The Shopkeeper

by James D. Best

  “Neither do I. I’m trying to figure things out as I go.” I pulled my hat brim down against the setting sun. “Also, I’m not eager to be hanged for murder.”

  “Nope. Seen men hanged. Looks mighty uncomfortable.”

  When I laughed, Captain McAllen wheeled his horse around and trotted up beside us. “Sam, you keep a good lookout, hear?”

  Sam answered in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, “Yes, sir,” and directed his eyes across the horizon. I looked around but saw only flat, empty country. I guessed that the captain did not consider levity an admirable trait.

  Chapter 21

  Two shotgun blasts made me reach for my rifle.

  “No alarm,” McAllen said. “I sent Sam after dinner. Best birder I ever saw. We’ll be eating fresh meat shortly.”

  We had set up camp in a dry gulch and had just finished brushing down the horses, when the loud reports startled me. Captain McAllen had at least allowed me to groom Chestnut, but I wondered where Sam had run off to when I saw another Pinkerton taking care of the horse I had ridden.

  McAllen told his three men to arrange their sleeping gear about fifty yards out from us in different directions, but we kept the horses together and close to where we would bed down. I had left New York to experience the West, but I had soon discovered that I preferred a mattress to the hard ground. These seasoned hands had taught me something: a dry, sandy streambed is more comfortable than the hard pack I normally chose. I just needed to remember to climb out quick if it started to rain.

  When I saw one of the men stacking sticks to build a fire, I asked, “Won’t a fire draw attention for miles?”

  “That’s why we stopped before dark,” McAllen explained. “Dry wood doesn’t smoke much, and we’ll put it out at dark. When we’re in winter pursuit, we stop even earlier to build up a good supply of embers before nightfall.”

  After I had left Denver and couldn’t find a town for the night, my life outdoors was a haphazard affair. I had the right horse and gear for the range, but I was a raw tenderfoot when it came to living in the open. I did, however, know how to hunt birds. My father’s love of shotguns and game birds had rubbed off on me. I would have enjoyed beating the brush with Sam, but I doubted that McAllen would let me out of his sight.

  In a few minutes, Sam entered our camp with a smile and two large sage hens. I walked over and held out a hand for one of the birds. “I’ll clean ’em,” he said, throwing a sideways glance toward McAllen.

  “We can each take one,” I suggested.

  “I can handle ’em.”

  McAllen didn’t approve of his men fraternizing with clients, and Sam had already received one reprimand. My solution was simple. I reached in my pocket and drew out a silver dollar. “I’ll bet you I can dress my bird faster than you.”

  I heard the men gathering around behind me. I had already discovered that nothing grabbed a westerner’s attention faster than a wager pitting one contestant’s skill against another’s.

  A big grin grew on Sam’s face as he handed me one of the sage hens. As I took the bird, I said, “Captain, you judge.”

  “With pleasure. I always enjoy seeing a cowboy separate a rich man from his money.”

  We picked up canteens and walked over to a pair of knee-high rocks at the side of the wash. Sam knelt, but I remained standing with my legs spread to bring me closer to the surface of my rock. We both laid our birds down, and the captain yelled, “Start!”

  Sam’s hands moved in a blur as he plucked the hen. I used my knife to deftly cut off the feet and wings. Without hesitation, I stabbed the bird just behind the neck and ripped down the right side of the backbone, all the way to the tail. I repeated the operation on the left side of the backbone, separating the ribs from the spine. Then I held the bird in my left hand and grabbed the head and craw with my right. With a mighty effort, I ripped the spine right out of the bird with all the organs attached. Tossing the guts aside, I worked my fingers under the skin and tore it from the body, feathers and all. Reaching down, I picked up the canteen and rinsed the bird thoroughly. When I turned and handed the hen to Captain McAllen, I estimated that it had taken me just over a minute.

  In as casual a voice as I could muster, I said, “Done.”

  Sam’s head whipped around in disbelief, and the other men cheered, slapped my back, and then passed the hen between them for examination. When I turned, Sam smiled as he held out his bird in one hand and a silver dollar in the other. “Do this one. I want to see how ya did that.”

  After the best meal I had ever eaten on the trail, the Pinkertons positioned themselves in a rough circle around us. The moon was nearly full, so we could see a bit as we sat around the expiring embers and smoked our respective choice of tobacco.

  McAllen blew a large cloud of smoke and directed a question at me. “You prefer that new-model Colt?”

  The ’73 Colt .45 army-model revolver was six years old, so the comment told me something about McAllen’s attitude toward things new. I enjoyed talking about guns, but I had learned that westerners could be more than a little animated about their preference in firearms, so I merely said, “It’s reliable.”

  “I prefer the heft of a Smith & Wesson .44 No. 3. A good bludgeon, if one’s needed, and faster to reload.”

  “I wanted something lighter.”

  “Hell, it’s light all right, but you can’t hit anything over fifteen yards with that short barrel.”

  Most men selected the 7.5-inch barrel, but I carried the 5.5-inch model, not for speed of the pull, but because of the reduced weight. I didn’t like carrying a huge hog leg at my waist. Although from twenty yards, I could hit a whiskey bottle with my Colt, I only said, “I prefer a rifle for distance.”

  McAllen glanced at Sharp before saying, “Good idea, if one’s close by. But you gunfighters seem to like them short-barreled Colts.”

  “I’m not a gunfighter.”

  “But you are a man-killer.”

  “Only once,” I protested.

  “Twice, I hear.”

  I did not like the way this conversation was going. “I never shot a man before the Cutlers.”

  “Well, I hear you’re good at it.”

  “I’m good with a gun, not killing.”

  McAllen sat quiet a minute and then added, “I been in a few fights and seen more than my share. The man who walks away knows how to keep a cool head. If you took the Cutlers like I hear tell, you’re a cold son of a bitch in a gunfight. That’s more important than being good with a gun.”

  I remembered how scared I had been walking into that street, but I decided it would be better to let the conversation die. After another moment, McAllen asked, “Can I see your Colt?”

  Without comment I pulled my shooter out and handed it to McAllen butt first, hoping the talk would shift to guns instead of killing. McAllen quickly unloaded the weapon using the ejector rod in a way that showed he was not unfamiliar with the Colt .45. He inspected the barrel, spun the cylinder, and took a couple dry shots.

  “Nice, clean feel. What’d you do to it?”

  “Started with the pick of the litter, replaced the mainspring with a lighter, tempered one, and filed, polished, and hardened the bents.”

  “All yourself?”

  “I’m a gunsmith.”

  “Wish I were. Had to go back three times before I got my .44 the way I wanted it.”

  “Trial and error. That’s just the way it is. I probably reworked mine five or six times. Only difference is, I did the work and the testing.”

  McAllen handed the Colt over to Sharp, who had been sitting quietly, watching our exchange. Sharp turned it in his palm and handed it back. I remembered Sharp in the street with a Winchester and guessed that he had little use for handguns.

  After McAllen ran his finger along the barrel, he said, “Filed the sight a mite too.”

  “That took the most time. I didn’t like the fat sight from the factory, so I thinned and shortened it to my liking.”

  McAllen
cocked the hammer in the half position and then in the full-cocked position. After taking a few more dry shots, he handed it back but kept the bullets. After examining one, he said, “Your own loads?”

  I nodded. “Forty grains of English powder.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Expensive. You use them for practice too?”

  “As you said earlier this evening, I’m a rich man.”

  McAllen poured the cartridges into my outstretched hand. “You’re a rich man, all right, and evidently a good one in a scrape.” He picked up his cigar, which he had laid on a rock. “That’ll be handy, if we run into trouble.”

  Chapter 22

  I grew increasingly nervous as we drew closer to the Bolton ranch. Jenny was free now, but what did I know of her? She was still a child, uneducated and ignorant of the world. At least, my world. I suppose she would say I was ignorant of her world, and perhaps she would be right.

  I tried to figure out what attracted me to her, but my feelings confused me. Sure, she was pretty, but I had known plenty of pretty women. New York was full of them. But Jenny affected me differently than any woman I had ever met. And I had never actually met her—only lusted from a distance. No, that wasn’t right. It was more than lust. The attraction had been immediate and powerful. She exuded charm and energy, and her smile had snatched my heart in an instant.

  I couldn’t make sense of it, so I gave up trying to understand emotions previously unknown to me. Reasoning would not provide the answer. Somehow, some way, I had developed an attachment to her, and no amount of thinking could erase an illogical passion.

  Mason Valley presented a welcome sight after the stark landscape we had ridden through. A pretty green valley spread out in front of us, and even as a tenderfoot, I could see it was great cattle country. The open range, green grass, and cottonwood trees made the air feel fresh and the ride seem easier.

  We arrived at the Bolton ranch house around noon, and my stomach hoped we would be offered a meal. The main house was a two-story clapboard affair with a large porch that faced an array of smaller, single-story buildings and a huge barn. There were five horses in a largish corral and a single horse surrounded by three cowboys in a breaking pen. I held back with the rest of the men as McAllen approached a lone elderly woman standing on the porch. We were too far back to catch the conversation, but eventually the captain made a slight motion with his hand that bid us forward.

  As we approached, the captain said, “This is Mrs. Bolton, and she has kindly invited us to rest our horses and join her hands for the noonday meal.”

  The title confused me, until I realized that this must be John Bolton’s mother. She was a matronly-looking woman, with a flowered dress draped over her corpulent body. Her flat nose and recessed eyes emphasized a face that looked too large for even her bulky body. Either John had inherited his weight problem, or the Bolton household employed a cook so good it was hard to push the plate away.

  I did not want to eat with the ranch hands, so I stepped down from my horse and proceeded directly up the porch. Extending my hand, I said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bolton. My name is Steve Dancy. I was saddened to hear of your loss.”

  Mrs. Bolton looked me up and down and then turned a nasty stare at Sam, who was still dressed in my clothes. When her eyes returned to me, her scorn almost knocked me back a pace. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve showing up here. You’re responsible for my son’s murder.”

  I could only stammer, “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the one who murdered them Cutlers and convinced my boy to reenter the governor’s race. He’d be alive today if you’d stayed out of our business.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, but John made his own decision.”

  “You bribed him!”

  “I made a campaign contribution. It was not a bribe.”

  “Same thing.” She turned her back on us and started to enter the house.

  “May I speak to Mrs. Bolton?” I asked.

  She whirled on me and spoke with venom I had rarely heard. “I’m Mrs. Bolton.”

  “I meant Jenny.”

  “I threw my son’s little whore out of the house.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “She’s doing what she’s fit for. You’ll find her in the cookhouse scrubbing dishes … among other duties.” She turned her back to me but then whirled around once again. “And you’re not to take her with you. She has debts to work off.”

  “What? You can’t hold her.”

  “The hell I can’t. And I got twenty ranch hands that say so.” Someone punctuated her last sentence with a rifle cock behind us. “She’ll stay until she’s worked off her debts.”

  I had never been so angry. “How?”

  Now came an ugly sneer. “My foreman’ll find ways she can be useful in the bunkhouse.”

  I forced myself to take a deep breath and get control. I glanced over my left shoulder and saw that my Pinkertons had somehow spread out a bit, and they looked tighter than an obsessively wound pocket watch. Captain McAllen looked as threatening as any man I had ever seen, and his attention seemed riveted on something over my other shoulder. I assumed that the man with the rifle stood behind me to the right and that he was not alone.

  After a moment, I asked as casually as possible, “What is the amount of her debt?”

  “Forty silver dollars.”

  “Her bride-price?”

  “A loan my son graciously made to her father, which has not been repaid.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everybody knows that was a bride-price.”

  “Everyone knows my son gave her father forty dollars … and that’s all they know.”

  I could understand the woman being angry at the loss of her son, but this outsized malevolence had to reach further back than three days. “All right, I’ll pay the debt,” I said, as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my eastern-style wallet.

  “You’ll not buy your whore with paper money. The debt is forty silver dollars, just as her father insisted on.”

  I stopped in midmotion. “Mrs. Bolton, please be reasonable. I’m not carrying forty in coin.”

  “Then come back when you are.” With that she did turn her back on us and enter the house.

  After Mrs. Bolton snapped the door shut behind her, I stepped off the porch and gathered up the reins of the horse I had been riding. I tried to make my voice sound casual. “Well, let’s see what the cookhouse is serving for the noonday meal.”

  With my neutral statement, I could feel the tension ease. I walked the horse over to the water trough, and Sharp and the rest of the men dismounted and followed. As the horses drank, I took the opportunity to look around. I was surprised to spot about ten armed hands scattered around, but none of them, at least at the moment, looked ready to cause serious trouble.

  When Captain McAllen arrived at the trough, I said, “Let the men clean up. We can handle the horses.”

  McAllen started to object until he figured out I wanted the three of us to talk in private. The captain nodded to his men and then nonchalantly whispered something into Sam’s ear.

  As Sam and the others meandered away, I waited to see if any of the Bolton men moved into earshot. After a few moments, I asked, over the noise of the slurping horses, “What did you tell Sam?”

  “To act friendly, like nothing happened.”

  Keeping an eye on our periphery, I turned to Sharp. “Can you explain any of this?”

  “Nope.” He glanced toward the house. “A mother scorned, I suppose.”

  I maneuvered to the side of Chestnut and started rubbing his neck. “Guess the history doesn’t matter. Either of you gentlemen happen to be carrying a bag of silver?”

  “I got three dollars in silver, maybe four if the grand lady will accept two-bit pieces,” Sharp said.

  “Six,” McAllen added.

  “That gives us about twelve,” I said. “Don’t suppose any of your men are riding heavy.”

  “We’d be lucky to gather up another
six,” McAllen said.

  I looked around. “I could offer her men two dollars paper for every silver dollar.”

  Sharp nudged one horse away from the trough to give another a chance at the water. “I doubt any of ’em’ll defy her.”

  “Poker?”

  “Never happen. Besides, the ranch hands probably don’t have twenty silver pieces between them.”

  We fell silent until Sharp said, “Let’s take the horses over to the corral and unsaddle them.”

  Rather than trying to eavesdrop, the Bolton hands casually moved to keep their distance. They watched, but they did not challenge. Sometimes a reputation with a gun can work to your advantage. We each led two horses over to the corral and silently went about our work.

  When we stepped over to the fence to throw the saddles over the rail, Captain McAllen rested his back against one to signal that he had something to say. Once all three of us had taken a similar pose, he said, “Steve, our contract doesn’t include saving a damsel in distress.”

  “We can amend it,” I offered.

  “No. I can’t control this situation.”

  “Must you?”

  “Yes.” The abrupt answer told me that McAllen could not be induced with a sweetened pot of money.

  I turned to Sharp. “Any ideas?”

  “As much as I hate to leave her in this situation, I don’t see much alternative that doesn’t involve a lot of killing … and some of the dead will be in our party.”

  “You don’t think she’s bluffing?”

  “Nope. Not that woman.”

  “I think I agree. At least it’s not worth the gamble.” I pushed myself away from the fence. “Well, let’s finish with the horses and get some chow. Maybe I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter 23

  We sat down on a bench alongside the cookhouse to eat our pork and beans and biscuits. I had kept an eye open but had not seen Jenny. The beans may have been nourishing, but I could barely find a trace of pork in the soupy concoction. Sharp’s men ate better.