“He’s been linin’ his pockets, has he?”
“It’s those hens Shelton brought in. Every game-cock for a hundred miles has to come and stroke their feathers. Some lose their gumption and content themselves with buying the ladies drinks and sniffing their lilac water.” The stableman chortled. “It’s downright pitiful what we’ll stoop to where women are concerned.”
“Thanks.” Randy took that as a personal slight.
“I didn’t mean you, for God’s sake. I admire how you handled the situation. Being bucked like that for a flashy no-account must have stung considerable.”
“We were talkin’ gossip.”
“That we were.” Old Man Taylor gestured toward the blacksmith shop. “Svenson nearly got into a fight with one of the new crowd. A mouthy maggot by the name of Dingus Mechum wanted his horse shoed but wouldn’t pay full price. Mechum had a hand on his six-shooter and Svenson was holding that big sledge of his when Marshal Lunsford happened by and broke it up.”
“Anything else?”
“Seth Jackson was in here a week ago and damn near drank himself under the table. First time he’s ever done that, to the best of my recollection.”
Randy made a mental note to tell Lin when he got back. “That’s surprisin’.”
“Not nearly as much as who Seth was drinking with. Jack Shelton.”
Another tidbit for Randy to relay. “Well, I reckon I’d better leave you to your carvin’.”
“There’s one thing yet might interest you,” Old Man Taylor said.
When it was not immediately forthcoming, Randy said, “Are you waitin’ for winter?”
“No. I’m watching the Renfro woman cross the street.”
Randy saw her, and snickered. “You need spectacles. Her backside is as broad as a barn.”
“Some of us like barns.” Old Man Taylor watched until Mrs. Renfro went into the barbershop. “Any way, I see a lot sitting here. I know the comings and goings and habits of everyone. I know, for instance, that Agnes Wilson sweeps the boardwalk in front of the restaurant each morning promptly at six. I know that Dub empties the spittoons at seven. That Lafferty has a weak bladder and makes ten trips to the outhouse a day.”
“I needed to know that?”
“What you need to know is that day after day, week after week, I saw Billy Braden strut across the street to visit the Palmers. He never missed a day until a couple of months go. Then he stopped.”
“So it’s true,” Randy said, hope flaring anew. “You’re sure he hasn’t been going over lately?”
“Not unless he’s doing it in the middle of the night when I’m sawing logs,” Old Man Taylor said. “And here’s another nugget. I haven’t seen Sally Palmer in weeks.”
Randy thought his heart stopped. “She’s left town?”
“No, you infant. She never steps foot outside anymore. I used to see her taking walks and shaking out rugs and the like, but she’s become a hermit.”
“That’s mighty strange.”
Old Man Taylor picked up his folding knife and the block of wood. “I’m plumb talked out. Visiting with you is a trial for my ears. So scat.”
Grinning, Randy wheeled his horse and rode to the general store. His grin quickly died. He almost went past the hitch rail, but reined up and alighted.
George Palmer was totaling a customer’s purchase. Helen Palmer was showing a bolt of cloth to Svenson’s wife, Greta. Other people were browsing.
Squaring his shoulder, Randy looked straight ahead and walked to the shelf lined with canned goods. His jingling spurs gave him away, and to his immense consternation, Helen Palmer squealed and flew toward him like a hummingbird toward a feeder. He was even more bewildered when she wrapped her arms around him as if he were her long-lost kin.
“Randall! How great to see you again! Let me look at you.” Helen stepped back. “Why, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Folks generally don’t at my age,” Randy mumbled for lack of anything better to say.
The next moment George Palmer was there, pumping Randy’s hand and clapping him on the shoulders.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, son. You stayed away entirely too long.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Randy said, and their smiles froze on their faces.
“Well, yes, there’s that.” George coughed and frowned. “Things happen. But the important thing is that you’re here.”
“I want to buy a can of peaches.”
“Peaches. Sure.” George selected a can and plopped it on the counter. “Our treat. How would that be?”
Randy produced his money. “I pay my own way, thanks.” Flustered by their antics, he took the can and turned to go, then remembered why he was there.
“Surely you’re not leaving already?” Helen Palmer saved him. “Sally will be heartbroken if she finds out you stopped by and didn’t say hello.”
“Go on back,” George urged. “Stay as long as you want.”
There was something about the way they stared that sent a ripple of unease down Randy’s spine. “Thanks,” he said. His courage nearly failed him as he walked down the hall. But he had made up his mind to see it through, and that’s what he would do.
The living room was dark as night. The curtains had been drawn and none of the lamps were lit. A familiar silhouette filled a chair by the mantel. Her head was bowed, the luster of her golden tresses dulled by the gloom.
“Sally?” Randy said, taking off his hat.
Sally’s head snapped up and she started to rise but then she just as quickly sank back down. In a small, trembling voice, she said, “Randy? Is it really you?”
“As real as I get.” Randy moved toward a lamp. “Why don’t I light one of these so we can see each other?”
“No!” Sally’s shout was more like a scream. “Please! My eyes have been bothering me. I’d rather it stay like it is.”
“Whatever you want.” Randy moved closer. “Have you been to the doctor in Beaver City? How bad are they?”
“They’ll be fine. It’s nothing to fret about.”
Randy longed to see her face. “How have you been otherwise?”
“I can’t complain.”
“How are things with him?” Randy had to find out. The suspense was tearing him apart.
“It didn’t work out,” Sally said in a subdued tone. “He and I have gone our separate ways.”
Randy almost said, “I’m sorry to hear that,” but caught himself. “I think of you now and then,” he told her, and wanted to kick himself. He thought of her all the time.
“And I think of you. Of how I wronged you.”
“You didn’t—” Randy began.
“Don’t!” Sally interrupted. “Let’s not sugarcoat it. What I did to you was terrible. Completely and utterly unforgivable. For what it’s worth, I’m deeply, sincerely sorry.”
Her words pumped new life through Randy’s veins. He took another step and reached out to touch her.
“That’s close enough.”
Randy honored her request even though he yearned to take her into his arms. “How about if I sit on the sofa and we talk a spell?” Taking it for granted she would agree, he moved toward it.
“No.”
“Then how about we go eat at the restaurant later today?”
“I can’t.”
“Maybe you’d like a buggy ride,” Randy desperately suggested. As he recollected, she adored buggy rides.
“I can’t do that, either. I’m sorry. It’s best if we don’t see each other ever again.”
“Oh.” Randy twisted his hat into a knot. “I thought maybe—”
“You thought wrong.”
Randy spun and got out of there. His worst fear had come true. She called his name but he had made a big enough fool of himself. A red haze filled his vision, and he was through the store and out in the street before his mind caught up with his legs.
“Randall?” Helen Palmer called.
Unwrapping the reins, Randy stepped into the
stirrups. His neck felt hot and he couldn’t wait to get back to the Circle C. Whatever Sally and him had was gone for good. It was about time he accepted the fact. A jab of his spurs, and off he rode.
He only looked back once.
Chapter Seventeen
Marshal Paul Lunsford started the day with five cups of piping hot black coffee. He shaved, used the washbasin, and combed his hair. Taking the broom from the corner, he swept out his office and opened the window to air out the liquor smell. He had cleaned his white hat and black suit the day before. After he dressed, he went to the gun cabinet. His scattergun was dusty from disuse. He cleaned it, then opened the top desk drawer and took out a box of shells. A handful went into his vest. Two more went into the scattergun.
It was early morning and Nowhere lay quiet. Store owners were opening up and Svenson was firing up his forge.
Lunsford saw Old Man Taylor come out of the stable and sit in his rocking chair. The scattergun in the crook of his left arm, he walked over. “Morning.”
Taylor was eyeing his suit. “Is it Sunday and I’ve lost track?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh. That’s right. We don’t have a church.”
“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to spruce up,” Marshal Lunsford said.
“Has an elderly widow moved to town? Or a pretty spinster maybe?” Taylor pretended not to hear. “You could walk down the aisle in duds like that.”
“I need a favor.”
“So long as it doesn’t involve lending money, I’m all ears.” Taylor groped in a pocket for his folding knife and opened it.
“I want you to keep me informed on the comings and goings of Black Jack Shelton and his crowd.”
Old Man Taylor took a plug of tobacco from his breast pocket, offered it to the marshal, and when Lunsford shook his head, Taylor bit off a piece and chewed a while before asking, “What are you up to, Paul?”
“My job.”
“Ever hear of going up against a stacked deck?”
“I have my equalizer.” Lunsford patted the scattergun.
“You don’t have eyes in the back of your head. And unless you’ve forgotten how to count, there are a lot more chicken hawks than one rooster can deal with.”
“Will you or won’t you?”
Taylor shrugged. “I do it anyway.”
“Thanks.” Marshal Lunsford went up the the street to the saloon. It, too, was uncommonly quiet. Dub Wheeton was drying off the bar and the Renfro boy was sweeping. Only one table was occupied, by the very man Lunsford wanted to see. He walked over and said without preliminaries, “I want you to leave town.”
Black Jack Shelton looked like he had just woke up. His hat was pushed back on his head and his eyes were half open and he was starting his day with a glass of whiskey. He woke up fast, though, and set down the glass. “I must be hearin’ things.”
“Leave by noon,” Lunsford said. “You and all your vultures.”
“Well, now. This is interestin’. You didn’t drink all your backbone away like I figured.” Black Jack pushed a chair with his foot. “Have a seat. Let’s talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” But Marshal Lunsford sat. He placed the scattergun across his lap and molded his left hand to the hammers and the triggers.
“Nice cannon you’ve got there. Ben Towers favors a cannon, too, only his is longer.” Black Jack grinned. “Care for a drink? On me?”
“All I want is you and your kind gone from my town.”
“When you bite into a chunk of meat, you don’t let go,” Black Jack said. “Did I break some law? Or did one of my boys get out of line?”
“I know who you are.”
Black Jack did not act surprised. He tilted his chair back. “You’re definitely not the walkin’ whiskey vat some claimed. How long have you known?”
“Since the day you showed up.”
“And you waited all this time to put on your Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes and march in here and pretend that badge means something?” Black Jack’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement.
“So long as you behaved, I couldn’t do anything. Texas and Kansas and Oklahoma Territory statutes don’t apply here.”
“Then what’s changed?”
“I found out about the Bradshaws.”
“Who?”
Lunsford would swear the outlaw didn’t know. His brow knitting, he said, “Farmers. A man and his wife on their way from Wichita to Amarillo in a covered wagon. They disappeared.”
“Ah. And you think I had something to do with it?” Black Jack shook his hairy head. “I didn’t.”
The lines on Marshal Lunsford’s forehead deepened. “You sold a Conestoga to George Palmer.”
“That I did.”
“That wagon belonged to the Bradshaws. I’ve been in touch with their brother. He described some of their belongings, and they match what you sold to George Palmer.”
“The Conestoga wasn’t mine. I admit it.”
“You do?”
“But I had nothin’ to do with what happened to the Bradshaws. They were dead long before I laid claim to their effects.”
Lunsford was a fair judge of when someone was telling the truth and when they were lying, and damned if he didn’t think Black Jack was telling the truth. “What happened to them, then?”
“You’d have to ask them and right about now their bones are bleachin’ white out on the wasteland.”
“Whether you killed them or not isn’t the issue anyway,” the lawman said. “I still want you out of town.”
“No.”
Marshal Lunsford shifted the scattergun so the twin muzzles were pointed squarely at Black Jack’s barrel chest. “It’s not like you have a choice.”
“On the contrary.” Black Jack was smug as ever. “I have all kinds of choices. Three of them are behind you.”
Slowly twisting, Marshal Lunsford saw Ike Longley, Ben Towers and Clell Craven. They had spread out to have clear shots and make it that much harder for him to slip past them.
“I have sixteen choices in all,” Black Jack boasted. “Each one a trigger waitin’ to be squeezed.”
“That was a threat.”
Black Jack lowered the front of his chair to the floor. “I’m not that childish, Marshal. I never bluster. I just say how things are.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then said, “How about if I explain how things are with you?”
“I’m listening,” Marshal Lunsford said. He couldn’t keep an eye on Black Jack and the three killers at the same time so he concentrated on Black Jack.
“You want to throw a noose around my neck for the Bradshaws but for once I’m innocent. And the hell of it is, you believe me.”
“If it wasn’t you, then it was one of your curly wolves.”
Black Jack shrugged. “I won’t do your job for you. As for me, unless I step out of line here in Nowhere, there’s not a damn thing you can do. You said it yourself. Laws elsewhere don’t apply.”
Marshal Lunsford couldn’t hide his anger. “I’ll find something.”
“You’re welcome to try.” Black Jack laughed. “And when you do, put on those pretty clothes of yours and bring your cannon and look me up. I won’t be hard to find. Neither will they.” He motioned toward Longley and the others.
“You think you have it all worked out,” Marshal Lunsford said as he stood. “But life has a way of tripping us up.”
Black Jack raised his glass in sham salute. “Come again soon, you hear? Later in the day when the girls are workin’. I’ll fix you up with one. Being as you’re a cripple, we’ll let you ride her for half price.”
Their laughter followed Marshal Lunsford out. Fury rendered him blind to his surroundings and he collided with Dingus Mechum, who was on his way in.
“Watch where you’re going, you gob of spit!” Dingus bawled. “I don’t care if you are wearin’ a badge. It doesn’t give you the right to knock people over.”
Any other time, Lunsford would have let it go. Not today. He rammed the scat
tergun’s barrels into the pit of Dingus’s stomach, and when Mechum doubled over, clipped him across the back of the head with the stock. The scrawny cutthroat wound up on his hands and knees, sputtering for breath. “Insult me again and you lose teeth.”
For a few glorious moments Lunsford was twenty years old again. He was young and healthy and in his prime. Back before Gettysburg. Back when he was a whole man instead of a shattered replica. Back when he never took guff off of anyone.
People were staring but Lunsford didn’t care. Let them jabber behind his back, he thought. Let them wonder if he was worthy of wearing the symbol of their trust. He would show them all.
Old Man Taylor hadn’t moved from his rocking chair. “This day is starting out right entertaining. But from now on I wouldn’t turn my back to that weasel, were I you.”
“Saddle my horse for me.”
“You’re leaving town? I can’t recall the last time you did that. Must be a special occasion. Mind saying why?”
“Yes.” Marshal Lunsford hurried to the jail before he changed his mind and packed his saddlebags and rolled up his blankets into a bedroll. His roan was waiting when he came out. One-handed, he threw his saddlebags on and shoved the scattergun into his bedroll. Taylor stepped forward to help him mount but he shook his head. “I’m not an invalid yet.”
“What do we do if there’s trouble while you’re gone?”
“Hide.”
“Seriously,” Old Man Taylor said. “Suppose someone is shot?”
“Bury them.” Lunsford reined to the north.
“You should appoint a deputy. It isn’t right for the town to be unprotected. Not with that wild bunch in our midst.”
“I appoint you,” Marshal Lunsford said in jest. “Until I get back, keeping the peace is your job.”
“Me? I’ve never packed a gun. Pick Svenson. He’s big and strong. Or Lafferty. He was a soldier in the war, wasn’t he? Paul? Paul?”
Lunsford wasn’t listening. He wanted to be shed of Nowhere, wanted to breathe air not fouled by the stink. For half a mile he rode at a trot, then slowed to spare the roan. It had been ages since he was in the saddle and he had forgotten how good it felt; the rolling gait of a good horse under him, the wind and the sun on his face, the feeling that he was master of his life’s direction.
Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX Page 13