Right between the Eyes

by William W. Johnstone

“I understand there was a sweetheart involved—Jackson Emory’s oldest daughter. Do you think part of his intended restart is with her?”

  “All I know is what I told you, based on what Earl has said to me,” Maudie answered rather stiffly. “Maybe you should talk to him, maybe he can give you a clearer understanding.”

  Bob took a drink of his tea. Lowering the cup, he said, “Sounds like a good idea.”

  * * *

  Earl Hines’s blacksmith shop was located on the southeast side of Front Street. It sat a ways back off the street, a moderate-sized barnlike structure containing, apart from the forge and working area, a handful of horse stalls and a small corral out back. Hines’s living quarters were above the shop, attainable by an outside stairway.

  It was a warm, sunny spring day, and activity up and down the street had increased significantly during the time Bob had been inside Bullock’s. He donned a vague smile and an expression aimed at being more pleasant than he actually felt as he passed among the citizenry, nodding politely in response to the greetings that came his way.

  Approaching Hines’s shop, he saw the wide front doors standing open. At first, given that no one was in sight, Bob thought maybe the smithy had taken his lunch break a little early. Curious, though, that he hadn’t run into him since he knew that Hines usually took lunch at Bullock’s where he could have a few words with Maudie while partaking of the luncheon spread there. Also, he was pretty sure that Hines generally closed the front doors when he left for any length of time.

  As Bob stepped through those open doors, his attention was drawn by odd sounds coming from back in the horse stalls. Walking on back, he quickly saw the source of the sounds.

  There was a total of five men engaged in activity back there. In one of the stalls, a man with a drawn handgun was holding it aimed at Earl Hines, forcing him to stand very still with his hands balled into fists hanging at his sides. In another stall directly opposite that one, two other men were using their own fists to beat the hell out of a third man they had pinned in a corner.

  Before any of them realized he was there, Bob drew his .44 and fired once, shooting the gun out of the hand of the man who’d been holding it aimed at Hines. The gun flew away and thumped against the side of the stall. The man let out a shriek and reached with his opposite hand to grasp the one that had been gripping the pistol.

  Bob swung his Colt and brought it to bear on the two men who were administering the beating. “That’s enough!” he said sharply. “Back away from that man. Turn to face me and don’t even think about reaching for your guns.”

  The two men twisted at the waist, their hands automatically dropping closer to the six-guns holstered on their hips. When they saw Bob standing there with his .44 leveled on them, their hands froze. The man they’d been beating sagged against the back wall of the stall. The pair who’d been pounding on him slowly did as Bob had ordered, backing a couple steps away from their victim and turning to face the marshal.

  The loud smack of a fist colliding with meat and bone caused Bob to give a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw Hines, the burly blacksmith, just completing the delivery of a hard right cross to the jaw of the man who’d been holding a gun on him. The latter collapsed to the floor, dropping like a sack of oats.

  “That’s enough,” Bob said out of the corner of his mouth. Then: “Somebody tell me what the hell’s going on around here.”

  “These three rannies from the Rocking W showed up a few minutes ago with a couple horses they wanted reshod,” Hines said. “This other fella had just showed up to pick up some bridles I’d repaired for Joe Peterson down at the livery. Soon as they laid eyes on him, they lit in. One of ’em held me at bay, like you saw, while the other two yellow skunks commenced to ganging up on the poor devil.”

  The lighting was rather dim this far back in the barn, so it had taken a few minutes for Bob’s eyes to fully adjust. Now that it had, he was able to recognize some faces. One of the two men who’d been dishing out the beating was Smoky Barnett, Ed Wardell’s ramrod out at the Rocking W. The man on the receiving end of the punishment was none other than Ron Streeter, one of the men the marshal had saved from a lynching yesterday.

  Bob’s eyes locked on Barnett. “You’re pretty thickheaded at learning a lesson, ain’t you?”

  “Ain’t nothing you got to teach that I want to learn,” Barnett snarled.

  “So you’re thickheaded and mouthy. That’s a combination that can get an hombre in a lot of trouble.”

  “I been in and out of trouble all my life. None of it stuck yet. And I sure as hell ain’t worried about the amount of trouble no hick sheriff in a shithole town like this is gonna make for me.”

  Bob cut his eyes momentarily to Hines. “Help this other fella to his feet, will you? His name is Streeter.”

  “I’d rather help that mouthy one off his feet,” said Hines. He was a big man, thick through the shoulders and gut, too, but none of it was what you would call soft. His arms, bared by a sleeveless shirt under a leather apron, were corded with muscle. He had a broad, blunt-nosed face with deep-set dark eyes and coal black hair combed straight back from a slight widow’s peak. “Strip ’em of their guns, Marshal,” he pleaded, “and give me five minutes alone in a stall— both of ’em at once—and I’ll teach the cowards a lesson they won’t soon forget.”

  “That’s a tempting proposition,” Bob said. “But I’m afraid it don’t work that way. Just do like I asked, okay?”

  Hines went over to Streeter and leaned down to assist him.

  While he was doing that, Barnett glared at Bob. “So what have you got in mind for us? You try to get too cocky, it won’t set good with Wardell, you know.”

  Bob showed his teeth in a humorless smile. “Mister, you could fill a real big bucket with how much I don’t give a damn about what don’t set good with Wardell.”

  Streeter was standing up now, brushing loose straw and dust off his clothes, backhanding a trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his mouth.

  “You hurt bad?” Bob asked him.

  “Nothing serious. I got a sister hits harder than those nancies.”

  “All the same, you want to press assault charges against ’em?”

  Streeter took a step forward and did some glaring of his own. He held his mouth clamped tightly shut, chin thrust forward, and air whistled audibly in and out of his nose. After a minute, he said, “Naw. That’d just be a lot of bother for you and your deputy. They ain’t worth it. All I want—and I know I speak for Hicks, too—is to get on without no more trouble.”

  “How about you, Earl?” Bob asked the blacksmith.

  “I already told you what I want,” Hines answered. “Barring that, no, I don’t want to fool around with no legal charges against these varmints.” Then he directed his attention to Barnett, saying, “But as long as he’s got yellow skunks like you working for him, you go back and tell Wardell that no more Rocking W business is welcome here at my shop.”

  “You might want to be careful about cuttin’ off your nose to spite your face, bub,” Barnett said.

  “You let me worry about that,” Hines was quick to respond. “What you’d better be careful about is not letting me run into you again—or either of these other two, especially that one who stuck a gun in my belly if he ever wakes up—under different circumstances. I do, we’ll finish this little get-together and I’ll show you my personal version of settling assault charges.”

  “That was a downright threat against me and my pards,” Barnett wailed. “You heard him, Marshal. You gonna let him get away with that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bob in a flat, emotionless tone. “I didn’t hear a thing except these two men giving you a break by refusing to file formal charges against you. Was I you, I’d consider myself lucky and let it go at that.”

  Barnett’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s how it is, eh? All hands turned against the Rocking W, just like Wardell has suspected all along—even the so-cal
led law.”

  “You’re the ones who put yourselves crossways of the law, buster. And if you ever really get on the wrong side of me, you’ll know it, and it will be too late for standing around whining about it. Now roust your friend off the ground and haul your sorry asses out of here . . . except for one final little detail.”

  “What’s that?” Barnett wanted to know.

  Bob gestured with his Colt. “Shuck your guns. Pull ’em slow and easy, toss ’em to the ground, and kick ’em over here toward me . . . Earl, I’d be obliged if you’d gather ’em up. Don’t forget the one over in the other stall that was aimed at you a couple minutes ago and also any rifles they might have on their saddles. After these gents have taken their leave, you have my permission to break down those weapons and feed the metal into your forge. Take whatever you pour out and feel free to form it for repairs and such. Courtesy of my office.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t do that!” protested Barnett. “Guns don’t come free, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” allowed Bob. “There’s dealers who sell ’em—unfortunately sometimes to idiots. I made the mistake of sending you back your guns yesterday. And here you are, just a day later, bringing ’em into my town and causing more trouble with ’em.” Bob wagged his head. “I ain’t gonna make that mistake again.”

  By now Hines had gathered up the hardware, the shucked handguns along with two Winchesters from the saddle scabbards of the horses the three had ridden in on.

  Bob again gestured with his Colt and said to Barnett, “Now scat. I’m sick of looking at you. Gather up your fallen friend and make dust out of town.”

  The Rocking W men did as ordered. After swinging up into his saddle but before riding away, Barnett said, “You think you’re hot stuff with that Colt in your hand, don’t you?”

  “Hot enough for the likes of you, sonny,” Bob told him.

  “Everybody’s heard how fast you’re supposed to be with that thing. But that don’t mean there ain’t those around who are faster.”

  “Always some who think so. But it ain’t you, Smoky. Not today, not on the best day you ever had, not if you had guns stickin’ out your ass. Now beat it!”

  As he wheeled his horse about and put the spurs to it, Barnett called over his shoulder, “Your day’s comin’, Hatfield. And a faster gun is comin’ with it!”

  CHAPTER 15

  Because the blacksmith barn sat a ways off the street and because the confrontation with the Rocking W men took place deep inside the interior of the building, the single shot Bob had fired went without drawing undue attention. One shot—or maybe only what sounded like one to folks out on Front Street, then not followed by any sights or sounds of a bigger ruckus—wasn’t enough for anybody to get too alarmed over.

  So once Barnett and his buddies rode away, the scene of the altercation was left suddenly quiet and calm.

  “Seems like you got a way of showing up whenever I’m in a fix, Marshal,” said Streeter.

  “Seems like you got a way of getting yourself in fixes,” replied Bob. “Just so you know, I had a full-time job before you came along. I don’t need your help finding ways to keep busy.”

  Streeter grinned ruefully. “I’ll try to keep that in mind and not put myself in a position to need saving by you again. But in the meantime, I purely thank you for stepping in on my behalf once more.”

  “Seems like I’m caught in the middle of something besides what just happened here,” said Hines. “Somebody mind filling me in?”

  Bob gave him a quick rundown on what had happened out at the Rocking W yesterday. He didn’t really like playing it up any more than necessary, but word of the near lynching was already starting to spread just as was bound to happen with what had occurred here. So Hines might as well hear a factual account from those directly involved rather than some secondhand exaggerated version. Especially since Bob still intended to pump the blacksmith about John Larkin and expected straight information in return.

  When the marshal had finished his telling, Hines furrowed his brow and said, “Damn. Sounds like Wardell is getting crazier and more dangerous by the day. He always was a moody sort, but these suspicions about rustling are making him worse than ever.”

  “Yeah. I know,” said Streeter, absently touching a hand to the base of his throat. “Me and my buddy got a pretty good taste of his bad mood—almost a permanent one.”

  Hines cut his gaze to Bob. “What Barnett said when he rode away. About a faster gun coming? You caught that, didn’t you?”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Ain’t the first time I heard words like that. From Barnett and a couple other Rocking W hands. Up until now I took it for hot air passed along secondhand from Wardell. And even if there was anything to it, it sounded like it was meant to be aimed at their rustlin’ problem.” Hines’s expression grew very earnest. “But given what you just told me on top of this other dustup that took place here only a bit ago, I think I’d be reckoning that any hired gun brought in by Wardell would likely have your name whispered in his ear, too, Marshal.”

  A corner of Bob’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “I reckon your thinking probably ain’t far off the mark.”

  “You believe Wardell really has sent for a hired gun?”

  “Seems to me he’s done too much talking about it not to.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much the way I see it.”

  Streeter emitted a nervous laugh. “Although we’d likely be pretty far down on the list, if Wardell starts siccing a gunslinger on everybody he’s got a reason to be sore at, then that means he might even get around to me and Hicks sooner or later.”

  “You can go ahead and fret over it if you want,” Bob told him. “But before that, my guess is that you’d better get those repaired bridles back to Joe Peterson, if they’re ready, or he’ll be giving you something to fret about right in the here and now.”

  “They’re ready,” confirmed Hines. He pointed. “They’re hanging on that sawhorse right over there. Go ahead and take ’em, and tell Joe I’ll bring a bill around later this afternoon or tomorrow.”

  Streeter gathered up the armload of bridles, thanked Bob again for showing up when he did, then headed off for the livery.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Hines said with a lopsided grin, “That was pretty smooth, Marshal, helping him remember there was someplace else he needed to be. Seems clear you came here to talk to me about something besides the fracas you walked in on, and I take it it’s something you’d as soon keep between just us. That being the case, I got a sort of office in the corner over yonder. You want to go sit down and get to it in there?”

  “Up to you. This won’t take long; we can do it right here as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Hitch up a bale of straw and take a seat then. What is it brings you around?”

  “Wanted to talk to you about John Larkin,” Bob said, getting right to it.

  Hines went a little tight around the mouth. “I see. Word’s getting around. Big, bad ex-con on his way back, looking for revenge against those who wrongly convicted him—is that it?”

  “You tell me. I understand you were pretty good friends with him.”

  “Was. Still am. And not one lick ashamed to admit it.”

  “Nobody said you should be. All I’m trying to find out is what me and my deputies—seeing how we’re in charge of keeping the peace around here—ought to expect when he shows up. Like you just said, word’s getting around about Larkin’s return, and there are those who are worried that he’ll come seeking revenge. Since you’re friends with him and I believe you’ve even had some correspondence with him while he was in prison, I thought maybe you could tell me what his mind-set is.”

  Hines shook his head. “Nothing like that. He’s not coming back to make trouble. All he’s looking to do is come home and restart his life.”

  “That’s a pretty broad statement,” Bob said. “Restart his life how? I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that resuming his employment with
Emory Mining ain’t in the cards.”

  “There are plenty of other job opportunities in and around Rattlesnake Wells. More all the time.” Hines scowled. “And John still has plenty of friends around town besides just me. Friends who believe he got a raw deal at that trial and are more than willing to give him a second chance. For starters, I’ve already told him he can stay here with me when he gets to town. It ain’t nothing fancy, but it’s better than where he’s been for the last four-plus years. It’ll give him a place to stay until he gets squared away and back on his feet.”

  “That’s mighty decent of you.”

  “Like I told you, I consider John Larkin a friend. I don’t turn my back on friends.”

  Bob thumbed the brim of his hat up a bit and then said, “Speaking of ‘friends,’ like the other ones you say Larkin has all around town . . . You count one of ’em as being Victoria Emory? I understand her and Larkin were sweethearts before he got sent away.”

  Hines gave a disdainful grunt. “Hell no. That lousy little . . . No, Miss Emory has made it plenty clear she’s no longer a friend to John.”

  “And he’s willing to accept that?”

  “If he ain’t got the message, then some of those rocks he’s been breakin’ in the Laramie prison yard must have somehow dribbled in through his ears and replaced his brains.”

  “Comes to Miss Emory, the way I hear it is that her current, er, romantic interest is none other than Saul Norton—Larkin’s former co-worker who first turned him in for stealing and then was the prosecution’s star witness at the trial.”

  “A pair of two-faced snakes tangled together. They deserve each other,” muttered Hines.

  “And not even that—finding his former sweetheart now in the arms of the man who ratted him out and got him sent off to prison—would be enough, you don’t believe, to strike a revenge spark in Larkin?” asked Bob.

  Hines’s expression clouded and he raised his voice, saying, “Is that what you’re hoping I’ll say? You’re starting to come across like somebody who wants to hear that John is coming back for revenge. Christ, don’t you have enough on your plate already with the Wardell trouble and a hired gun on his way for you to deal with?”