
Pete’s eyes widened. “I—I got an errand to run for Abner.”
“Who’s Abner?”
“Fella runs the saloon,” Pete said. “The bartender?”
“The nigger?”
“That’s…uh, yeah, Abner.”
“What’s the errand, old man?” Ray Dolner asked, stepping up next to Pete.
“I, uh, I’m supposed to go and tell the sheriff that there’s trouble brewin’.”
“What kind of trouble?” Griffiths asked.
Still eyeing the hand that was holding his drink money, Pete said, “Uh, I dunno.”
“Trouble where?” Dolner asked.
“Here, I guess.”
“Tell you what,” Griffiths said. “You go inside and have a drink on us and we’ll deliver the message to the sheriff.”
“Ya will?”
“Sure.”
“That’s real nice of ya.”
“We’re friendly people,” Dolner said.
“Here ya go, old man,” Griffiths said, putting the coins into the old man’s hands. “Ray, why don’t you help our new friend back into the saloon?”
“Gotcha,” Dolner said.
He walked Pete back to the batwing doors, then made a spectacle out of holding the doors open for him.
“Enjoy your drink, ol’-timer,” Dolner said and left the batwings swinging in his wake as he left.
Abner saw one of the four strangers usher Pete back into the saloon.
“You deliver that message, Pete?” he asked when Pete got to the bar.
“Uh, no, but some new friends of mine said they’d do it, Ab,” he replied. “I got money for a drink now.”
Abner knew he should have put a back door in a long time ago. He also knew that Pete might break his neck trying to climb out a window.
“Yeah, okay, Pete,” Abner said. “One drink.”
He poured the old man a shot of whiskey, then stopped Pete’s hand as he tried to bring it to his lips.
“Go slow,” Abner said, “I ain’t givin’ you another one.”
“I can pay!” Pete said indignantly.
“You keep that money in your pocket, Pete,” Abner said, “and nurse that there drink.”
Abner released Pete’s hand and walked to the end of the bar so he could look out the front window. Sure enough, the four men were milling around out there. He knew they were waiting for the Shayes to come out and the Shayes knew it too. Folks had been leaving the three men alone during their infrequent visits to town. Now Dan Shaye was in town for the second day in a row and trouble was already dogging him.
There was going to be trouble. Even though it wouldn’t be their fault, Abner knew the Shayes would get the blame.
That’s just the way it was.
11
“Just sit tight, boys,” Shaye said to his sons. He got up and walked to the bar to talk to Abner.
“They still outside?”
“Jest waitin’,” Abner said. “I tried to send Pete for the sheriff, but they sent him back in.”
“Looks like they’ve got their minds made up.”
“Looks like,” the black man said. “You goin’ out there?”
“Got to, eventually,” Shaye said.
“Want me and my shotgun to go wit’ ya?”
“No, Abner,” Shaye said, “I want you and your shotgun to stay behind the bar, where you belong.”
&
nbsp; Abner looked around at his customers, then said, “Ain’t nobody else gonna stand wit’ ya, Dan.”
“I’ve got my boys,” Shaye said. “Should be enough to handle those four.”
“When you gonna do it?”
Shaye shrugged.
“I’m not in a hurry to leave. Haven’t got my telegram yet. Maybe they’ll get tired of waiting.”
Abner doubted that, but remained silent.
“Don’t worry, Abner,” Shaye said.
“Ain’t fair.”
“What?”
“I said it ain’t fair,” the barkeep said. “Folks been leavin’ you alone up ta now. Ain’t right some strangers come through town and cause trouble.”
“Fair’s got nothing to do with it, Abner,” Shaye said. “Nothing at all.”
He turned and went back to the table.
“What are we gonna do, Pa?” James asked.
“We’re going to wait for our telegram, James,” Shaye said.
“What about those men?”
Shaye looked toward the batwing doors. “Might as well let them wait too.”
An hour later Paul Brocco started to fidget impatiently, then Lem Sanders joined in.
“Can’t the two of you stand still?” Ray Dolner complained.
“How long we gonna wait?” Paul asked.
“As long as it takes,” Griffiths said.
Some men had left the saloon and others had entered during the past hour, but apparently no one had gone for the sheriff. There was no lawman in sight. Paul still wondered how Griffiths knew that the drunk had been heading for the sheriff’s office.
“Somebody comin’,” Dolner said.
They all turned to take a look. Griffiths recognized the white shirt and sleeve garters of some kind of clerk. The visor on his head meant he was probably from the telegraph office.
“Interestin’,” Griffiths said. “He’s in a hurry.”
The clerk hurried to the front of the saloon, but as he prepared to enter, Griffiths blocked his path.
“In a bit of a hurry, ain’tcha?”
“I got a telegram to deliver,” the clerk said.
“Who to?”
The clerk was not going to answer the question, but the other three men closed rank around him.
“Uh, it’s for Mr. Shaye.”
“Which one?” Griffiths asked.
Pearl River Junction Page 3
