by J. T. Edson
“Sure wished I could spend half my day in bed,” greeted Hollister.
“And me. Just been along to see Frank Gunn. He’s got him a touch of the grippe and not holding the game tonight. You look a mighty worried man.”
“I am,” agreed Hollister. “I saw young Johnny Brace today. He’s come down through the reservation. Allows there’s a whole lot of council smoke going up.”
“What’s he make of it?” Hardin asked, for Johnny Brace knew Apaches.
“Didn’t know for sure. Says Juan Jose allowed it was for a wedding but Johnny allows it wasn’t no wedding smoke. They were at the war medicine wickiup. You’ve heard about Juan Jose, he don’t like white-eyes one little bit. Give him a few good rifles and he’d paint for war.”
Hardin’s face darkened in a sudden frown. The last time he had seen Poggy the man was seated on a horse, a rope around his neck and a quirt waiting to send the saddle from under him. It was the intervention of Dusty Fog and Mark Counter which saved Poggy from hanging as a renegade selling arms to the Indians. Before he could mention his suspicions, Hardin was foiled. Hollister announced that he meant to go home, wash and shave. He wanted to ride out to the place where Simmonds was killed to see if he could learn anything more. Promising to meet Hardin at the Banking House Saloon later for a quiet game of poker, Hollister walked away.
Left to himself, Hardin went into the sheriff’s office and sat at the desk trying to decide what to do. It must be a coincidence that Poggy was in town and nothing to do with the Apaches. The man might have turned over a new leaf and was really headed for the rear of the Banking House Saloon. Hardin almost decided he would go along and see the boxes unloaded but called it off. He cleaned his guns and then picked up a copy of the Police Gazette and thumbed through it.
The doors of the office opened and a small boy peeped in. He jerked his head back out again, then looked around the corner of the door, clearly meaning to run if Hardin made any hostile move. The Texan’s usually grim features relaxed as he beckoned the youngster to come in, thinking perhaps the boy was bringing a message from his folks.
“Come on in, now, boy,” drawled Hardin. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“School’s all done for the day,” replied the boy, entering and standing first on one leg, then the other. He looked at Hardin’s guns with undisguised interest. “You’re Wes Hardin, aren’t you?”
“Me, boy? They call me Johnson.”
“Shucks, that don’t mean a lil thing. You’re Wes Hardin, the fastest man on the draw. Is it right you’ve killed seventy-five men?”
“You’ve got me all mixed up with Wild Bill Hickok, boy,” answered Hardin with a grin softening his face, making him look young and friendly. He could guess why the boy had come to the office.
The boy shook his head. “Naw I’ve not. I heard how you fooled Wild Bill up in Dodge City. I read about it in one of Ned Buntline’s books.”
“Ned Buntline never told the truth about anything, boy,” replied Hardin. “I was never in Dodge City, nor was Wild Bill.”
They talked on for a time, Hardin mentioning other fast men, including his cousin, Dusty Fog. Finally Hardin asked, “What’d you come in here for?”
“You know what them folks down at the Banking House was getting off an old wagon, Wes?”
“I’d bet me a quarter it was a box full of glasses or something.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed in excitement. “Naw. It warn’t glasses. They’d got rifles, new Winchesters in them boxes.”
“Rifles!” Hardin growled, stiffening in his chair, his face becoming hard once more. “You wouldn’t be funning none, would you?”
“No sir, Mr. Hardin,” answered the boy. “Cross my heart and hope to die if I wasn’t telling the truth.”
“How’d you see them?”
“You know that ole cottonwood tree back of the Banking House? Well, I was up there, can see into the yard at the back and into the room. I’ve seed some of the gals undressing from that old tree. Waal, I was up there when that wagon come and I dassn’t get down again. See, that old Banjo Edwards, he’s said he’ll whale the tar out of the next kid he catches up there. Well, them fellers started to unload the wagon and they dropped a box. It burst open and I saw the rifles.”
“That so?” Hardin drawled, his voice and face showing none of the excitement he felt. “Now look here, boy. We’re friends, you and me. You reckon you can keep a real secret?”
“Shucks, I wanted to tell the gang.”
“Not yet. See, Mr. Rangoon, he’s going to outfit a troop of cavalry from the town here but he don’t want folks to know yet. You keep quiet about this until I tell you to let the word out.”
The boy looked disappointed at the restriction on his passing out the news. “Aw gee, me and the gang—”
“Tell you what I’ll do. You keep quiet about it, don’t tell nobody, and I’ll let you shoot off my guns. And I’ll get Cousin Dusty to let you shoot his as well.”
The boy stared at Hardin, hardly believing his ears. For a chance to shoot both Wes Hardin and Dusty Fog’s guns he would willingly keep any secret. Hardin saw the excited boy out of the room and took up his hat. He stepped out of the office and walked along the street. Turning into the space between two buildings, Hardin walked through and on to the dusty street which ran at the rear of the Military Avenue buildings. He strolled along, acting as he would if he had been on his rounds as deputy. He stopped under the big cottonwood tree behind the saloon, surrounding the saloon’s yard. The wagon stood outside the fence; the gate leading into the yard was open.
Entering the yard, Hardin went towards the rear door of the saloon but before he was halfway Banjo Edwards peered out. There was something about the way the gambler looked which made Hardin change his plans. He had been all set to force his way in but right now did not seem to be the time.
“Howdy, Banjo,” he greeted. “Thought I saw somebody hanging about in here, so I came to look. Didn’t see anybody.”
“Must have been one of them damned kids, they’re always fooling about back here,” Edwards replied, he stood so that only his left hand showed. Hardin was willing to bet the right hand held a gun. “Thanks for looking in.”
“That’s all right, I get paid for it,” Hardin drawled, then nodded to the wagon. “Taking in supplies?”
“Sure. Some fancy likker the boss ordered. Man’d need a real educated tongue to handle them. He reckons the boys’ll buy them.”
Hardin grunted a noncommittal reply, turned and walked away. He knew there was nothing to be gained by trying to force an entry into the building. Edwards would not be the only man there and they would all be armed. Besides if there were rifles in the wagon. Rangoon might have a perfectly good reason for buying them. In fact he probably did have.
The youngster might have been making up the story as an excuse to talk with Hardin.
That night Hardin and Hollister went along to the Banking House Saloon and found the other members of the poker game gathered. Frank Gunn was known to have an attack of the grippe at intervals; mostly when he felt that an all-night poker game was not as acceptable as an all-night sleep. The game would be held in the Banking House for there were few other customers, pay day not being for another three days.
In respect of Hardin’s superstition the table was at the side of the room and Hardin’s seat against the wall. Facing him across the room was the door to Rangoon’s private office. Looking at the door Hardin wondered again about the rifles although he did not mention them. Rangoon was in the game and he was a good poker player, keen, shrewd and with a better than fair knowledge of the mathematics of the game. So were the other players. Hardin forgot his worries and concentrated on the game, any inattention could be costly when matched with good players.
For once, Rangoon was not on his best form. He made a couple of mistakes in his betting and calling which he would not otherwise have done. His eyes kept flickering to the office door.
“I’m not stayi
ng in long,” he said, studying his cards. “I’ve got some urgent business coming up tonight and I’ll have to pull out when my caller comes.”
The other players nodded in agreement. It was part of the etiquette of the game to give notice if meaning to quit before the finishing time. At any other time Hardin would have thought nothing of it, except that it showed Rangoon’s knowledge of the game. This night it was different and Hardin found himself speculating who the caller might be. He yawned and looked around the table.”
“Don’t feel much like an all-night game myself. I reckon I’ve got me a touch of the grippe coming on like ole Frank.”
“Let’s all call it a night when Rangoon finishes then,” Hollister went on. “The wife’s raising all hell because I’m stopping out most nights. Anything for a quiet life.”
“Sure,” agreed Blinky Howard with a grin. “Anyways, I like to see the law out and about good and early in the morning. Makes me feel I’m getting my money’s worth as a tax payer.”
“In that case you want to let your taxes lapse,” growled Hardin.
The others laughed and resumed the game. The play was brisk and high for about an hour, then the office door opened. Hardin was just throwing in his cards and glanced at the opening door. He saw a dark-faced man looking out, nodding to Banjo Edwards who was at the bar. The gambler crossed the room and the dark face pulled back. The open door was clear for a moment and through it Hardin saw a man. A squat-built man wearing an old cavalry coat, breech cloth and calf-high moccasins. A man with a dark brown face framed with long hanging, lank black hair.
Hardin felt the tension hit him. That was an Apache in there. More it was an Apache wearing the red head band of a chief and there was only one chief in this area, Juan Jose, chief of the White Mountain Apaches, a man who hated white-eyes.
Edwards went to the office door and entered, closing it after him and made sure that when he came out again no one could see inside. He crossed the room and whispered to Rangoon. The small man looked at the other players and smiled.
“I’m sorry, boys. This’s the last hand for me.”
The other players nodded for they had been warned. The hand was played out and Rangoon pushed back his chair, standing up. The other men took their time but Hardin declined an invitation to go to the bar with the players. He left the room and walked along the sidewalk as if making for the jail. Once clear of the Banking House Saloon he made sure he was not followed then cut between two houses and made his way towards the back of the saloon. He saw the shapes of three horses tied out back and walked nearer. One of the horses swung around, snorting nervously, then a second showed signs of nervousness. That was all the warning Hardin wanted, he knew what kind of horses they were and darted to the tree, flattening behind it.
He was only just in time, the rear door of the saloon was opening just as he took cover. Two men showed in the light for an instant. One was the half-breed Hardin saw in the office; the other an Apache Indian, not the one with the chiefs head band. They closed the door and came towards the horses, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. The two men advanced on silent feet, each holding a weapon. Behind the tree Hardin drew his twin Colts but he did not cock them for he knew how keen Apaches’ ears could be. He stood, waiting for one or both the men to come over towards him. They stopped by the horses, looking around and then satisfied that the animals were not scared, turned and went back to the saloon.
Time dragged by and Hardin waited behind the tree. He was not sure what he should make of all this and knew there was no chance of his getting near enough to hear what was being said in the room. The horses would give warning of his approach and the men in the room would not hesitate to shoot if they found him spying on them. There were more men in the room than he could handle. He knew that Apaches would not deliberately go out of their way to fight in the dark, but if a fight was unavoidable they could handle themselves, so he did not wish to tangle with the two Apaches in the darkness.
Hardin tried to estimate how long he waited under the tree. It must have been over an hour, he thought, when the door opened and the half-breed emerged with the two Apaches. They mounted their horses and rode off. Soon after, Rangoon and Edwards came from the door and headed for the livery-barn. Hardin wished he could get his own horse without attracting attention. He wanted to know why Rangoon had met the Apaches and where the small man was going.
For all that, Hardin could not believe there was any sinister motive behind the meeting. If Edwards alone was involved Hardin would have thought the worst, but not with Rangoon. It could not be anything worse than selling whiskey to the Apaches, the boy must have been wrong about the rifles. If he really saw rifles Rangoon could have some perfectly simple and innocent reason for having them.
With that in mind Hardin made his way around the town, doing his tour as a deputy and finally reached the sheriff’s office. Hollister was inside the office, filling in the log.
“Don’t know why you bother,” Hardin drawled as he entered. “There’s never a thing to put in it.”
“I know. The tax payers like it though. Makes them think we’re earning our pay. You getting scared of losing, pulling out like that?”
“Nope,” replied Hardin and decided to try something. “What’d Rangoon be doing, meeting Apaches at this time of night.”
“Don’t ask me,” answered Hollister, his attention on the log and not more than half listening to the other man. Then the meaning of the words hit him and he let the pencil fall to the desk. “Apaches!”
“You all want to wake the dead?” asked Hardin sardonically. “I dearly loves a man who can control hisself. There’s no wonder your missus wants you to stop playing poker, way you go on.” He paused and eyed the other man mockingly. In the time they had known each other a liking and respect had grown between them. “Course, it might not have been Apaches. Could have been Comanches or Sioux, or Cheyennes maybe.”
“Comanches, Sioux, Cheyennes, down this way.” Hollister snorted. “This’s Apache country and you know it. What the hell would Rangoon be doing with Apaches, anyway.”
“Don’t ask me. Ask him.”
Hollister sat studying Hardin’s face for a long moment. “You best tell me all about it, Wes.”
So Hardin explained, telling everything he knew. Hollister grunted as he sat listening. “The boy was sure about seeing the rifles, that’s what got me worried, Brick.”
“What’s he look like?” Hollister asked and when Hardin described the boy, grinned broadly. “Young Manny Lieben from the sound of it. He can spin more windies than a Texan talking about Texas. He likely made it all up.”
“Could be,” agreed Hardin. “What’re you fixing in to do about it?”
“Nothing much. We don’t know for sure there were any rifles, even Poggy don’t prove anything. You allow he was nearly lynched for selling arms to the Indians. Most men’d not want that to happen twice, he could have gone straight. I’m not at all sure what we should do.”
“Or me,” grunted Hardin. “The hell of it is I’ve never held a badge before. Look, back home in Texas when there’s a problem we take it to Ole Devil Hardin and let him handle it.”
“Trouble being Ole Devil isn’t here.”
“Sure, thought about that,” Hardin agreed. Cousin Dusty’s here. Let’s leave it until we’ve had a chance to talk it over with him.”
Hollister nodded. He had formed a very high opinion of Dusty Fog’s capabilities and was willing to go along with whatever Dusty wanted. Still Hollister could not think anything bad of the small, fat and friendly man who ran the Banking House saloon.
The morning after found the range quiet but it was a quiet which was soon to be broken. Colt Blayne stretched his feet under the table and watched his son’s face, guessing what was on Sam’s mind. He was about to suggest Sam brought Silvie Rand over for a meal when the door was opened and a gangling cowhand entered.
“Colt! There’s trouble. Somebody wired off that water-hole up on the Rands’
line. Got barbed wire right round it, I only just stopped some of our stock hanging on to it.”
Blayne came to his feet, rage showing on his face for there was nothing a ranch man hated more than wire. “What! Get the crew out, we’ll go over there and see about it.”
“Hold hard, pappy,” Sam Blayne put in. “Wes Hardin passed word about the next man to cause trouble. Let’s go into town and see him.”
Blayne scowled, he was never a man to accept argument against his orders but for once held his temper. The boy was thinking for himself, that was for sure. He knew that if the hands went to the waterhole there would be trouble. The Rands would not stand back and allow their fence torn down.
“All right. Get the crew and we’ll head for town.”
Silvie Rand heard the mournful bellows of the family’s milk cows and went up the slope which led to the waterhole on the other side of the rim. She stopped and stared down, then dashed forward, chasing the cows away from the wicked spikes of the barbed wire which was strung right round the waterhole. She looked at the new strands and her face paled. Turning she headed back to the house and burst in on her father.
“Let’s take to the hills, pappy,” growled Lil Hunk, eyeing his old rifle.
Mrs. Rand slammed the bowl of oatmeal down on the table. She was a big, rawboned and yet still handsome woman.
“No you don’t. You know what that Wes Hardin said about the folk’s caused trouble. You go into town and talk to him. I’ll take the young ’uns across to the Mahon place and pick up all the other women folks on the way.”
Big Hunk Rand grunted his agreement. He picked up his Sharps rifle and nodded to his two eldest sons; the other five children would go with his wife in the old buggy. Mrs. Rand watched the men leave, then took up the heavy shotgun from over the fireplace, broke it and slid in two shells, then told the girls to get ready.
It was the same story wherever a nester and rancher shared a waterhole, the water was inaccessible, barbed wire strung around it. Tempers rose and men reached for weapons. Then the memory of a soft-drawling speech brought an end to open hostility. Wes Hardin made a promise and gave a warning, he was a man who never went back on his word. So the men headed for town, hard-faced well-armed groups of them riding in silence. Nesters passed cowhands, angry glances exchanged but that was all for they knew Wes Hardin was in town and he would be set to handle any trouble. The nesters made for the Banking House Saloon and the cowhands headed to the Gunn River Saloon. There they waited, grouped in their ranch parties, hard-eyed and silent.