Wyoming Hardware (An E. R. Slade Western Book 3)

by E. R. Slade

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Buck Maxwell buys a hardware store with his life savings and finds he also owns a $9830 debt to a church building committee, money which had been in the care of the previous owner, and been stolen by Snake Ed McFee. Buck was ramrod of a spread in Bighorn country until the big die-up finished off the outfit, and he is used to dealing with problems the direct way. But now it’s town rules, and the more he tries to go by them, the more things go wrong—and people die. In the end Buck lines up a row of coffins in front of his store and starts filling them.

  WYOMING HARDWARE

  By E. R. Slade

  Copyright © 1995, 2015 by Bruce Clark

  First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Edward Martin

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Chapter One

  Somebody fired a pistol, once, in the little town of High Plains, just ahead. Buck Maxwell drew rein, his left hand going automatically to the leather bag in the pocket of his painted-canvas overcoat—his life savings.

  After a brief pause surveying the double row of false fronts, an amount of civilization he hadn’t seen for many miles in his ride down out of the Bighorn Mountains, he switched the reins to his left hand and nudged his tired cow pony ahead, right hand now hanging handy to his Colt .45.

  He reached the churned spring mud of High Plains’ only street without hearing any further shooting. The town was curiously empty of people, though a number of wagons and horses stood idle at hitch rails. About fifty yards along, a man lay face down in the mud, a woman bent over him, sobbing. As he pulled up a few feet from them and dismounted, Buck kept an eye on another man standing just outside the batwings of the Bucket of Blood Saloon.

  “Is he hurt?” Buck asked the woman.

  She looked up, her careworn face tear streaked. “He’s dead,” she said.

  Buck squatted to feel for a pulse while she stood up uncertainly, skirts dripping mud. Then unexpectedly she whirled with sudden vengeance.

  “He did it!” she spat out, as though an oath. “Snake Ed McFee.” She glared through her grief at the man standing by the batwings, who regarded her as though she were something in the pit of an outhouse.

  Then his eyes shifted to Buck, and he grinned mirthlessly. “Rustler,” he said. “Country’s plumb full of ’em.” He adjusted his clean new Stetson, turned, and disappeared into the saloon.

  “I heard the shot,” Buck said. “You’re right he’s dead.” Buck rolled the body to look under. Blood, but no gun. No weapon of any kind.

  “My husband wasn’t a rustler,” the woman said fiercely. “That’s just a plain flat-out lie.”

  “Where’s the marshal?” Buck asked, standing again to look around. People were appearing on the street but studiously avoiding notice of the dead man or his wife.

  “Marshal!” The bitterness in her voice almost strangled the word.

  “Ain’t any?” Buck inquired. “I see the office.”

  “Oh, there’s a marshal, all right,” she said, going from bitter to tired. She looked him defiantly in the eye. “Cattlemen’s marshal.” She seemed braced to fight Buck about it if need be, though her lower lip was quivering a little. When Buck failed to react, she appeared to relax slightly and went on: “Thaddeus Olinger, his name is. He never does anything when settlers are murdered. To him, all the farmers and homesteaders are rustlers, and anybody who shoots one is doing the world a favor. Snake Ed does what he wants, kills anybody he feels like killing, and Olinger does nothing except have a drink with him afterwards. That’s where you’ll find Olinger. In the saloon having a drink with Snake Ed. Gordon and me, we only moved here a few months ago ...” Her voice broke. She looked down at her husband’s body half sunk in the mud, and her hands began to work at her dress.

  Buck rubbed his jaw. There was still only one thing to do. “I’ll get the marshal anyway,” he said. “Your husband warn’t armed, so far as I can see.”

  “He never carried a gun, unless he was going hunting.” She sobbed quietly, sinking down again beside the body to cradle the lifeless head in her arms.

  The woman was right about where Olinger was. Buck crossed the saloon’s sawdust-covered floor, less noting the pretensions of the place—mahogany bar, reclining nude on the wall behind, brass spittoons—than the company Olinger kept. In addition to Snake Ed McFee there were a couple of fancy-booted, soft-handed patrons who glanced around at Buck sardonically. Texas gunslingers, Buck guessed.

  Everybody watched as he crossed to the marshal.

  “You Olinger?” Buck asked mildly.

  “That’s right, stranger.” Olinger gave him a sizing up with unintelligent little eyes.

  “Know there’s a man laying dead in the street?”

  “Man?”

  “Laying dead.”

  “A man, you say? Show me.”

  Buck went to the batwings with the marshal, hearing the beginnings of guffawing behind them. Buck pointed. The woman was just getting up, looking around as though trying to decide what to do next.

  “What, him?” said the marshal. “Mister, you must not ‘a’ looked close. That ain’t no man, it’s just one of them rustlin’ grangers. Varmint.”

  A roar of laughter went up in the saloon.

  Buck turned around and looked coldly at them, eye to eye, one after the other, deliberately, until the laughter subsided.

  “Friends,” Buck said, “I was ramrod of the Box TC up in Bighorn country for eighteen years, until the big die-up finished off the outfit. I’m no friend of rustlers. But I’ve never found it necessary to shoot an unarmed man, be he rustler, horse thief, or anybody else.”

  Leaving silence behind, he pushed through the batwings into the street before his temper got the better of his good sense.

  ~*~

  Buck saw to his horse at the livery, glad of a few minutes’ familiar routine to get his mind off the shooting. Since he knew absolutely nothing of any of the people involved, had no idea whether the dead man was a rustler or not, and had not even seen the shooting itself, it plainly wasn’t up to him to pass too many judgments.

  By the time he left the livery, the body had been removed from the street and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Buck found a barbershop, had a shave, took a bath, got something eat, and then, fingering the leather sack of money in his pocket, went out to read the names on the false fronts, the purpose which had brought him to High Plains uppermost in his mind once again.

  There it was: WYOMING HARDWARE, E. Skeetland, Prop. He stood across the street from it and scrutinized the place with care. Sizable building, located in the middle of town, large display window full of shovels, post-hole diggers, axes, etc.; quite a stock of plows, harrows, cultivators, reapers, and other farm machinery arrayed in an empty lot to the side. The establishment was located between the Eldorado Saloon and a cooper’s shop. So far, so good.

  Buck crossed the street and went in. The store was full of all sorts of hardware, from rifles to barn door hangers, plus a random sampling of other things such as clothing and tableware
. Plenty of stock, but no customers—at least at the moment.

  A short man with quick eyes and no smile stepped into view from a doorway behind the counter. He looked a bit nervous.

  “Help you?” he asked, eyes flitting to the door briefly before coming back to dance all over Buck.

  “You Skeetland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Buck Maxwell. Did you get my letter?”

  The man’s demeanor changed perceptibly, but it was hard to say just how, since he was still smileless and his eyes kept flitting just as nervously. “How are you, Mr. Maxwell? Yes, I did get your letter. I’ve been looking for you. How was your ride down from the mountains? Spring is only just getting here. Must not be up there yet, eh? As you can see, this is a well-stocked store. Maybe it doesn’t look very busy. Don’t let that fool you. The farmers take their wives home when Snake Ed starts shooting. But once he’s shot somebody he’s usually safe to be around for a few weeks at least. The farmers will be in town again tomorrow, and business will be brisk. Except for Snake Ed this is a prime location, what with all the homesteading going on. And of course the ranchers buy a lot here, too.”

  “Just how much business do you do in a year?”

  “Why don’t you look for yourself? —I have the books right under the counter.”

  For over an hour Buck studied ledgers, most of the time alone in the store because Skeetland said he needed to do some errands. The more he read the more he wondered why the man was willing to sell out so cheap.

  When Skeetland returned, Buck said, “Looks pretty good,” making it noncommittal. “Why are you selling?”

  “Wife is sick. Back East. Doctor says she’s dying. She was going to come out here once I got the business established, but now I’ve got to go back to her. I can’t afford to wait around too long for a buyer because she might die before I get there.”

  Buck nodded. The store certainly didn’t look rundown. The wooden floor was worn enough to prove that many feet had traveled it. He had noticed very little dust on the inventory. It could well be that business had dropped off recently because of Snake Ed, and possibly the books had been doctored not to show it. Also, with ranching ruined by the big die-up, you couldn’t figure on doing much with the cattlemen for the foreseeable future. But they obviously weren’t the backbone of Skeetland’s business anyway. It was the homesteaders and the small-time ranchers who kept him going. Judging by Skeetland’s books, not all of them were penniless out-of-work cowpokes, either.

  This store appeared to be just what he’d been hoping for: a good way to capitalize on the new lay of the land, and available at a bargain price. So much of a bargain, in fact, that it was unlikely he’d find a better buy anywhere else in the Territory.

  “I have a deed all ready to sign over,” Skeetland said. “When I got your letter, I went to Dirk Thompson—that’s the best lawyer in town—and had him write it up along with a bill of sale. It’s a good deed, as you can check on yourself.” Skeetland handed Buck these papers and Buck read them over. They looked all right to him, but he was no expert on deeds.

  “Mind if I have a lawyer look at these?”

  “Not a bit. Go right ahead.” Skeetland put a fist to his mouth, coughed, cleared his throat, and his eyes didn’t meet Buck’s. “But seeing that you’ve come a long way, I, er, hum ... I ought to be fair and tell you that a few days ago a man arrived from Cheyenne—I advertised the business there, you see—and it looks like he wants to buy the store. He’s been doing some checking, asking people what they know, I suppose. Anyway, this morning he was in here saying that he would return after lunch to do the paperwork. I haven’t seen him yet. Maybe he won’t come. But I thought you should know. I have quoted him the same price, and I don’t care who gets the place. To me it’s first come, first serve. I want to leave for New York as soon as possible.”

  Buck could see his opportunity slipping away. But still he needed to be careful and thorough.

  “What time did he say he would come?” he asked Skeetland.

  “He didn’t, but ... wait a minute, I think that’s him now ...” And as a heavyset man in broadcloth came purposefully through the door, Skeetland added quickly, “It is,” and stepped forward to greet him.

  Buck still had the papers in hand. After considering a moment, he set them deliberately on the counter, resisting the temptation to simply sign and deal the other fellow out.

  “Mr. Denton,” Skeetland was saying, stepping from one foot to the other, “this is Mr. Maxwell, who also, er, hum, is interested in buying the store. He just arrived today.”

  Denton took the cigar out of his mouth, frowning suddenly. “What’s this, Skeetland, some sort of trick to jack the price up at the last minute?” He jabbed the cigar back into the exact center of his mouth and looked at Buck like a bull getting ready to charge.

  “Not at all, not at all,” Skeetland said placatingly. “The price remains exactly the same. Two thousand dollars, even. In cash, because I must leave as soon as I can to get to my wife. It’s only a matter of signing the papers. Is that,” he asked Denton, but with an anxious look at Buck, “what you are here to do?”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Denton said briskly.

  “And you have the money with you?” Buck asked casually.

  For answer, Denton hauled a stout cloth sack from under his coat and set it with a thump on the counter. He pulled the paperwork toward him, puffing his cigar contentedly.

  “Better count it,” Buck suggested to Skeetland.

  Skeetland scurried around behind the counter, as though for cover, and from relative safety pulled the sack of coins to him. He began counting twenty-dollar gold pieces. Denton was reading, still puffing his cigar, pen poised.

  Then the pen descended toward the paper.

  Buck saw his plans for the future slipping away and reacted.

  “I’d give you twenty-one hundred,” Buck said, and Denton momentarily froze.

  “You would?” Skeetland said, as though he didn’t know what to do about the offer.

  Denton fixed Skeetland with a glare. “I thought we had an agreement,” he said menacingly.

  “Well, naturally, I ...” Skeetland began temporizing, eyes darting everywhere.

  “You slippery little pip-squeak,” Denton said. “You have brought this fellow in just to jack the price up. Well, Skeetland, I won’t stand for it.” Denton threw down the pen, picked up his money, stalked for the door. Just before going out, he stopped, turned. “They said you built this business on sharp trading. Clever, you are, I’ll give you that. Come and get me when you’ve paid off your cowboy crony here and are ready to sign for two thousand.” And out he went.

  Skeetland blew out his cheeks in a long breath, shook his head. “He’s been like that right along.” He thought a moment, then turned earnest. “Listen, Mr. Maxwell, I don’t want to get into a lot of protracted negotiations. Every minute that goes by I’m thinking of my wife dying. I know you want to see a lawyer and all that, and you should want to. But if you’re not here and he comes in again I’m going to sell him the store. I’ve just got to have done with this and leave. So if you want it, now’s your chance. And to show you my heart’s in the right place you can have it for the same two thousand he’s willing to pay. I tell you, I just want to get to my poor wife before she dies.”

  Buck took in a long breath, let it out, fingered the little sack nestling heavily in his pocket. It represented eighteen years of hard work and scrimping. He had always planned to buy a ranch one day, but after the big die-up things had looked different. When he heard about this store for sale at so reasonable a price, the best way to invest his savings seemed plain. Now, if he didn’t act the opportunity would be gone.

  Skeetland was waiting in obvious anxiety for his reply. Buck was used to reading men, had always prided himself on choosing the right man for whatever job was at hand. But those were men whose motives he understood, men who worked cattle and had simple, direct ways, however crude. Sk
eetland and Denton were another type and Buck didn’t know how to read them at all.

  He looked over the deed and the bill of sale again, going slowly through the terms. They seemed clear enough: in exchange for two thousand dollars cash he took over the store, all the stock both on hand and ordered, all the money owed to the store, and assumed all the debts, liens, taxes, liabilities, etc. The deed described the place quite plainly. The books he’d just been over looked authentic and showed a rough balance of money due and owed, nothing remarkable or obviously questionable.

  Well, he wanted a store, and here was a pretty certain bargain.

  “Let’s have that pen,” Buck said.

  ~*~

  Skeetland had made a big point of wanting to leave for New York as soon as possible, and it appeared he really meant it: he rode out of town within the hour. Buck paid little attention, being so gratified by the discovery that the inventory of guns and knives—things always in demand—was almost equal to his total investment in the place. And they were only a small part of the stock. It was hard to see how he could lose.

  Half an hour after Skeetland had left, the bell over the door jangled and Buck stepped briskly out of the office to greet his first customer.

  The middle-aged man in a well-worn business suit stopped when he saw Buck behind the counter, his eyebrows going up.

  “Where’s Skeetland?” he asked.

  “Skeetland’s gone. I’m the new owner. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “What? What do you mean, new owner? Skeetland can’t do that.”

  “Well, he has, and is on his way to New York.”

  “New York! When did he leave?”

  “About two. If you was lookin’ to buy the store ...”

  “You don’t understand,” the man interrupted impatiently, “the store wasn’t Skeetland’s to sell.”

  Chapter Two

  “I paid Skeetland what he asked and he signed the deed over to me,” Buck said. He pulled it from his pocket. “Skeetland’s name is over the door and on the deed. You’re telling me he warn’t the owner?”