The Blacksmith

by Bryan A. Salisbury

  “Are you planning to rob the bank also?”

  “Yeah, sure, that’s why I bought a house and started a business, so they wouldn’t suspect.”

  “A devious plan indeed,” Dan quipped. Blake shot him a frustrated look. Dan smiled. “The sheriff is Iver Johansson, a former Texas ranger who desired a more sedentary lifestyle. He’s very tough and mean as a…” Dan searched for the words, “Sun burnt rattler, as they say. Anyway, he has made peace with the fact that the town pays his wages and he answers to the mayor.”

  “Who is?” Blake asked.

  “Why none other than our illustrious banker. Phineas Weatherby. And, as a side note, Ian MacIntyre would be the bank’s largest depositor.”

  A large piece of the puzzle that is the town of MacIntyre just slipped into place. Blake smiled and shook his head. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Our sheriff is quite enamored with his extensive collection of firearms.”

  “Hmm….lovely,” Blake said, raising his glass in a toast. Dan raised his and clinked Blake’s.

  ******

  Blake had a lot of work to do in the forge the next morning but he figured if he put the sheriff on Huxley’s trail he could stop the robbery before it got started. He made his way to the jail, which was a single story stone building that looked like it could withstand an attack by anything. The windows had bars and heavy oak shutters with slots for shooting from and the front door was sturdily built and looked like it could be barred from the inside. Blake entered the front door and found a tall thin man sitting behind the desk polishing a large bore Sharps rifle with a telescopic sight. He could tell the rifle was a showpiece, the way it gleamed.

  The man behind the desk glanced up at Blake with suspicious eyes; he looked to be well in his sixties with a strong jaw and light blue eyes. He was the type of man who when he looked at you, you felt you had already done something wrong. He stopped wiping down the rifle and stared at Blake. “Something I can help you with?” he asked gruffly.

  “I hope so,” Blake said extending his hand. “Name’s Blake Thorton.”

  He let Blake’s hand hang there for a few seconds and then dropped the cleaning rag and shook Blake’s hand with his gnarled fingers. “State your business, Mr. Thorton.”

  Blake didn’t mind a man being tough, but could not abide rudeness. “I take it you are Iver Johansson, the sheriff?”

  “That is the name my mother gave me,” he said flatly, “and that man sitting behind you is my deputy, Mike Ventosa.”

  Blake turned and saw a man sitting with his feet propped up on the pot belly stove. He had been sitting behind the door when Blake came in.

  “Howdy,” he said.

  Blake stepped over and shook his hand. “Pleasure.”

  “You the man who has been beatin’ on the bouncer over at the Trail’s End?” he asked grinning.

  Blake smiled back. “We’ve come to an understanding.”

  “That big bastard has thumped me a couple times,” Mike said. “Would’ve paid money to see him beat on.”

  “One man is somethin’, all right,” the sheriff grumbled. “I’ve come out on top taking two that size.”

  Mike rolled his eyes so Johansson couldn’t see.

  Blake turned back to the sheriff. “Mind if I sit?” pointing to a chair in front of the desk.

  “I guess so,” he said impatiently.

  Blake took off his hat and set it on the desk. Sitting down he saw the disapproving look from the sheriff. Blake took his hat off the desk and deftly threw it onto the coat rack near the door. “I’m here as a courtesy, sheriff. I saw three men ride into town last night, and I have a feeling their going to try and rob the bank.” Blake heard Mike’s feet hit the floor and he walked around to look at Blake. The sheriff didn’t move a muscle.

  “What makes you think that?” Johansson asked calmly.

  “I rode with one of them in the war. He was no good then and I doubt he changed much.”

  “Which side?” Johansson asked.

  The war had been over several years but feelings still ran strong. Blake knew that he had to be truthful and it would probably count against him. “Does it matter?”

  “Does to me.”

  “North.” Blake said.

  Johansson sucked his teeth and grimaced. “Yankee, huh? Now why would a blue belly come in here and offer to turn in one of his own?”

  Blake could feel the anger rise inside him. “Just because we fought on the same side, that doesn’t mean I owe him shit. There were good and bad on both sides, and I’m telling he was one of the worst.”

  “If you say so,” the sheriff said in a disbelieving tone.

  Ventosa chimed in, “What makes you think they are gonna rob the bank?”

  Blake cut his stare from the sheriff to his deputy. “I followed them to the saloon and overheard them talking.”

  “They said they was going to rob it?”

  “Never heard them say that clearly, it’s just a hunch.”

  The sheriff sputtered, “So you come in here with no proof anybody’s going to do anything and expect me to do what? Lock ‘em up and throw away the key on your say so?”

  “No, I don’t,” Blake said. “Just check them out is all. They’re camped outside of town north of here. Their handles are Pete Huxley, Luther Bent and Frank something-or-other; I never got his last name. They are waiting on a man named Pudney. He should be coming in soon.”

  Mike got up and rifled through some wanted posters on the desk. “What the hell are you doin’?” the sheriff growled.

  As he looked through the posters Ventosa muttered, “Huxley and Bent sound familiar but they ain’t got no paper on them,” he stopped searching and pulled out a wanted poster. Handing it to the sheriff he said, “Thought I recognized the name Pudney, he’s wanted for bank and train robbery plus a murder down El Paso way. He’s a bad one for sure.”

  “I imagine there’s more than one man with the name of Pudney, I doubt it’s him.” the sheriff said, throwing the poster on the desk. He leaned back in his chair and gave Blake an arrogant stare.

  “I’m wasting my time here,” Blake growled and stood up.

  Mike held up his hand and said, “Hang on now, don’t get all riled. I can send out some telegrams to see if anybody knows these men or what they may be up to.”

  “Waste of time if you ask me,” grumbled the sheriff. “Thorton here is probably in on it.”

  Blake had enough of the sheriff’s bad attitude. He stood and placed his hat firmly on his head and put his two fists on the desk leaning in toward Johansson, “Look, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you believe me or not. In case you want to check me out, talk to the mayor. I am reopening the blacksmith shop, and I’ve bought a house in town. I’m putting down roots here and I don’t want anybody hurt. I thought I could help by telling your bony ass about what I heard.”

  The sheriff rose slowly out of his chair and placed his fists on the desk and leaned into Blake, their noses were about four inches apart. He gave him a calculating stare at Blake’s unblinking eyes. “You best watch your tone when speaking to me, Yankee,” he snarled, “I would suffer no compunction putting a bullet in you.”

  “Funny thing,” Blake growled back.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s exactly what one of them said about you.” Blake stood up and opened the door. He looked directly at the deputy and said, “Let me know if I can help you find out anything.” Blake left closing the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

  The sheriff eased back in his chair glaring at the door, “Snotty Yankee bastard, I should’ve kicked his ass.”

  “Why, because you know he’s right?” Mike said leaning against the file cabinet.

  “Of course I know he’s right,” growled Johansson, “I’ve seen Huxley and Bent on a wanted poster up north of here, and if’n they’ve teamed up with Bob Pudney they’ll be capable of all sorts of hell
.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking, “Go ask Weatherby about Thorton and see if his story rings true.”

  “Don’t have to,” Ventosa said rolling a quirley, “The story is all over town about him. He bought a house and blacksmith shop and took that stuttering kid under his wing. He even got those two knuckleheads, Hap and Avery, cleaned up and got them jobs.” Mike scratched a match on the cabinet and lit his cigarette.

  “Shit. How come this is the first I’m hearin’ about all this?”

  “Dunno,” Mike smirked. “But that rifle sure does shine.”

  Getting the full drift of Mike’s comment, Johansson shot him a dirty look. “Kiss my ass,” he growled and pointed his thumb toward the door. “Go send them wires you were talkin’ about.”

  ******

  Mike Ventosa left the jail and headed for the telegraph office. On the way he swung by the blacksmith shop to find a very foul-tempered Blake. “Hey, Thorton,” he called while strolling up. Blake turned to him and frowned.

  “You come to arrest me for talking straight to your boss?”

  The deputy smiled, “No, nothing like that. I think he believes you.”

  “Strange way of showing it,” said Blake.

  “Aw, he lost two brothers to the union army and his father lost the ranch to Reconstructionists, I guess he’s still plenty pissed. He acts like he’s got a weed up his ass most of the time, but he ain’t a bad sort when you get to know him.”

  “So he’s going to check them out?”

  “Can’t do nothing ’til they break the law, right now they’re out of our jurisdiction. If we find paper on them we can send for a federal marshal.”

  “They’ll be long gone by then,” Blake said scratching his head.

  “It’s the best we can do till they break a law,” Mike said shrugging.

  Blake drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I guess we’ll wait then.”

  Blake and the deputy shook hands and he went back to work. He and Caleb started making the braces to jack up the roof. Blake calculated that they have to jack it up three times, each time using a longer jack pole. After they jacked up the first one the roof creaked and groaned. Every time there was a loud popping sound Caleb jumped.

  “Easy son,” Blake smiled, “she’s just complaining about being disturbed.”

  The second time they put the jack on it went up harder because the building rafters had warped and they resisted being straightened. When they had the second jack as high as it would go they tightened up the pulley, spanning the forge to pull the walls back in. Blake inspected everything closely and was pleased with the progress. “Looks good Caleb, one more time and we’ll be in business.”

  The third time was going well until the old brace holding the roof suddenly broke loose and came crashing into the temporary jack brace. Blake had instinctively shoved Caleb clear of the falling timbers but gotten pinned next to the new oak beam. Dust and soot filled the air, choking him. He struggled against the wood bracing but it wouldn’t budge. He looked up at the pulley ropes holding the side walls and they starting to quiver under the strain. If those broke the whole building would collapse on top of him. Caleb was frantically trying to get to Blake. Blake yelled, “Go get some help; I’ll be all right for a minute.”

  Caleb disappeared and a few seconds later Joe and Avery were in the doorway. “Damn, Blake, you all right?” Joe called in.

  “We need to jack the roof back up,” Blake wheezed, “but I’m pinned in here.”

  “We’ll need more men,” Joe yelled. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time,” Blake grimaced.

  “Hey, Thorton,” Avery yelled, “if you die, can I have your horse?”

  In spite of the pain in his chest Blake laughed, “Sure, you asshole, saddle too, but not until they bury me.”

  Suddenly, the doorway was filled with men trying to help. Hap, Josh Dooley, Bill Brady, Mike Ventosa, Joe Bergman, Caleb and a bunch of men Blake didn’t recognize were trying to get the jack reset. Blake was starting to lose consciousness but could hear them frantically working. A large pair of hands started separating the men forcing his way to the middle. Percival Feathers picked up the first jack pole and placed it in the ridge of the forge, with a deafening yell he lifted up on the pole and the whole building shook. The pressure on Blake’s chest left immediately and he drew in a life-saving gulp of air. Hands grabbed him and pulled him out toward the door.

  “Get the center brace in,” he gasped, “or else it will crash down on him.”

  Blake had placed the right length beam on top of the main brace so when the building had been jacked up enough it would hold the roof up. Caleb and Hap scrambled to the top of the brace and stood the beam up.

  Hap yelled, “Needs to go higher.”

  Avery poked Big Man in the side. “Higher, you big dummy,” he yelled.

  Percival’s arms quivered and he groaned as he forced the roof up more. The beam slid in and Hap yelled, “Good!” Big Man slowly let the roof down on the beam. Dropping the jack brace he bent over breathing heavily. The helpers who had arrived cheered and clapped him on the back. Finally, he straightened up and flexed his back turning toward Blake. His hair was cut short and his freshly shaved face revealed a broad grin. Although he was a monstrous man he was quite handsome.

  With the help of other men Blake stood and smiled back. “Damn good to see you, Big Man. Thought I was a goner for sure.”

  “Didn’t want to lose my only friend so quick,” he laughed.

  “Cost me a horse,” Avery grumbled.

  “Maybe next time.” Everyone laughed and started back to their lives.

  Blake went into the forge to take a look at the new bracing. His ribs pained him some but nothing seemed broken. It seemed like he had gotten a bear hug from the Big Man. Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he smiled, for the man who would have torn him to pieces had just saved his life. Life sure did take some interesting turns sometimes, he thought, you never know how things can turn out. He walked out of the shop still holding his ribs.

  “You gonna be all right?” Big Man asked.

  “I’ll be fine, no worries, thanks to you,” Blake replied, “and may I say, damn boy, you clean up pretty good.”

  Percival rubbed his naked chin and smiled. “Been a long time since I didn’t have no whiskers, feels strange.”

  “Well it looks good, makes you look like a new man.”

  Caleb who was sitting on the hitch rail in front of the trough snickered, “Y-yeah, you s-sure are p-pretty, P-Percy.”

  The Big Man smiled broadly at him and stepped closer to Caleb. “Had me a big brother who called me Percy all the time, never liked it.” He grabbed Caleb’s leg and flipped him backward into the trough.

  Caleb came up sputtering, wiping his face and laughing. The three of them laughed so hard that when Caleb tried to stand up he slipped and fell back into the water. Blake was holding his bruised ribs and had to sit on the anvil. It felt good to laugh that hard, regardless of the pain. “Best you go get changed before your school lesson or Bonnie will think you took the morning off and went to the swimming hole first.”

  Percival helped him out of the water and gave him a gentle shove toward the house. Caleb was leaving a muddy trail as he passed Sadie carrying their lunch, and she gave him a puzzled look as she said, “I’s hopin’ that ain’t all sweat on you boy, you is lookin’ a fright.” Blake, Caleb and Big Man burst into another round of laughter.

  Chapter 11

  Two miles out of town, camped in a grove of cottonwoods by a small creek were Pete Huxley, Luther Bent and Frank Wilson. They were sitting around waiting for Bob Pudney.

  “I’m gettin’ tired of waitin’ on him,” groused Frank. He was in a bad temper from drinking the night before.

  “He’ll be along soon,” Pete said. “Just be patient.”

  “Is he really as fast as you say he is?” asked Bent.

/>   Huxley poked the fire with a long stick. “Ain’t seen the man who can shade him yet. Seen him shoot two men once at the same time, they never even cleared their holsters. You both better keep in mind; he’s as mean as he is quick.”

  “Shit,” grumbled Wilson. “Ain’t nobody that fast, I bet I can beat him.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” came a voice from behind them. Startled all three jumped to their feet and faced the man who just snuck up on them. Robert Pudney was a medium height man with close cropped red hair. Dressed in a black shirt and pants, he wore a Navy colt on each hip, each shining in the morning sun. His black Stetson hat sat squarely on his head just above two of the coldest eyes they had ever seen.

  “Damn, Bob, you scared ten years off me,” Huxley said smiling. He stepped up to him and shook his hand. “Let me introduce my pards, Luther Bent and Frank Wilson.”

  “I hope they’re better with those leg irons than they are with their mouths,” sneered Pudney.

  Grinning broadly, Huxley said, “They’re just bored and itchin’ to rob them a bank, ain’t that right boys?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Wilson muttered. “Didn’t mean no harm.”

  “See there, Bob, we’re going to get along fine,” Pete said breaking the tension. “Why don’t you fetch your horse and light a spell. I’ll lay out the whole plan.”

  Pudney never took his eyes off Wilson. “Hmm…” he murmured to himself and turned to get his horse. He came back into camp leading a big powerfully built blue roan wearing a black saddle. He picketed him near the other horses and removed his saddle and blanket. Placing them near the fire he sat on an old stump and poured himself a coffee. “So what is it you have in mind, Pete?” he asked blowing the steam from his cup.

  Pete Huxley laid out the detailed but simple plan. The morning stage from Mariaville was due into MacIntyre about ten o’clock. They would cut down a tree about ten miles out of town blocking it on the road. Frank Wilson would ride into MacIntyre and tell the sheriff that the stage had been held up and when the sheriff rode out, he, Bent and Pudney would ride into MacIntyre to the bank. Bent would hold their horses while he and Pudney took the bank and Wilson would have their backs from across the street. With the sheriff and his deputy on a wild goose chase, that left no one to protect the bank.