The saloon’s other patrons had abandoned their tables and drawn back around the walls to give the combatants plenty of room. Some of them were casually fondling the scandalously clad serving girls who stood with them.
Claude Brown, the current owner of the establishment and the nephew of the man who had started it, stood behind the bar. A florid-faced man in a collarless shirt, he had a bungstarter in his hand, as did the bartender in a grimy apron standing next to him. Monte figured that if either of the Gundersons had come close enough, Brown or the bartender would have leaned over the hardwood and walloped him. Neither of the Swedes had strayed into that danger zone, however.
Spotting Monte, Brown said, “Thank God you’re here, Sheriff! You’ve got to put a stop to this!”
“I intend to.” Monte drew his gun as the brothers rolled close enough that they were almost under his feet. He leaned over and shouted, “Hey! Arno! Haystack! That’s enough!”
They ignored him, got sausagelike fingers around each other’s necks and started squeezing. Both faces under disheveled blond hair began to turn red.
Monte thought about clouting them with his Colt, but he knew it might do more damage to the gun than to their heads. He jammed the revolver back into its holster and called to Brown, “Gimme that bungstarter!”
Brown tossed the mallet to Monte, who caught it and then stood there watching for an opening to use it. He told the deputy, “Phil, get the other bungstarter.”
Harrigan hurried over to the bar. Arno and Haystack suddenly lurched up from the floor and crashed into the sheriff’s legs, knocking Monte down. It was an accident. They hadn’t even noticed him standing there, as intent on choking each other to death as they seemed to be. But whether it was deliberate or not, he found himself on the sawdust-littered floor, trapped between what seemed like two wild bulls.
Monte swung the bungstarter at a slablike Swedish jaw but missed. The Gundersons rolled on top of him as they continued to struggle, and upwards of four hundred pounds pinned him to the floor. He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t have enough air to shout for help.
A shot blasted. The brothers broke apart and rolled off him. That was a huge relief. He could drag breath into his lungs again, but he hoped Phil Harrigan hadn’t shot one of them. They might be a couple crazy Scandihoovians, but they weren’t outlaws.
Monte looked up. Brice Rogers stood there, gun in hand. A tendril of smoke curled from the revolver’s muzzle.
Yelping in outrage, Claude Brown said, “Sheriff, that stranger just shot a hole in my ceiling!”
“I . . . I almost did the same thing . . . myself,” Monte said as he sat up, still gasping for air. “Reckon I . . . should have . . . instead of trying to pound some sense . . . into these two.”
“You bane all right, Sheriff?” one of the Gundersons asked. Blood leaked from his swollen nose. The other one’s mouth was bloody.
“I’m fine,” Monte snapped. “Give me a hand, Phil.”
Harrigan helped Monte to his feet. “Sorry, Sheriff. I was tryin’ to figure out what to do when this fella barged in and let off that shot.”
“And it’s a good thing he did. Those two oxes might’ve crushed every bone in my body if they’d rolled around on me for a while.” Monte looked at Rogers. “I’m obliged to you, mister.”
Coolly, Rogers returned his Colt to its holster. “Seemed like somebody needed to break it up. That seemed like the quickest way of doing it.”
Claude Brown leaned both hands on the bar. “Damn it, somebody has to pay for fixin’ that hole in my ceiling.”
“The damage will come out of Arno and Haystack’s pockets.” Monte glared at Cindy. “Were you the cause of this, young woman?”
“I didn’t mean anything, Sheriff. I just sat on Arno’s lap . . . or was it Haystack’s? . . . and then they started arguing—”
“All right.” Monte suspected she had been trying to stir up the Gundersons enough to get both of them to pay for her favors, but it didn’t really matter.
A soiled dove was never going to take the blame for anything.
He turned his attention to Arno and Haystack, who had climbed to their feet. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You pay Brown for the damages, and I won’t throw you in jail.”
“They ought to be fined for disturbing the peace!” Brown protested.
Monte ignored that. “I won’t throw you in jail on the condition . . . that the two of you don’t come into town together anymore. One at a time, got it?” He knew that given their generally placid nature, they wouldn’t likely start fights with anybody except each other.
“But we are brothers,” Arno said.
“We do things together,” Haystack said.
“You work together,” Monte said. “From now on you come into town alone. Or you can be locked up together. Your choice.”
Arno looked at his brother. “I do not like being locked up.”
“Neither do I,” Haystack said. “Should we do what the sheriff says?”
“Yah, I think maybe we should.”
Both of them looked at Monte and nodded solemnly.
Arno said, “Thank you, Sheriff. You bane a good man.”
Monte grunted. “I just don’t want to have to feed you. The two of you could bankrupt the town if I kept you behind bars for very long.” He leaned his head toward the bar. “Go settle up with Brown. And Claude, you charge those boys a fair price for what they busted up.”
Brown scowled, but he didn’t argue.
Monte nodded to Rogers, said, “Thanks again,” and started toward the door with Harrigan following him.
Outside on the boardwalk, the deputy started making excuses for not acting quicker to stop the fight. “I really didn’t have much of a chance to, Sheriff. That fella who came in, he had his gun out mighty slick and fast. I hardly even saw him draw before he squeezed off that shot.”
“Is that so?” Monte said. “That’s interesting.”
So Brice Rogers was fast on the draw. Some lawmen were and some weren’t. Those who weren’t generally relied on shotguns or lots of deputies.
“You think he’s a gunfighter like Smoke?” Harrigan said.
“No,” Monte said. “There aren’t any gunfighters like Smoke Jensen.”
Hour of Death Page 21
