by Monty McCord
“Yes, we hope to have it operating by the first of summer,” Siegler said.
“Damned near a waste of time now,” the younger cowboy said. His accent plainly indicated a southern upbringing. The coffee club looked at him.
“Why would that be?” Hadley asked.
“Oh, Lord, here we go. Twenty years of life, they apparently ain’t much this young’un can’t tell ya’, and volunteers what he thinks he knows freely to all who’ll listen, and some who don’t,” the old cowboy said and shook his head.
“You’re just jealous ’cuz of a lack of serious knowledge,” the young one said and grinned at his partner. “Fact has it, there’s this Mister Bell, up in Boston. He just invented the telee-phone. Won’t be no more need for the dots and dashes of a telegraph.” The young cowboy slid his wide-brimmed hat back on his head and leaned back, proud of his announcement.
“What’n hell’s a telee-phone?” Hadley asked. The group’s interest was piqued, and very much relieved to have something other than Lute Kinney to think about, if only temporarily.
The young cowboy’s face grew serious as he tried to explain the new invention. “Well, fellas, this Mister Bell took his voice and plum shoved it into a telegraph wire, and it came out the other end, in his cellar, as plain as if he was standin’ there talkin’.” The little group’s laughter was instantaneous.
When it died down, the old cowboy spoke. “These here yarns are what I have to put up with, night and day, every day. Yap, yap, yap, all day long, like a coyote. And as luck would have it, he can’t sing a note.”
“It’s a fact. Ain’t no yarn at all, I swear,” he said. “Read all about it in the Chicago newspaper. Why you didn’t know about it ’cuz ya’ can’t read.” He gave the old man a frown.
“I ain’t got no idea where he got a Chicago newspaper, neither,” the old man said, as he rolled a cigarette.
“Well, tell us. Who was this Mister Bell talkin’ to . . . in his cellar?” Jarvis asked, grinning at the others.
“Why, it was his assistant, Mister Watson, but that ain’t all. After they done that, they took and strung a telegraph wire between two towns up in Canada that were ten miles apart, and did it again. Mister Bell talked to Mister Watson, and he talked back to Mister Bell.” The laughter broke out again.
“Just how in the hell’d he do that?” Jarvis asked, trying to control himself. The exuberant laughter that the coffee club exhibited was due, no doubt, to their nervous energy.
“I don’t know the exactedness of it, but when he spoke, his assistant heard ’im plain as day. They say it’ll replace the telegraph. Why send dots and dashes someone has to figger out, when they can talk through the wire?” The men laughed again.
“Take no offense from our level of enthusiasm, but that’s quite a story,” Hadley said. “You read all that in the newspaper?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hell, everybody knowed Mister Bell’s invention was at the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia last year.” The men raised their eyebrows and nodded to each other in jest of the cowboy’s statement.
The young man started to say something when the front door opened again, and the coffee club’s jocularity evaporated.
“Mornin’, gents.” Lute Kinney walked in and faced the group. His ankle-length black overcoat was open, and they saw the butts of his two Smith & Wesson pistols sticking out.
“Now with a show of hands, who in here’s heeled?” Kinney asked.
“Well, hell, you can see we both got pistols,” the young cowboy said, “whatever business it is of yours.” The old man gripped the young man’s arm to say shut up, without actually saying it.
Kinney held his eyes on the young cowboy, who tried in vain to return the stare.
“What about you?” He turned his head to look at the coffee club.
“None of us are armed,” Siegler said. Kinney nodded upward once. The men stood slowly and pulled their coats open.
“Okay, sit.”
“I, I better be getting back,” Martin stood again.
“I said sit, Mister Hotelman. Is everybody in this town hard a’ hearin’?” Kinney said. “I’ll kill the next person stands up without bein’ told.” His words were deliberate.
“Harold, sit down,” Jarvis said, and nodded.
Kinney walked over to the two cowboys, picked up the younger one’s coffee, and carried it back to the bar.
“I’m, ah, Gib Hadley, owner of the North Star. Be glad to get your coffee for ya’.”
“Got some, but I’ll keep that in mind, Mister Hadley,” Kinney said while staring at the young cowboy.
Siegler looked at Jarvis and then at Hadley. Harold Martin held his eyes on the tabletop. He was shaking again.
“Boy, I got a errand for you,” Kinney said. “Walk over here and slowly lay that pistol on the bar.Then go down to the Doc’s and bring the marshal back here.”
“Who the hell ya’ think . . .”
“Shut up, Drew! God’s sake, just do what the man said.” The old cowboy gave a stern look to the younger man. He still held his partner’s arm.
Siegler said, “Ah, sir, these men aren’t from around here. Ah, they don’t know where to find Doc. One of us would be happy to go.”
“Boy, go straight south from here. First house you come to past the hotel,” Kinney said, his eyes were still fixed on the young man.
“Marshal’s sick in bed. He couldn’t come if the place was on fire,” Jarvis said.
The shot rang out before they noticed the gun in Kinney’s hand. The young cowboy fell over sideways out of his chair. Kinney held the Smith & Wesson on the old man, and calmly cocked it again. “How about now?”
“Goddamn you!” the old man screamed. The dark hole at the end of Kinney’s gun barrel silenced him.
“Guess the chore falls to you, old-timer. Carry the boy down to the Doc’s, and while you’re there, send the marshal back. Leave them shooters on the table first.”
The old man did as he was told and struggled to pull the young man up and over his shoulder. Kinney walked over to the door and opened it for him.
“Then that son-of-a-bitch shot Drew. Tol’ me to bring ’im here and send the marshal back.”
Doc Sullivan tore Drew’s shirt open. Blood trickled from the hole in the middle of his chest. He gently inserted the probe as far as he could and slowly moved it around. A few minutes later, he said, “I can’t find it. I’m sorry, mister, I’m afraid he’s gone.”
“He killed Drew? Why? Why’d he do that?” the old cowboy was shocked. “He’s plum the meanest I’ve seen, that one. Kill a boy for no reason.” He stood beside his friend and stared down at him.
Sullivan heard Evans say, “You shouldn’t be out of bed!” They turned to see Joe leaning against the door frame. He finished buttoning his trousers and started to slowly tuck in his shirt. He struggled to strap on his gun belt and hesitated for a moment until the dizziness subsided. His face and hair glistened with sweat. When he pulled on his black vest, the old cowboy saw the badge.
“Christ a’mighty! He’s the marshal?”
“He is,” Doc said.
“He can’t go up there. That man will kill ’im sure!” He looked from Doc to Joe again. “Ain’t ya’ got anybody else?”
“Afraid not,” Doc said. He walked over to Joe. “Joe, you still have a fever. You can’t do this.”
“Who can, Doc? I don’t go up there, he’ll come here,” Joe coughed and hesitated a moment before continuing. “Maybe after he shoots those still in the North Star.”
Sarah put her arms around Joe. “Isn’t there any other way? What if we went up with you?”
“No need in givin’ ’im more targets,” Joe said. “This is my show.” He pushed off from the door sill and waited to steady himself. He picked up the cavalry Colt, checked its load, and slid it into the left side of his belt.
Sarah turned to the old man. “What about you? You could go with him!” She was crying now.
“I’m sorr
y, ma’am, I ain’t no gun hand. I’m jus’ a worn-out cowpuncher.” He looked down shaking his head.
“Hand me that scattergun, Christmas,” Joe said.
Evans handed Joe the ten-gauge, and he popped open the action. It was still empty, and he left it that way.
“Joe, it’s not loaded.”
“I know, Christmas. Need it to steady me. Don’t want to shoot my hand off.” Joe rested the butt on the floor and gripped the muzzle. “Now if you’ll hand me my coat and hat.”
Doc handed them over. “How are you feeling?”
“Real cold. A little dizzy and a headache like I’ve never known before. Might puke on ’im. What do ya’ s’pose he’d think of that?”
Doc looked at Joe, shook his head and opened his mouth but was unable to reply.
Evans began mumbling verses from the twenty-third Psalm as Joe weaved his way to the door, stopped, and looked down at the dead cowboy. He opened the door and walked out without looking back. Sarah and Pastor Evans stood in the open doorway.
Evans watched Joe as he made his way toward the main street. “But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid, for he beareth not the sword in vain.”
The silence in the North Star was deafening. Jarvis looked over at the table where the two cowboys had been sitting and saw the two pistols. He then noticed Kinney watching him in the mirror above the back-bar. He looked down at his coffee cup until he heard Kinney chuckle. All four saw that he was looking out the front windows.
“Boys, here comes your knight in shining armor,” and chuckled again.
They turned to look and saw Joe walking drunkenly across the main street toward the saloon, using his shotgun for a crutch.
Joe tried to figure out a strategy, a way to handle Kinney. However he would do it, he would give him no chance and expected the same in return. He shook almost uncontrollably from the cold wind pushing against him from the north. With each step, he restuck the shotgun butt in the snow, leaned on it as he walked by, and repeated the process. Halfway across the main street, the wind caught his hat and sent it flying. He made no attempt to stop it.
Once at the steps that led up to the boardwalk, he moved even slower, trying not to fall down. Making it onto the walk, he moved to the wall between the windows and the doors and pulled the cavalry Colt with his left hand. He cocked it and held it behind his left leg in the folds of his open overcoat.
At the door, he saw Kinney leaning over the bar like drunks do, with his head turned toward him. Joe couldn’t see Kinney’s right hand. After kicking the door shut behind him, Joe made it to the end of the bar, which gave half his body cover. He leaned unsteadily on the shotgun and met Kinney’s eyes.
Kinney glanced at the shotgun before speaking. “I’d been real disappointed if you died before I got to see you. Oh, Missus Ranswood sends her regards.”
Joe let go of the shotgun and grabbed the bar to steady himself, hoping Kinney would glance at the gun. When it clattered to the floor, Kinney’s eyes flashed down to it. As soon as they did, Joe raised the muzzle of the Colt just above the edge of the bar with his left hand. He hoped for a solid chest hit to end it quickly, but was disappointed. Joe’s bullet caught him in the jaw line, plowing out teeth and cutting through his ear. The heating stove sizzled from the blood and teeth sprayed against it. Kinney’s pistol fired before he was knocked backward, which told Joe he’d been ready to shoot. Kinney’s shot cut through the top of Joe’s left forearm and smashed a window behind him.
Joe transferred the Colt to his right hand in time to be shot through the left shoulder. He thumbed the Colt twice, the first shot glancing off the stove and the second hitting Kinney in the hip, which brought the outlaw to a knee. Kinney’s third shot cut through Joe’s coat and smashed the door glass. Joe’s fourth shot missed, and he thumbed the hammer again. He slowed down to aim, when Kinney fired again, hitting Joe in the upper right leg. From his knees, he aimed and hit Kinney in the lower chest, knocking him down. Kinney had trouble cocking the pistol again, and when he did, he fired one bullet into the bar and another into the ceiling. He pulled out his second pistol as Joe aimed at his head. Shaking badly now, Joe pulled the trigger. His last shot hit Kinney in the right arm, which prevented him from raising his gun. Kinney reached for it with his left hand, while Joe dropped the empty pistol on the floor and pulled the other Colt from his holster. He cocked and fired, and the bullet tore through Kinney’s chest. The killer stopped moving.
The gunsmoke in the saloon was thick and made it hard to breath. Joe held onto the bar with his left hand and looked around. Harold Martin lay on the floor shaking. Jarvis, Siegler, and Hadley were all still seated, their eyes and mouths wide. A blood pool grew from under Kinney. Joe could feel the cold air coming in through the broken windows behind him. A glass shard let go and smashed to the floor. Joe collapsed onto his back. The strength he had left was draining away. He saw faces above him and heard distorted voices. Then his world went dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“What day is it?” Joe asked. Clearing his eyes was a struggle but worth it. The first face he saw was Sarah’s.
“It’s Tuesday,” Sarah said.
“I’ve been sleeping for two days?”
“Doc got some laudanum. Been making you rest,” she said. “You been in and out for a little over two weeks. We weren’t so sure you’d pull through this.” Her eyes filled.
“How’s Adam doin’?”
Sarah said, “Ask him yourself,” and nodded at the other bed.
Joe slowly turned his head to look and saw Adam sitting on the other bed with his back against the wall. His arm was in a sling, and his face was a bit pale.
“Sure glad to see you, Marshal,” Adam said. “Doc’s lettin’ me go today.”
“Good. I’m sure the office needs some cleaning.” He offered Adam a slight grin.
“I’ll keep an eye on things for you, and come visit regular,” Adam said. “In fact, I’ll bring my book of con-nun-drums and read to you, to wile away the hours.”
Joe’s eye twitched a bit. “That, ah, that would be real good of you, Adam.”
Sarah noticed Joe’s glance at the doorway. “The town board decided to protect you two bums ’til you’re on your feet again.” She struggled to talk without breaking down.
“That’s why Jarvis is here? He’s guardin’ us?” Joe asked.
“They’re all supposed to be taking turns. But Budd has been here most of the time. Byron asked him to be temporary marshal, ’til you’re able to go back to work.”
“He did?” Joe asked.
“Know what he said?”
Joe shook his head.
“Budd said ‘No.’ Said he’d only be a temporary deputy. Said, ‘We already got a marshal.’”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Monty McCord is a retired police lieutenant and a graduate of the FBI National Academy at Quantico, Virginia. He writes fiction and nonfiction books relating to crime and law enforcement from the Old West period to the mid-twentieth century. He lives in Nebraska with his wife, Ann.
www.montymccord.com
