by R. W. Stone
“No problem,” George responded. “It was obvious he drew first. By the way, that’s some dog you have there. Never saw one quite that big.”
“He’s half wolf,” I explained.
“Handy to have around,” he said admiringly.
“Oh, you have no idea.” I turned, and before walking out the door, I stopped to pick up the six-shooter Wilkins had dropped. Once out in the street, I walked right into Sheriff Finley, who was helping Wilkins to his feet.
“I heard a shot. What in the Sam Hill is going on here?” Jake asked angrily.
Before I could reply, Wilkins whimpered out. “He started it. First his dog bit me right outside your office, and then he butted me with that damn rifle o’ his. I was just trying to get even.”
“That true, Badger?” the lawman asked.
“Not exactly. He drew a finger on me first,” I explained, handing the pistol over to the sheriff.
“Well, if that’s the case … wait … he drew a what?”
“A finger,” I reiterated calmly. “Stuck it right there in my face. I never liked that much. As for the bite, I expect Lobo was just protecting himself from being kicked by a bully.”
Jake looked at me with squinted eyes and shook his head. “A finger. Well, if that don’t beat all. Look, Badger, you said you were planning on leaving in the morning. Make sure it happens. All right?”
I merely nodded in agreement.
“As for you,” he said, turning to the injured man, “hand over that knife, and then get yourself over to Doc Higgins. Have him fix you up, and then as soon as you can, and I mean right pronto, get on your horse and get out of town.”
“What about my gun and knife?” Wilkins asked.
Jake looked at me, and I just shrugged.
“Swing by my office on your way out of town. I’ll escort you to the town limits, and then I’ll give them back. But not before then. Understood?”
The man pulled his knife out slowly and passed it over to the sheriff, handle first. Last I saw of him, he was holding his arm and trailing drops of blood down the street.
“Not a half hour in town, and already there’s a problem,” Jake commented wryly. “Now I got to go saddle my horse and escort this lowlife out of town. Gonna miss my afternoon nap.”
I’d never seen Jake Finley take a nap in all the years I’d known him.
“Sorry,” I replied. “But it’s like I said, Jake, he pulled a finger on me.”
The lawman shook his head. As he walked away, I pondered the conversation we’d had back in his office. Ever since I was a kid, my right side seemed numb from the shoulder down. My fingers tingled from time to time, and I had a weak grip. My eyesight wasn’t what it should be when compared to others my age, either. Things were a little fuzzy at far distances, and worse so since I took that Minié ball to the head in 1864. Over the years the sawed-off had always provided a solution to those issues. After all, it’s hard to miss with a scattergun.
Chapter Nine
Things had been changing quickly in the last few years. Back when everyone was using percussion caps and single-shot pistols, the weapons I carried always proved good enough for my personal needs. Lately, however, there seemed to be a repeater on everyone’s hip. And it wasn’t just the firearms that were changing.
A good many men were sporting those new holster designs with the belt riding lower for a faster draw. Some had cut-downs on the holster’s front side to speed things up when pulling the pistol out. Hell, with a slight hammer and trigger modification, a gunslick could empty all six shots from a Colt Single-Action Army practically before you heard the first one go off.
Jake wasn’t the only one who realized the advantage of a fast repeater, but I hadn’t figured out a solution to the problem yet. I’d have to ruminate some more on it. I headed over to the stable where the Appaloosa had been put up and retrieved my saddlebags and duffel. There I made arrangements to have the horses and the mule cared for the way I wanted and made sure Lobo would be put up for the night with something to eat.
Usually I just turned him loose to run off and hunt on his own, often for days at a time, but with all the trouble we’d gotten into, I wanted him secured for the night. Once that was taken care of, I started reevaluating the events of the day. As I walked toward the hotel, I continued to ponder the problem of how to hold on to my professional edge with the weapons of choice I carried.
That was when I passed by the general store, or the Shebang as it was called locally. I stepped in for a moment to buy a couple cigars, and it was then that I noticed the clerk pouring some lemonade into a cup for one of the customers’ kids. Apparently the store offered the lemonade drink as a free incentive in order to attract family business.
It wasn’t the lemonade that attracted my attention, however. It was the pitcher that was being used. I had seen these types of set-ups before in fancy hotels, but they were usually reserved for tea or coffee. In essence it was a curved frame with a swivel that held the pot. Rather than having to lift and carry the coffee by a hot handle every time, all a waiter had to do was put the cup under the spout and incline the pot. The pot would swivel down, pour out the coffee, and then would be returned to its original upright position. I thought it kind of clever that the storekeeper had rigged his lemonade pitcher with the same idea to save time and avoid messy spills. It also gave me a hell of an idea.
When I left the store, I looked around for a leather smith or saddle shop. Down the street at the very end of the first series of shops was a sign that indicated just what I needed. It simply read: Saddle Repair. I adjusted the saddlebags on my shoulder and walked straight over there.
Just as I’d hoped, the owner, a gent named Murphy, indicated that he could fix just about anything that had rawhide or leather, be it cinch, saddle, belt, or bag. I set the duffel and the Springfield down against the wall next to the door and spent a few minutes explaining what I had in mind. Finally, the man caught the drift of what I wanted.
“Leave me that belt and holster of yours, and give me till morning. I think I can work it out for you by then, mate.”
“Just as long as it’s ready by morning,” I replied, “and I’ll be most grateful. You need the scattergun, too?” I asked. “I’d feel a little naked without it.”
“Shouldn’t think so,” he answered, shaking his head. He took out a small receipt book and looked up. “What name should I put this under?”
“Jedidiah Kershaw. Most folks just call me Badger, though.”
The leather smith looked a little puzzled. “Badger? That’s a new one,” he remarked. “How’d you get that handle, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I shook my head and took no offense. I’d heard the question many times before. “Some say it’s ’cause once I get hold of something, I don’t let go. Others say it’s ’cause I got a mean streak that comes out when I’m forced to back up.” Mr. Murphy looked a mite uncomfortable, so I added: “I was tagged with it as a kid, and I guess it just stuck. Easier than Jedidiah.”
Mr. Murphy relaxed and smiled. “Very well … Mr. Kershaw, this will be ready by … say, 9:00 a.m.?”
“Great. Any reason you need me, I’ll be over at the hotel,” I said. And after retrieving my rifle and duffel, that’s where I headed next.
Chapter Ten
The Turnberry Hotel was one of three places to stay in the town of Cooper’s Crossing, but it was the only one where I was fairly certain I wouldn’t catch any bedbugs. I walked through the front door and was immediately surprised at all the changes the proprietor had made since I had last been there. In the center of the lobby was a large, round, red velvet–covered couch that was new, and I noticed that the place had been freshly wallpapered.
I walked up to the front desk, set my tack down, and rang the bell that was sitting on the counter. A young man who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or so walked out from the
back room and offered his help. He wore a white shirt with suspenders and had on a name badge that read Pete.
“A room for just one night,” I stated. “Still serving dinner here?”
Pete nodded. “Best pot roast in town, and tonight we have beef barley soup and apple pie for dessert. Fresh, too.”
“I should hope so.” As I replied, my stomach rumbled a bit. I looked down and rubbed my belly. “Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.”
“Please sign here,” he said, indicating a line in his registry.
“A sign-in book,” I observed. “Getting real upscale, aren’t we?”
Pete looked at me sheepishly. “Pa, I mean Mr. Turnberry, says it helps the place run more efficiently. Keeps track of where folks are, getting the right room and such.”
I chuckled. “Well, Pete, your pappy is probably right. Wouldn’t want someone accidentally walking in on Mr. and Mrs. Finnigan before they got to begin again, now, would we?” I joked. The lad seemed a little perplexed. “Never mind,” I added, shrugging. “Just point me to the room.”
“Upstairs two flights. Third door on the right.” Pete handed me a ring with two keys on it. “Bathroom is at the other end of the hall on the far left,” he explained. “That’s why there’s a second key.”
“A lock on the bathroom door, too,” I said, surprised. “Now I know we’ve come up in the world.” I threw the saddlebags back over my shoulder, once more picked up the duffel and rifle, and walked up the stairs.
After a long bath, a shave, and a change of not-so-clean clothes, I headed down to the dining hall. The smell of food drew me like a Sonora steer to a watering hole. The crowded room indicated to me the food must still be as good as I remembered it to be.
I left the Springfield up in the hotel room but carried the sawed-off under the jacket that was draped over my arm. I hoped it would be less conspicuous that way. Almost everyone was armed in one way or another, from pocket Derringers to Winchesters, but I noticed that when pistols and other short-barreled firearms were carried out of their holsters, it tended to make folks uneasy. The last thing I wanted was to attract any more attention in Jake’s town.
I found a table in the corner and placed the express gun across my lap and set a large napkin over it. A rather substantially built blonde waitress came over and smiled. “Are you waiting for someone, or shall I take your order now?” she asked politely.
I took off my hat and placed it on the seat next to me. “You on the menu?” I asked.
She giggled and punched me gently in the shoulder. “I’ll take that to mean you’re alone.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I replied, smiling.
“Not officially,” she answered, looking me over. “But you never know. Might be as how things could change later.” She winked.
“Gee, I sure hate to wait,” I said honestly, “but for now I’ll have the soup and pot roast. Word is they’re serving apple pie for dessert.”
“Best pie in four counties,” she replied proudly while tossing back her hair. Aside from being blonde, young, and well put together, as they say, I also noticed she had very pretty blue eyes. Then again, I’d been out on the trail alone for several months.
“Does it come with cheese on it?” I asked
“Well, you know what they say,” she teased.
“What’s that?” I asked, perplexed.
“Apple pie without cheese is like a hug without a squeeze.” She laughed. By this point I was even more convinced that pie wouldn’t be my only dessert.
“Right,” I said. “And hot coffee with all that.”
“Coming right up,” she said, heading for kitchen. I couldn’t help noticing that her train had a noticeable wiggle in its caboose.
Dinner lived up to its expectations, and that included the apple pie with cheese.
“Here’s your check, sir,” she said, handing me the bill.
“Put it on my room tab,” I said, taking the pencil gently from behind her ear. “I’m writing my room number right here in big letters so you can find it easy enough.” I smiled as harmlessly as I could. Sort of like a mongoose smiling to a cobra. “And just call me Badger, most of my friends do.”
She punched me in the shoulder again. “My, you are a devil, aren’t ya?”
“And a very hopeful one to boot,” I added with a chuckle.
“Keep the faith, Badger. One never knows what fortune the future may bring,” she replied, smiling.
“Well, seeing as how I’m leaving in the morning, I can only hope the future don’t take very long.”
I waited until she had left the table before removing the napkin and getting up. I carried the scattergun concealed snugly against my leg as I headed back to my room. On my way up the stairs, I began to wonder whether I truly wanted that special knock on the door or if deep down I would really prefer a chance to get a good night’s sleep in a comfortable indoor bed.
Chapter Eleven
Once I was back in my hotel room, I placed the sawed-off under the bed and took a look around. It didn’t need any sprucing up. The staff of the Turnberry seemed to have done a competent job. They had even folded the little towels next to the washpot so they had triangular points on the end.
A bounty man doesn’t often spend much time in highfalutin establishments, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate high-toning it when he gets the chance. The room was decorated with a high-backed cane-bottom chair and a small writing desk next to it. There was the washbasin with the little towels and a bed with a small brass headboard. It had a fairly thick mattress on it, too, a far cry from the cots the army used to supply us with. There were two lamps hung on the walls and a large painting of what I assumed was an Eastern farmhouse. Western ranches seldom have fringed surreys out front and lanes edged with roses and posies.
I laughed out loud when I remembered that the last hotel room I was in had a tobacco poster nailed to the wall that was riddled with bullet holes.
I plopped down on the bed and pulled off my boots. I favored the high black cavalry officer’s model boots, although I never did rise above corporal during all my years of service. After unbuttoning my shirt, I leaned back. I was almost about to fall asleep when there was a soft knocking at the door. I noticed that the small pendulum clock on the wall indicated 9:00 p.m. I got up, admittedly somewhat reluctantly, and walked to the door. I repositioned the Springfield Trapdoor behind the door and asked who it was.
“It’s Betty,” she replied. “Come on, sweets, open the door afore I catch a draft.”
I opened it slightly. In my line of work, it pays to be careful, and I had only just met this girl. Happily, she was alone and carrying a bottle of wine to boot.
I smiled widely and opened the door. “Well, come in, and be my guest, said the spider to the fly.”
“Oh, you are terrible, aren’t you.” She giggled.
A gentleman never kisses and tells, but I’ve never been accused of being excessively gentlemanly. Needless to say, we had a few drinks and then settled down to getting to know each other. It must have been about a half hour later when we heard a loud commotion coming from out back of the hotel, apparently right under my window.
I sat up and began to get out of bed to see what was afoot.
“Oh, must you?” Betty whined. “Things was just getting interesting.”
The noise got louder. It sounded like barrels being knocked over and men yelling at one another. I rose and went over to look out the window. Or, more precisely, let’s just say I looked around the window sill. I didn’t lean out or anything like that. This child wasn’t raised that dumb. When I did peer out that window, a couple of shots rang out.
I noticed a group of three obviously drunken men staggering down the street and raising the roof. One of them chucked a small barrel through one of the storefront windows, and the other two were firing their
pistols in the air. Off to my left, I saw Sheriff Finley walking toward them. He had a Winchester ’73 cradled in his arms.
I went over to the chair where I had draped my jacket and retrieved the telescopic sight from its pocket. I quickly returned to the window and looked more closely through the glass.
“What’s happening, sweetie?” Betty asked, adjusting her hair.
“Oh, it looks like the sheriff’s got his hands full with some local ruffians,” I answered.
“Jake can take care of himself,” she observed. “That man’s a handful all by his lonesome, I’d say.”
I looked over at her and winked. “Kinda like me?”
She merely giggled. “Ya jealous, sweetie?”
I went back to watching the street and heard the sheriff shout. “Not in my town, boys! That’ll be enough for tonight.”
Apparently they weren’t having any of it, because they began to spread apart and then squared off in front of him.
“Yeah? Who says?” one of them asked.
“The law, and that’s all you need to know. Just go somewhere and sober up. Not much harm done yet.”
“And iffen we don’t want to go?” another asked.
At this point I motioned to Betty. “Hand me that rifle, would you?”
“Rifle?” she cried. “Hey, what ya gonna do?” She was obviously beginning to worry, but she brought me the Springfield anyway.
“I hope nothing,” I responded. “But it pays to be prepared.”
“Prepared? For what? Hey, what exactly’s going on out there?” she asked nervously.
“Just stay back away from the window,” I replied sternly.
I squatted down and brought the rifle to rest on the window sill and moved it slowly to and fro, watching the scene on the street below.
