E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Mebbe,” said Grimes, very slowly, “yo’ll are in a class with Susie after all. When I git back from Kansas I got a shooting party with Potts—”

  “No, Simon.” She leaned closer, till he felt her warmth against him. “There’s been too much hate and killing. This is feud’s end. I’m grieved—but dad was wrong—you couldn’t help it—”

  “Honey,” he groped, “ef yo’ mean that, I’ll even kiss Potts when I git back.”

  TOO MANY CLIENTS

  Originally published in Spicy Western Stories, May 1939.

  Jane Cokey’s eyes glowed with pride as she paused at the hitching rack on the main street of Aztec Hill and glanced at the freshly painted sign which read, “SIMON BOLIVAR GRIMES, ATTORNEY AT LAW.” The harness maker, just across the street, looked up from the eight-strand reins he was braiding and ceased work, then and there.

  “I shore wisht I was a lawyer,” he said to himself, as the breeze ruffled Jane’s copper colored hair, and made her low necked blouse outline some nicely luscious curves. He half rose to his feet, sank slowly back to his bench, and shook his head. “Taint no use trying to holler now. Pore Simon!”

  Half an hour previous, the harness maker had seen Kitty Baxter heading for the young attorney’s second floor office. Her shapely legs, unhampered by riding boots, had thrown his braiding all out of gear.

  Kitty’s presence had done almost as much for Grimes. At the moment, he was trying to get her arms untangled from his neck. But the frock coat which he had bought along with the musty law office was a handicap. So was Kitty’s seductive fragrance, and the upturned lips that pleaded, “Now, Simon, didn’t I help you win your first case?”

  “I know you did, honey,” he admitted, brushing back his tow colored cowlick. “But it ain’t any way fo’ a professnul man to cut up, entertainin’ ladies during office hours.”

  “Don’t be silly, Simon.” She wriggled close enough to make a kiss compulsory. “I just wanted to dust your office a little.”

  The scarlet gown that set off her cream-colored skin and blue black hair did not seem appropriate to house cleaning. Neither did her tiny satin slippers, nor the frail silk hose whose tops were exposed by the disarray of her skirt.

  Kitty’s lashes fluttered. “Oh, Simon,” she murmured as he ceased trying to pry her arms from his neck and began holding her closer.

  Just then, a window pane spattered into dirty fragments. Kitty yeeped and ducked for the corner. Grimes drew a .45 Colt from his hip pocket and bounded toward the sill.

  Lem Boggs, the harness maker, was gesturing. Grimes yelled, “What the tarnation hell? What y’all mean?”

  Boggs kept on gesturing. Then Grimes saw the blue roan at the hitching rack and recognized the beast: Jane Corey’s cayuse!

  He whirled. Dainty boots were click-clocking along the hall floor.

  That must be Jane. A man’s weight would have made the boards creak. He made a lunge and caught Kitty by the shoulders. “Git in that closet, quick!” he whispered. “I’m expectin’ a client.”

  Grimes nearly fell over his own oversized feet, but somehow, he reached the door without a bit of lost motion. He stood there, blinking and brushing back the cowlick that persistently invaded his coffin shaped face. “Uh—um—mawnin’, Mis’ Jane.”

  “What’s the matter, Simon? You look sort of worried.”

  Grimes wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I sho’ am.” She tiptoed, and her arms slipped around his neck. He went on, “I’m jest crackin’ my skull, studyin’ the Ree-vised Statues.”

  Before her kiss got serious, he caught her arm and steered her back toward the head of the stairs. “Let’s you an’ me take a ride out to yo pappy’s farm.”

  “But I wanted to consult you,” she persisted, backing to the door and reaching behind her to twist the knob. “We ought to go into the office.”

  “Uh—um—it’s po’ful dirty and dusty.”

  “Then I’ll clean it up for you,” she brightly answered.

  Grimes was quite helpless. But to his intense relief, Kitty Baxter had closed the closet door. Jane daintily picked her way among the fragments of glass and seated herself in Grimes’ swivel chair.

  “Dad needs some money,” Jane explained. “And now that Hickman is back in town, we’d like to have you arrange the loan.”

  Grimes shook his head. “Mistah Hickman’s bank hates nesters like pizen. He won’t loan nothing.”

  “That’s just it. But with the way you won your first case, you’ve got a lot of prestige. I know you can persuade him.” She rose, snuggled up against him and whispered, “You’ve not forgotten that first night we met? When pa and ma were away from the house?” Grimes had not forgotten. He did not know, for a moment, whether her heart or his was pounding so violently against his vest. But he had to get Jane out of the office. So he said, “Honey, y’all jest run along whilst I draw up the papers. I’ll see Hickman this afternoon.”

  When the door closed behind her, Grimes reached for his blue bandanna. And then Kitty Baxter emerged from the dusty closet.

  “You do have lovely clients, Simon,” she caustically observed.

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked out, head high. Grimes sighed and headed for the bar.

  Once at the free lunch counter, Grimes scooped up a handful of jerked beef, a bowl of chili, and a pocket full of salted tortillas. “Doctor” Harrigan ceased fiddling with his diamond studded scarf-pin and reached for whiskey and a glass.

  “Have one yo’self, doctor,” the young attorney invited.

  A tall man came in by the side door. One arm was bandaged; a scarlet shawl supported it against his bear-skin vest. His face seemed to have been hewn from a chunk of knotty oak. He limped perceptibly, and muttered in his throat.

  “Top of the mornin, to ye, Mr. Hickman,” the doctor greeted.

  The banker grunted, gulped his whiskey, and stared at the large silver cup on the back bar. Its gleaming surface was engraved in old English letters “Won by Hammerhead Hickman, Aztec Hill.” The next line read, “Glass-Eye Regan, Timber Creek.”

  Grimes said, “Mistah Hickman, when y’all git finished takin’ a appetizer with me, I’d admire to discuss suthin with yo’, on behalf of my client, Mistah Ab Corey.”

  “Ab Corey? Hrrruhp! He selling out?”

  Grimes met Mr. Hickman’s blistering blue gaze for a moment. As the banker’s glance shifted back to the silver trophy, Grimes answered, “Don’t reckon as how he is, suh. Fact is, he’s aiming to stay. If y’all renew his note, and lend him another thousand dollars on a second—”

  “Second mortgage? Hell’s hinges! You think I’m crazy!” He stamped across the hand hewn puncheons, and toward the door; indignation made him for a moment forget his game leg.

  Grimes shook his head, and sighed. “He’s sho’ a onsociable gent. Looks like he had a accident, jedging from his face and arm and laig.”

  “Sure, and that’s what’s making him peevish.”

  The doctor pointed at the calendar at the back bar. Penciled crosses blocked out the dates up until the 22nd; the 25th had a ring around it. “It’s this iligant trophy he’s worrying about,” Harrigan explained. “He won it once, and Timber Creek’s champeen won it once. This time, it’s fer keeps.”

  “Looks like it’d hold a quart of likker,” Grimes estimated. “What do y’all do to win it?”

  “It’s a dude sport,” the doctor explained. “Shooting a scatter gun. Hickman’s the champeen, only his arm’s busted.”

  “What all yo’ shoot at?”

  “Clay pigeons.”

  “Clay pigeons? Hell, that’s plumb silly, busting crockery.” Grimes left half his chili uneaten. His face lengthened, and he walked down the dusty street, absent-mindedly munching tortillas. It was not until he heard the full throated boom of a shotgun that he perked up.

  Another
blast; a shout. “Dang ef he didn’t hit that one!”

  Grimes headed left, toward the disturbance. Instinctively, he reached for the pistol in his leather lined hip pocket.

  Just outside the limits, the young attorney halted. Hickman was pacing up and down near a group of men, one of whom had a shotgun. Not far from the party was a shallow pit. In it a man crouched, behind a barrier of logs that sheltered him on two sides. He was working with some iron contraption the like of which Grimes had never seen. Its purpose, however, was soon apparent.

  The man in the pit jerked a string. There was a click, a metal arm snapped out straight, and a saucer shaped black disc skimmed over the barrier. The man with the gun blazed away. Hickman cursed when the flying target vanished, far out in the mesquite.

  “Why, Windy, you—you—damn’ jughead,” he roared. “Even a dude kin hit them things on the fly. By gravey—”

  Windy whirled and angrily cut in, “Ef yuh hadn’t fell often yore hoss, yuh pot-bellied fossil, mebbe yuh could be firing yoreself.”

  He made as if to slam the weapon to the ground. Hickman yelled. The man in the pit, startled, jerked the release. Another clay pigeon skimmed over the pit. Grimes hated to see a target go to waste. His .45 roared, and the black disc spattered to bits.

  “Shucks,” he said to the gaping crowd, “if y’all could jest eat them dang things—”

  “What—uh—what in tunket?” demanded Hickman. Then he saw the fuming Colt. “Yuh mean yuh hit that with a six gun?”

  “It was a gol dang accident,” Windy flared.

  But Grimes refuted that by nicking the next clay pigeon. The banker demanded, “Look-ee here, bub! You got to shoot fer Aztec Hill.”

  Grimes shook his head. “No, suh. It’s plumb silly. Besides, I ain’t never used a scatter gun, excepting onct, in a saloon fight.”

  “It’s yore civic duty!” Hickman contended. “Tuh keep that air trophy in Aztec Hill.”

  Grimes countered, “If y’all loan Mistah Corey a thousand dollars, I’d sho’ admire to represent yo’ in this competition.”

  There was a lot of wrangling and haggling. But finally Hickman consented. “And yuh use my pus-sonal shot gun. Be dang careful of it. She’s hand made, full choke, Damascus barrel, and cost four hundred bucks.”

  “Gosh,” muttered Grimes, “that’d buy purty nigh a dozen Colt!”

  “Take these yere cartridges,” Hickman added. “They’s special loadings. Ain’t no use yuh wasting none practicing.”

  “Gents,” said Grimes, “if y’all will jine me, I’m buying liquor.”

  * * * *

  Hickman had somber moments, pondering on the thousand dollars he had risked; but when Grimes bellied up to the bar and had the silver trophy filled brim full of whiskey, the banker began to appreciate the young attorney. “A right pert jasper,” he confided to Doc Harrigan, “even ef he does look too dang dumb to come outen the rain.”

  The news spread, and the saloon filled up. Despite Hickman’s broken arm, the honor of Aztec Hill no longer hung in the balance.

  Grimes took time out to scrutinize the gold inlaid lock and breech of the costly shotgun. “Gosh,” he muttered, “fo’ hundred bucks! What in tarnation is them funny little lines all around the barrel?”

  “That there’s hand made Damascus,” the banker explained.

  “Damascus? Shucks, this ain’t a sword!”

  “Bub, mebbe yuh kin shoot, but yo’re plumb ignorant. That there barr’l is made outen hoss shoe nails wrapped around a form and welded.” He had his details slightly scrambled, but the general idea was right. “It’s the strongest barr’l made. Yuh couldn’t bust it onless yuh stuffed her with dynamite or plugged her muzzle with mud or suthin.”

  Then Hickman filled the silver trophy with whiskey and passed it around. Aztec Hill settled down to celebrate the impending victory.

  That night, Grimes had the precious shotgun cradled in both arms as he headed through the hotel lobby. Somehow, he got to his room.

  There he wrapped the gun in a blanket, heaped the cartridge on the table, and sat down to enjoy his liquor. He had lost track of time, and he did not care…

  A gentle tapping at the door startled Grimes. His hand streaked for his .45, and he said, “Come in, but keep yo’ arms folded.”

  Then he saw that no Timber Creek gun slinger had tried to trick him into the hall. Kitty Baxter was at the threshold. She wore her saffron yellow negligee. Though she drew it together at the waist, it gave him alluring glimpses of lace-hedged bosom.

  “Simon,” she said, softly closing the door behind her and tiptoeing toward him, “I heard all about how wonderful you were this afternoon.”

  “Them’s scrumptious slippers yo’ wearing, honey.”

  Kitty planted herself on his knee. The skirt of her robe trailed away at the knee, delightfully exposing a silk clad leg. She slipped a plump arm about his neck, and cuddled comfortably close. Then she glanced at his bed and wondered, “What on earth have you got wrapped up so carefully?”

  “That there is a fo’ hundred dollar gun. If I win the competition, Hickman’s got to loan my client a thousand bucks.”

  “Oh, isn’t that wonderful!” Kitty’s voice registered admiration, but her black eyes were narrow and pointed. “Your client? Which one?”

  He made an expansive gesture. “Jest a client, honey.”

  The lovely brunette wriggled closer and kissed him. For some moments, Grimes’ thoughts had no room for Jane…

  Kitty sighed. “You’re kind of sweet on your client, aren’t you?”

  The Grimeses of Kennesaw Mountain had their moments of brutal frankness, particularly when drunk.

  “She’s a mighty lovely little critter.” He gently pried her arms from about his neck. “Supposin’ y’all trot along. I got to be pondering about a case.”

  Before she had slid from his knee, Grimes’ chin was drooping to his chest. He was muttering to himself, “Jane, honey, don’t y’all fret yo’self about nuthing…”

  Kitty glanced back from the threshold. “Jane, honey!” she venomously echoed. “Drunk as a skunk, and got that bleached blonde on the brain!”

  That burned her to a crisp. She really liked Grimes…

  He spent the next day sobering up on a mixture of canned tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, and raw eggs. By night fall, he was eating a two inch steak the size of a blacksmith’s apron. The four hundred dollar shotgun, muzzle carefully protected, stood in the corner. A dozen leading citizens watched the champion eat.

  “Hand ain’t shakin’ a bit,” muttered the marshal.

  “Ef he kin plug ’em with a six gun sober,” said another, “he kin bust ’em open with a scatter gun, blind drunk.”

  Hickman dug out his poke. “Me, I’m riding to Timber Hill tub make some bets. Leastwise enough to cover that there bum loan I got tuh make outen civic pride.”

  A dozen citizens crowded around to add their rolls to the pot.

  * * * *

  The night before the contest, Kitty Baxter tiptoed to Grimes’ door. He was carving Jane Corey’s initials into the table top, and he needed only one more stroke of his Bowie knife to complete the heart that enclosed the letters.

  “Mebbe,” he was saying to himself, “if I put a arrow through it, it’d be mo’ poetic-like.”

  When he heard the tap at the panel, he dropped his knife and hurried to the door. Kitty’s gown was a crimson haze that scarcely blurred her shapely figure. Nestled in the crook of her arm was a bottle. She said, “Simon, I know you like good liquor. So I brought you a bottle of sixteen year old bonded stuff.”

  “Mighty sweet of you, honey,” he said, brightening perceptibly.

  He did not bother to kiss her. He was too busy finding and then using a corkscrew. Kitty’s glance shifted toward the table top. Her lips thinned slightly when she saw the f
resh initials but she pretended interest in the cartridges that Grimes had arranged in symmetrical groups, just beyond the bleeding heart.

  “Ooooh…are you firing all those shells?”

  “Ug—ug—glug.” He lowered the bottle. “Sho’ am, honey. Hundred shots, and ef Glass Eye Regan kin tie a perfect score, then we shoots a second batch.” He wiped his lips. “Mighty nice whiskey, but dang if I’d not ruther have corn likker like my grand pappy makes.”

  “What’s wrong with this whiskey? They told me it was awfully good.”

  Grimes stroked her lustrous black curls, and then got a long arm wrapped about her. He nodded, took another long swig, lowering the level by three inches. “Uh—nothing exactly wrong, honey. Only, it’s jest weakish-like.”

  Then he saw the injured expression that clouded her lovely face. Penitent, he set the bottle aside and caught her in both arms. “Now, don’t y’all think I’m ungrateful. I sho’ was gittin’ thirsty, only the committee won’t let me drink a drop tonight. But this here don’t count, being mild.”

  “Simon!” She pouted a moment, then dimpled. “You drink every bit, or I’ll never speak to you again.”

  But before he got around to that, she wrapped both arms about his neck, and she kissed him, avidly. “Mmmm… Simon,” she sighed, “you were awful mean to me the other night…”

  “Ohhh—” She gasped, and her eyes were misty when her fluttering lids finally parted and she regarded him between long lashes. “Kiss me that way again, Simon…”

  He did even better than that…

  * * * *

  The next day, Timber Hill’s citizens swooped down in a whirl of alkali. The marshal met them, and the sheriff was with him. The latter announced, “Gents, this here ain’t going to be a leather-slapping contest. Therefore, me and the local law is axing yuh visitors to jine our local talent in checking yore hand guns, rifles, Bowie knives, and such like weep-ins, in the interests of fair play and clean sport.”

  “That air,” admitted the mayor of Timber Creek, “is mighty agreeable.”