A Stranger in Town

by William W. Johnstone

  Watching him from behind a long counter, a husky man with a full head of bushy gray hair and a beard that matched, silently measured the stranger. Will was not surprised by the cautious reception on the part of the owner. It was unlawful to sell whiskey in the Nations, but that did little to slow the brisk business in stores like this one. Almost all the spirits sold were moonshine, mostly corn whiskey, which was doubly galling to the government because there was no tax paid on it. Closing the door behind him, he walked over to the counter. By this time, his presence had been noticed by the card players, and conversation at the table stopped momentarily while they paused to stare at him. The bushy-haired man behind the counter finally spoke. “Somethin’ I can do for you?” His eyes, under heavy brows, quickly shifted back and forth between the stranger and the four men, painfully aware of the half-empty jar on the table.

  With more important things to worry about than the owner illegally selling whiskey, Will sought to put the man at ease. “Yes sir,” he said as he propped his Winchester against the counter beside him. “I’m gonna be needin’ some supplies—figured maybe I could buy ’em from you.”

  “Why, sure,” the owner replied, immediately relieved. “That’s what I’m here for.” Ready to do business now, he said, “My name’s Jack Burns. This here’s my store.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Will said, but refrained from introducing himself. He began calling off a list of things he needed. There were quite a few, since he had depleted his supplies to make sure Walking Bird and Strong Bow had enough to take care of Ed for a good while.

  “Ain’t seen you in town before,” Jack said, still curious. “Passing through?” He suddenly paused when Will reached down to steady his rifle when it threatened to slide from the front of the counter.

  Realizing that Jack had seen his badge when his coat had opened slightly, Will quickly tried to put him at ease. “Yep, just passin’ through—got some business to attend to north of here.”

  Jack was immediately cautious, however. “Is your name Will Tanner?” he asked nervously, having heard of Dan Stone’s newest deputy.

  “How’d you know that?” Will asked. When Jack failed to reply, Will said, “That’s my name, all right, and I’ll tell you something else. I ain’t had a drink of any good corn likker in quite a spell. If that stuff in the fruit jar is fit to drink, I’d like to buy a shot.”

  “You know I ain’t supposed to sell moonshine,” Jack said, thinking it a waste of time to try to lie his way out of trouble.

  “Look, Mr. Burns, my mind is on something more important than you sellin’ whiskey to those boys at the table. So we’ll just forget about that if you can give me the information I need.”

  “Why, that’s right decent of you, Marshal,” Jack replied. He reached under the counter and came up with another fruit jar and a couple of glasses. “Like I said, I don’t sell none of this, and I don’t give none to Injuns. I just keep a little on hand for personal use.” He paused while he poured Will’s drink, then added, “And to offer a drink to friends.” He believed Will when he said he wasn’t concerned about his whiskey business, but he still thought it best not to admit he was selling it. “Tell me what you’re needin’ and I’ll get it up for you.”

  Will called off the rest of the things he needed and watched Jack as he fetched each item, all the while aware of the apparent interest from the card table in his business with the store owner. Their conversation, loud and rowdy when he first walked in, was now being exchanged in hushed tones, almost whispered, in fact. They had evidently heard Jack call him “Marshal.” Maybe his first impression of three of them as cowhands was not necessarily the correct one. As with his lack of interest in Jack Burns’s whiskey business, however, he was also unconcerned with the men at the table. More than likely they were some of the many drifters, most of whom were petty thieves, who sought refuge in the Nations. The task driving him now was to bring to justice the men who robbed the MKT, killed a guard, and left Ed Pine for dead. Regarding the card players as mere distraction from serious business, he returned to focus on Jack Burns. “Now, maybe you can tell me about the two men that rode through here a couple of days ago,” he said to Jack.

  “What two men?” Jack replied. “There ain’t been nobody special that I recall—just the usual ranch hands that work along the Deep Fork River and a few drifters, like there always is.”

  “I thought we had us an understandin’,” Will said. “I don’t give you any trouble about your whiskey, and you give me a couple of honest answers. Maybe I got it wrong, and you’d rather have me get back to what the U.S. Marshals Service is payin’ me to do.”

  “No, no, now, wait a minute,” Burns quickly replied, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ illegal aside from sellin’ a little bit of moonshine to a few strays that come through town, but I’ve got a reputation to consider.” He glanced nervously at the table on the other side of the half wall. “The biggest portion of my moonshine customers are drifters on the run from somewhere. If the word gets around that I ain’t careful what I tell a lawman, I wouldn’t have many customers before long. I’ll tell you what I can. Let’s just keep it quiet.” Raising his voice again, he said, “No, sir, I don’t sell no whiskey. Now, I’ll give you a hand carryin’ your possibles out to pack on your horse.” He winked at Will as he picked up a sack of coffee. “Then we can settle up. I won’t charge you nothin’ for grindin’ them coffee beans for you.”

  “’Preciate it,” Will said. “It sure beats poundin’ ’em between a couple of rocks. I’m gonna get me one of those coffee mills one of these days.” He picked up a sack and followed Burns out the door to his horses.

  Jack started talking immediately, as if anxious to get it all said as quickly as possible. “You’re after Ben Trout and Brock Larsen, ain’t you?” Will nodded. “Well, they was here, all right, three nights ago, bought a fair amount of goods, then headed straight outta town.”

  “Which way?” Will asked.

  “I don’t know,” Burns said, talking even faster now. “Out the north road, I think. I don’t know where they was headin’. They didn’t say.”

  At least he now had confirmation that he was on their trail. “Where’s Buzzard’s Roost?” Will asked.

  “Where?” Jack replied at once. When Will repeated the question, Jack said, “Beats me. Danged if I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “On the Cimarron River?” Will pressed, but Burns shook his head again. From his expression, Will decided he was truthful in his reply. “Well, never mind, we’ll go back inside and settle up.”

  Inside again, Will waited while Jack totaled up his bill. “I’ll take another shot of that whiskey,” he said. “It ain’t half-bad for moonshine.” Jack pulled the bottle from under the counter again and refilled Will’s glass. “You can put this on the bill if you want,” Will said.

  “No, sir,” Jack responded. “It’s on the house.”

  “Much obliged,” Will said, then tossed it down.

  Unfortunately, Jack had spoken a bit too loudly. Already overly curious about what the store owner had to say to the deputy marshal, the four card players’ conversation had stopped, and the game halted while they strained to hear. Upon hearing Jack offer a second free drink to the lawman, one of the men was moved to protest. A tall, angular man with a white scar splitting about a week’s growth of beard, got up from his chair. “If there’s gonna be any free drinks offered, then I reckon we sure as hell oughta be the ones gettin’ ’em, since we’ve already bought two jars of this damn rotgut. I don’t see no reason to waste it on a damn lawman, anyway.” His words were accompanied by several grunts of agreement from his two partners. The fourth hand in the game, a smallish man wearing a black hat and morning coat, pushed his chair away from the table, but remained seated. Will figured him for a professional gambler who obviously had no inclination to participate in any trouble that the tall man initiated.

  Will had not really seen this coming. He had figured the th
ree men playing cards with the gambler might possibly be wanted somewhere for cattle rustling or petty theft of some kind. But he had assumed them likely to avoid any confrontation with a lawman. It appeared now that they were going to be more trouble than he cared to deal with at this point. Equally concerned to head off any trouble, Jack was quick to reply. “Maybe you’re right, Nate,” he said. “I gave the deputy a free drink because he bought a fair amount of goods from me. I reckon you and the boys deserve one, too, since you’ve given me a lot of business.”

  The offer was not enough to satisfy Nate Bingham. Emboldened by the generous amount of Jack’s corn whiskey he had already consumed, he had no intention of letting an opportunity to make a name for himself pass. He had heard of a deputy marshal named Will Tanner, and the word was that the sandy-haired lawman was hell on horseback. It would be a mighty big man who shot Will Tanner, and there would not likely be a better situation than the one offered him now. Tanner was riding alone, deep in outlaw country, and Nate had Sonny Thompson and Pete Scoggins to back him. “Well, now, that’s more like it, Jack,” Nate blustered. “But I don’t cotton to drinkin’ with no low-down lawman.” He turned his full attention toward Will then. “You got no business in this place where decent men are drinkin’. So the sooner you get your ass back on your horse and get yourself east of the railroad, the better chance you’ve got of gettin’ back to Fort Smith alive.”

  “Be careful, Nate,” Sonny Thompson murmured. “I’ve heard some things about this jasper.”

  “Shut up, Sonny,” Nate said, his eyes focused on the surprised lawman. “There’s three of us against him. What’s he gonna do except crawl outta here like the damn dog he is?” He leered wickedly at Will then, even more confident of his advantage. “What are you gonna do, lawman? It’s just you all by your lonesome, without nobody to back you up.”

  “Maybe we oughta just let him go,” Pete implored. Like Sonny, he was afraid Nate had let the whiskey cause him to bring a posse of deputy marshals hard on their trail.

  “The hell I will,” Nate blurted. “I’m callin’ him out.” Yelling at Will then, he repeated the question. “What are you gonna do, lawman?” He took a wide stance with his hand hovering barely inches above the handle of the .44 he wore on his hip. “You’re stinkin’ up the air in here.”

  Standing at the counter, his back partially turned toward the belligerent drunk, Will did not move. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was going to do, still mentally kicking himself for not considering the potential for trouble from the three. He glanced briefly at Jack Burns when the alarmed store owner cautiously backed away from the counter in an obvious move to get out of the line of fire. How the hell did I get myself in this situation? Will asked himself. But instead of fear, irritation was his primary feeling, and impatience for having been delayed in his hunt for the killers he had tracked this far. His challenger was strictly out to gain a reputation for himself by calling him out, but Will was sure Nate had no fair contest in mind. Neither did Will, for that matter, so he tried to stall the confrontation and maybe persuade Nate’s two pals to stay out of it. Maybe, if he stalled long enough, he might see an opportunity to come out of this alive. “You’re callin’ me out, are you?” he finally spoke. “What’s it gonna be, face-to-face out in the street? Or are you figurin’ on the three of you just blazin’ away as soon as I turn around?”

  “I reckon you’ll just have to wait and find out, won’t you, lawman?” Nate replied smugly.

  “I didn’t think you had the guts to stand on your own against me,” Will said, still with his back half-turned toward Nate. “Which one of you will claim that it was you that did the killin’? Hell, you’re just all mouth. Without your two friends, you ain’t got the spine to stand up against me.” He could see that his taunting was getting to his assailant, but he still had gained nothing but time. He needed a piece of luck of some kind to gain an advantage. By pure chance, it came in the door at that moment.

  “Hey, you old crook! You still sellin’ moonshine?” Billy Avery yelled out as loud as he could as he pushed through the front door. He swaggered toward the counter, a wide grin parting the gray whiskers that covered a good portion of his face, unaware of the situation he had walked in on. His outburst had startled everyone in the store, and all but one had reacted by unconsciously looking toward the source. Billy was about to blare out again, but the expression on Jack Burns’s face told him something was wrong. Aware of the three men standing at the half wall glaring at him then, he started to back away toward the door. Nate Bingham turned back toward the counter when he heard the distinct sound of a cartridge being cranked into the chamber of a rifle. He found himself staring at the business end of a Winchester 73 and the cold eyes of the deputy marshal.

  “Hold on there a minute!” Nate sang out fearfully, his hand still hovering over his holstered pistol. “Don’t go doin’ nothin’ crazy!” He looked quickly toward Pete and Sonny, who were just as stunned as he. “There’s still three of us,” Nate blurted desperately. “You can’t get us all before one of us gets you.”

  With cold, hard eyes that promised a deadly storm to come, and his rifle leveled at Nate’s belly, Will locked his gaze upon the would-be assassin. “You’ll be the first to go down. If I see any one of you reach for a weapon, you’ll get the first bullet, big mouth. I’ll also get one of your pals before the first gun is drawn. I don’t know how quick any one of you can draw your pistol and fire it, but I’m damn sure how fast I can cock this rifle after I shoot you down. And I’m bettin’ on myself to get you and one of your friends for certain. I don’t know for sure about the one left, but I’m thinkin’ I’ve got a good chance to get at least one round in him before I’m done. If you don’t believe me, then one of you make your move, and we’ll see.”

  A dead silence fell over the room for several long moments after Will’s deadly proclamation left his antagonists in a state of indecision. The warning had been delivered in a confident, factual manner, calmly and without any sense of fear, effectively leaving all three outlaws uncertain. The tables had turned dramatically on Nate, and when Sonny took a couple of steps backward, Nate blurted out, “Don’t go for that gun!” He was convinced that Will would do as he promised, and the muzzle of that Winchester was looking right at his gut.

  Knowing they were effectively stopped, Will didn’t waste any time. “Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna let you boys off easy this time just because I’ve got more important things I’ve gotta do than waste time on two-bit thieves like you.” He nodded toward the still-astonished little gray-haired man who had blundered into the midst of the confrontation. “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Billy Avery,” he stammered, and took another step backward. “I ain’t out to cause you no trouble. I’ll just be on my way.”

  “You just hold it right there, Billy,” Will said. “I’ve got a job for you. I want you to step over there behind those three and lift their guns outta the holsters and bring ’em over here and put ’em on the counter.” Billy hesitated, not sure he wanted to be involved, so Will prompted him. “Hurry up. Don’t worry, the first one that moves will get shot.” Billy nodded nervously, but did as he was ordered. Without taking his eyes off the three outlaws, Will said to Jack, “Pull me a few feet of rope offa that roll on the end of the counter, Mr. Burns.” He watched then as Billy walked behind the three and carefully drew the first two handguns, one by one. But when he reached for Sonny Thompson’s .44, Sonny, thinking Will was distracted for a moment when Jack Burns moved to get the rope, decided he had time to get off a shot. The muzzle of his .44 had not cleared the holster when the tenseness of the room was shattered by the sharp report of the Winchester. Sonny’s weapon dropped to the floor while he staggered backward to land on his back, clutching his right thigh. It served as a cue for the frightened gambler to quietly take his leave.

  “You shot me!” Sonny howled, as if surprised.

  “I did,” Will replied manner-of-factly, “and
it was out of the kindness of my heart that I didn’t shoot to kill.” He glanced at Nate then. “I can see by the look on your face that you’re wonderin’ now, ‘Did he cock that rifle after he shot?’ Well, I’ve got a question for you. Do you see a spent cartridge on the floor anywhere?”

  Before Nate could reply, Billy blurted, “I see it. It’s yonder, up against the counter.” Clearly impressed by the deputy’s lightning reactions, he added, “I swear, you musta cranked that lever before that bullet hit that feller’s leg.”

  “Pick up his pistol,” Will said to Billy, and waited while the now-excited little man hurried to bring the weapons to the counter. “Now, Mr. Burns, I wanna see how good you are at tyin’ knots. Bring that rope.” With his rifle trained on the outlaws, Will led Jack to stand behind them. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered Nate.

  “You’re mighty damn lucky you got the jump on me,” Nate spat angrily, “or things woulda turned out a whole lot different.” He was regaining some of his bluster, now that it appeared that the deputy was not going to kill them.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” Will repeated. When Nate still did not comply at once, he rapped him sharply beside his head with the barrel of his rifle. Nate was staggered, almost falling, but immediately stuck his hands behind him while Jack bound his wrists together. When it was Pete’s turn, he already had his hands behind him, having seen what it cost not to respond. Using the one long length of rope, Will had Jack loop the free end around the wrists of both men, drawing them close together. Will turned to the wounded Sonny then, who was still lying on the floor. “Get up and stand next to ’em.”