by John Shirley
“I see! Oh, hell, I expect Boris deserved it right enough. Where’s Feathers?”
A bellow from the saloon answered the question. “Come in, boys, come in!” roared Feathers. He rarely talked under a roar. He was standing in the door to the makeshift saloon, waving a whiskey bottle at them.
Feathers was a heavy man; in this humid warmth he wore cutoff rawhide pants and a sleeveless undershirt. The source of his moniker was obvious to anyone, for he sported eagle feathers and buzzard feathers in his long, matted hair, some curious variant of an Indian headdress, and there were grouse feathers sticking out of his long, curly black beard. His weathered face, sunken eyes, and gappy teeth made him look older than the forty he was. “Boys, come in and pay your money down! The drinks are lined up!”
Fisher and his men hung up their hats and coats and were soon gathered in the saloon, where a narrow barrier of boards, topped with tin, served as the bar. A hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked woman with bad skin and a great deal of rouge stood behind the bar, a drink in her hand, dully appraising them as they came in.
An oil lamp in each corner of the room scarcely dissipated the fog of cigar and pipe smoke. Pictures of pretty girls from magazines haphazardly adorned the walls, their figures scarcely to be seen in the murk. An unlit potbellied stove stood on the far wall. A hodgepodge of wooden chairs was scattered about, two of them occupied by rough-looking characters sitting near the bar.
A settee, a missing leg replaced by a chunk of sawn log, stood against the wall to the right, occupied by two men; one of them was a man Fisher had known in Wichita before the town constable had put him on a midnight stage out of town. The wide-bodied little man, affecting a merchant’s suit, was Chugs Calloway, a bunco steerer, cardsharp, and pickpocket, also implicated in two stage robberies.
Fisher’s memory of Calloway was bitter. Not wanting to share the suckers, he had argued with Fisher over the pickings, Chugs trying to claim the Little Goldie Gambling Hall for his own. Chugs had brought in his cousin Hound Pitney, a known killer, and Fisher had to back down. He’d always wanted to punish Chugs for that humiliation.
The taller man sprawled on the rest of the settee had long dirty brown hair framing his thin, stubble-bearded face and wore the pants from a sack suit and a nice golden-threaded silken vest—over nothing but bare skin. Fisher found this sartorial incongruity annoying. He himself had taken off his coat and bowler, due to the muggy heat, but he wore a respectable white shirt under his vest. But then, he reflected, his company these days was entirely slovenly. He privately vowed he would get rid of most of them, make himself wealthy, and surround himself with a better class of criminal.
Gaines and the man in the shirtless vest were staring at each other with a kind of angry shock of recognition. The man in the vest wore a cross-draw pistol holstered aslant his belly, and his fingers crept toward it now as Gaines put a hand on his own six-shooter. Both he and Chugs, with an empty whiskey bottle on the floor between them, were bleary drunk.
“Well, boys!” boomed Feathers. “I see you know each other!”
“I know Driscoll there well enough,” Gaines growled. “He stole my money and my horse!”
“That’s a dirty lie!” said Driscoll in a tight, reedy voice.
“It’s a cryin’ shame how old, best-forgotten grudges and differences can haint a man!” said Feathers. “You boys remember our rules here! There is no killing on the premises!”
“What about in self-defense?” Gaines asked, his eyes on Driscoll’s gun hand.
“As to that, I’d make a judgment,” allowed Feathers. “I will keep an eye on Driscoll.” So saying he patted the hog’s-leg pistol tied up on his right hip—at which Driscoll took his hand from his gun. “Right now,” Feathers added, “you just keep to the bar.”
“I’m buying two rounds,” Fisher reminded them, not wanting to be caught in a cross fire.
Gaines grudgingly turned away from his old adversary and went to the bar with Fisher. Briggs, Diamond, and Bettiger eagerly followed.
“Whiskey for my five friends here!” Fisher said.
“Howdy, Cindy!” Sweeney said, grinning at the gaunt woman behind the bar.
“Hey, Peanut,” she said glumly. She wore a cut-back ball gown, once a cream-and-blue color, its colors now blurred in dinginess. It was a little too big for her skinny frame; its sleeves had been removed at the shoulders, and its skirt was partly cut away to reveal her thin legs.
Cindy began pouring whiskey from an unlabeled bottle into glasses that were not quite empty of whatever had been in them before. “Pay as you go, boys. Four bits a glass.” Fisher paid and they drank.
Feathers leaned on the end of the bar. “You gents staying the night?”
“This night and maybe some more,” Fisher said. “Here’s for tonight. . . . We’ll see about tomorrow. . . .” Regretfully, he counted out the cost of the bunks and gave it to Cindy, who tossed it into a cigar box she kept for room fees.
It irked Fisher to pay for these men, but he had little choice. They hadn’t the money, most of them. He regarded it, however, as a short-term investment. This payout would serve to keep them in his train, and he’d get it back in time. Maybe in a week, two at most.
“Hannibal, you can stay till noon tomorrow. Then you got to pay up again,” said Feathers. He waved to Cindy. “I’ll have some of that beer in the floor crock,” he told her.
She gave a faint nod and went down on one knee, opening a trapdoor to reveal a hole down into the clay earth under the building, in which, Fisher knew, a stone crock of beer had been lowered by rope into a small tub of water. This kept the beer cool, which made it three times as costly as the whiskey. It cost Feathers nothing, of course, and Fisher watched enviously as Cindy gave him a steel mug of beer.
Fisher turned to Gaines and spoke in a low voice. “There something I should know about this Driscoll?”
Buster Gaines snorted. “Only that he’s a lying, thieving snake.”
“Steal from you, did he?”
“He did.” Gaines downed the rest of his drink and signaled for another. Cindy poured, and he had drunk half of it away before she had stoppered the bottle. “We robbed three miners of their wages. They was on their way to town to spend it. He collected the money while I held the gun on them. He pocketed part of my share.”
“How’d you come to know that?”
“I know what they was paid. It was even in the newspaper, how much was taken! We had our faces covered, and we got away fine. We stopped at an old shack for the split, and he just kept lying to me about taking my share and— Well, I was kinder drunk at the time, and seeing he stole from me, I pulled my sixer and fired, and I missed; he fired back, and he missed, and I ducked down behind a table, and when I looked up to make another shot, he was ridin’ out, with all the money, towing my horse along with him, the belly-crawling son of a . . .” The cussing went on for quite a while, and Fisher turned to appraise Driscoll.
Driscoll was pointing at Gaines and talking to his partner, Chugs. Probably telling his side of the story.
Fisher didn’t much care who was in the right of it. He might well have pulled the same trick if he’d been in Driscoll’s place. But he didn’t want Gaines shot in the back while he was here. Buster Gaines was part of the plan. He was useful.
“Stole my horse,” Gaines was saying. “Stole my share. I can’t see how I can stand him being here, Hannibal.”
“Like as not he’ll move on tomorrow.”
“He’s liable to sneak up and cut my throat as I sleep!” Gaines declared far too loud. Feathers looked over at them, frowning.
Gaines suddenly swung around and jabbed a finger at Driscoll. “Here’s your choice, you snake! You can give me what you owe me and the price of the horse you stole, or you can meet me outside!”
“Go to the devil and kiss his red rump!” Driscoll replied, his face contorted wi
th drunken fury.
“Outside it is!” Feathers roared. “No shootin’ in the house! You go on out, both of you! Whoever lives, they bury the other. There’s a field for that not fifty rods off! If you both die, your friends bury you! Now, take it outside! That’s my rulin’!”
“Good enough!” Gaines snarled, spittle spraying with the words. “You comin’, Driscoll? Or you going to skin out like a yellow coward once more?”
Driscoll’s face went stony. He stood slowly up and said, “Sure I’m comin’. But I’m not turning my back to do it.” His friend Chugs stood up at his side, hand going to his percussion revolver.
“You go on out first, Buster!” said Feathers. “You’re closer to the door! They won’t try nothin’ in here!”
Gaines hesitated—then he turned toward the door to the hallway. Gaines took two steps—then Driscoll snatched at his pistol. Chugs pulled his own a split second later.
Seeing Driscoll was about to shoot a valuable man in the back, Fisher felt compelled to pull his own pistol—and Briggs and Diamond drew their own. Driscoll fired, and Gaines staggered, as four guns thundered. Fisher, Diamond, and Briggs fired at Driscoll; Chugs’s spasmodic shot went into the floor, and he screamed, bouncing against the wall, with the impact of the slug Fisher sent into his breastbone. Gaines was still on his feet, firing as he turned; Diamond and Fisher and Smiley Briggs were now firing at Driscoll, and the three bullets sent him into a raggedly spinning dance.
“Hold fire, damn you!” Feathers roared as gun smoke choked the room.
His ears ringing, Fisher squinted through the smoke at the two dead men slumping over the settee. Driscoll had flopped facedown across Chugs Calloway.
Feathers commenced roaring curses, banging a fist on the bar in emphasis, as Gaines, panting—eyes wide, gun muzzle trailing smoke—leaned back against the wall.
“You hit, Buster?” Fisher called.
Gaines looked down at himself in puzzlement. Then he shrugged. “He always was a bad shot. Cut through my holster, felt like I was hit, but just a graze, I reckon.”
“Open the damn window, Cindy!” shouted Feathers. Cigar smoke was one thing, gun smoke another. He spun angrily to Gaines. “Here’s my ruling—”
“Now, hold on, Feathers,” Fisher broke in. “Driscoll tried to shoot him in the back!”
“I know he did! That’s why I’m ruling you bunch can stay. But after you catch your breath, you get them bodies out of here, leave ’em out back, bury ’em in the morning! Right now you can have one drink on the house—only because I’m fining you whatever money them boys had on them, and I’m confiscatin’ their horses! Their saddles and tackle, too! And you will clean up the gore unless you want to pay Cindy to do it.” He nodded toward her. “Pay her four bits to clean up blood.”
Growling to himself, Gaines dug a half-dollar piece from a pocket and tossed it to Cindy. She caught it neatly in the air and went for a mop and bucket. The expression on her face had not changed since they’d come in.
Feathers went to search the bodies, and Hannibal Fisher, his hands shaking just a little, finished his drink.
* * *
* * *
Now, that’s a mighty fine morning,” Seth said, coming out of the barn to gaze at the sun-washed, rain-scoured farm. There were only a few white clouds, like fluffy sheep driven through the bright blue sky by a shepherding light breeze.
His remark was for Josette’s benefit, as she was walking up with a wooden coffee cup in her hand. She handed him his morning coffee, as if acknowledging their new status as betrothed, and accompanied it with a sweet, shy smile. “How’d you sleep out there, cowboy?”
“Never better. They make you comfortable in the house?”
“They pulled out a cot for me. I was just fine. Gravy and biscuits and bacon coming up. If you clean yourself up, I believe Daisy will let you eat in the house. But I warn you. She will question you closely about our wedding plans.”
“I was thinking of a justice of the peace, and I expect the court in Freeman will have someone who could be a witness.”
“But when?”
“I was pondering on that. I feel I have to do the right thing and at least ask your pa for your hand. He’ll say no, but I got to ask. Could be if he hears we’re bound and determined, he’ll give in.”
Josette shook her head. “He’s mule stubborn.”
“He’s going to come round here, looking for you,” Seth pointed out. “We could get married right away and ride out. But . . .”
She sighed. “I’d like to be settled in my mind about Papa. I don’t know if I will ever be.” She looked toward the south and said, “Could we really just . . . ride out?”
“I promised Sol some help. He’s helped us some . . . and I want Mazie to heal up. But right soon you bet we can.” He sipped a little coffee and said, “Still and all—I am going to talk to your pa, Josette. Maybe you should go with me. It’s best our intentions be plainly told. I don’t want him lyin’, saying we married without even telling him.”
She reached out and took Seth’s hand. “Let me turn it over in my mind. At least till tomorrow. Sol and Daisy seem to be strangely tolerant of my staying here.” Then as if wanting to change the subject, she said, “Go on, now. Wash yourself under the pump, best you can, and come in to eat.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll have to ask Sol for some time away today, as I’ve promised to ride out and look around with Marshal Coggins.”
Josette’s delicate eyebrows knit. “Are you going out to look for trouble with that man Fisher?”
“I don’t expect he’s anywhere around. But . . . I’d like to know for sure. I don’t want to be watching my back trail my whole life. The marshal don’t seem to mind bringing me along, so . . .”
Josette shook her head and went into the barn to visit Mazie—she’d grown fond of the horse and liked to see she was healing well—and Seth turned to watch her go, enjoying the sight.
He had a parcel of troubles, it was true, what with her pa and not knowing for sure about Hannibal Fisher. But it all seemed lost in the glow he felt when he thought, There she is—my bride.
Nothing much was decided at breakfast, except that on the morrow, Seth would be helping with the corn harvest. Two days of that—he couldn’t say no to Sol after the Hamers had taken Josette in—and then he’d try to settle things with Dubois.
Shortly after breakfast, the marshal rode up. Hearing the horse, Seth went out to meet him. “Coming with me?” Slim asked.
“I am, Marshal. Let me get my hired horse, and we’re on the way. Unless you need some breakfast first.”
“I loaded up on hotcakes and eggs. Let’s head out. We’ll do a circle around town, watch for any new tracks. Then we’ll trail north along the creek, see if we can find that campsite Red Milligan spotted.”
Seth saddled his horse, and they were quickly on their way. There were countless tracks around Prairie Fire, but the men struck nothing unusual. Hannibal Fisher’s horse had a crack in his right front horseshoe—Marshal Coggins had made that determination when he and Seth had gone back to the location of the affray between Dawson and Fisher. Today they couldn’t find any shoe prints with that mark.
“Doesn’t prove he wasn’t here,” Slim said, “what with the ash fall and the rain and all the new riders through here. Let’s trail up the creek.”
They were soon on their way north along the creek, peering into the scrub and the trees along the stream. They stopped every time they came to a likely spot for a recent camp.
They found nothing till they were many miles from town. Here they came across a campfire circle of river stones. They dismounted and searched it carefully, hunched to look at the ground. An empty liquor jug lay on the grass; following a set of drag marks, they found the skeletal remains of an antelope off in the brush. It appeared coyotes had gotten to the carcass and dragged it off;
the bloody rope it’d hung from was still dangling from a tree limb. There were several cigar stubs around the campfire circle, too.
Most convincing were the boot marks of a number of men and the sign of their horses. It was Seth who spotted the hoofprint in the clay beside the creek—the mark of a horseshoe with that distinctive crack.
“Seems like they’ve been gone for a while, all night, at least,” said the marshal, looking at the campfire traces with a professional eye. “Now, I don’t find tracks heading out west, south, or north. . . .”
“That leaves east,” said Seth, grinning. “You see—I can work out a thing or two myself.”
“Most impressive! Come along.”
They led their horses across the creek to the east and found the tracks, partly erased by rain, but enough remained to convince the marshal and Seth that the men had ridden in a group due east and a little south.
About five miles into following the trail, the marshal reined in. “Seth—let’s head back. I think we’ve done what we can today. I can’t go too far from town and . . . Well, I think they’re headed for Buffalo Junction.”
“Don’t know it.”
“It’s said to be a robbers’ roost. A crusty owlhoot name of Feathers Martin runs it at an old farm. Lots of rumors about it, nothing much real clear. It’s a long ways—and I’ll tell you, at least two bounty hunters disappeared, poking round there, and a US deputy marshal, too.”
“Seems like the Army or someone should bust in on it!”
“It’ll happen sometime. But it’s mostly hearsay—and you can’t get a US marshal nor the Cavalry out after hearsay.” He shook his head grimly. “I sure ain’t going out there, with just the two of us. But it’s something to remember. I’ll talk it over with Dawson. Come on. Let’s get back. The day’s getting worn to a nub. . . .”
* * *
* * *
It was well into the evening, and the only saloon in Prairie Fire was already pretty lively. There were several men at the bar, loudly disagreeing about grain prices—one saying they were going down, the others saying they were going up. Two men at the far end argued politics, one condemning the policies of Ulysses S. Grant, one defending them. But the noisiest individual, Sweeney noticed, was Heywood Kelmer.