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

by E. R. Slade

  As they all went back to town, Buck found himself thinking about the wife of the dead homesteader, hoping she’d gotten safely to her train, which in turn set him fuming about Snake Ed again. He made a conscious effort and overcame the desire to immediately go finish off Snake—that could be the best way to finish off any chance of collecting from him.

  Deliberately he decided now was the time to do something more toward playing by town rules.

  ~*~

  Along with the dentist and a horse doctor, the lawyer had an office upstairs over Hastings’ dry goods store. The door stood open and behind a cluttered desk a lean, large man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose was furrowing his brows worriedly at a paper in his hand.

  “You Dirk Thompson?”

  The man looked up, startled, and regarded Buck with the same expression he’d had for whatever was on the paper, only he looked over his glasses rather than through them.

  “Yes, that’s me,” he said, laying down his reading matter. “And you are ...”

  “Buck Maxwell. I just bought Skeetland’s hardware store. But there’s a problem I need your advice on.”

  “I see.” He gestured. “Have a seat.”

  “Mr. Skeetland claimed you are the best lawyer in town,” Buck said, sitting, putting his hat on his knee.

  “Ah, did he now. Mr. Skeetland always was pretty good at putting the highest gloss on the least impressive facts.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, Mr. Maxwell, that I am the best lawyer in town for the simple reason that I am the only lawyer in town. Now what is your difficulty?”

  “I need to know about liens.”

  “Ah,” said Thompson, and stretched back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. The chair creaked ominously as he rocked back and forth. “Liens. You are wondering if the Church Building Committee can really take your store away from you if they want to. The simple answer to that question is, it all depends.”

  “It all depends on what?”

  “We’ll get to that. But first, tell me, have you taken possession of the premises?”

  “I guess you’d call it that.”

  “You have the key?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have locked others out unchallenged?”

  “Nobody’s broke in,” Buck said uncertainly.

  “I mean, the Church Committee has not tried to take possession away from you?”

  “Oh, it looks like they’re going to try, all right.”

  “I don’t mean going to. I mean, have they attempted to physically expel you from the premises as of yet.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then, Mr. Maxwell, we may have a case.”

  “We do?”

  “Indeed we do. We shall say their lien is null and void because it was their responsibility to take possession from Skeetland and not allow you to. And they failed to do that.”

  “But they plan to do it.”

  Thompson lunged forward, planted his fists on the desktop and gave Buck a fierce look. “That’s not the point. They have given up possession. They can’t change their minds now. You have a solid case. But it all depends ...” Thompson sat back again, creaking his chair, fingers laced behind his head once more.

  “Depends on what?”

  “Are you a cattlemen sympathizer or are you siding with the homesteaders?”

  “Neither one. I need to keep the goodwill of both sides.”

  “That’s very noble—but it’ll never work. The thing you need to realize is that it’s cattlemen’s courts in Wyoming. It won’t matter two fleas on a dog’s back what sort of case you’ve got if they think you’re a granger sympathizer. But the same holds in reverse. Even if the case is pretty shaky, if they think you’re with them they’ll see it your way. In other words, I’d suggest you start now convincing the cattlemen you’re backing their point of view. You certainly look the part, and I’ve heard something about you being a foreman on a ranch up north somewhere—is that true?”

  “Yep. But we did things fair and square on Tar Calhoun’s spread. The likes of Snake Ed McFee weren’t welcome. That don’t mean I’m a friend of rustlers or don’t have some opinions of my own about plowing dry grassland sod. But I got to do business with everybody or I’m out of business.”

  “I see your point, but my advice is still to give the cattlemen the idea you’re on their side. Now what is the next move you anticipate from the Church Committee?”

  “I’m going to try to convince them tonight to let me pay back what Skeetland was responsible for as I can afford to. I think it would pay them in the end, since they’ll never get their money out of the place if they take it over and sell it.”

  “Don’t you even think of offering them a deal like that. You don’t owe them a penny. They gave up possession. If you will do as I say, I can very nearly guarantee you your store free and clear unhindered by any lien of the Church Committee. Don’t even show up at that meeting—the cattlemen will read that the wrong way.”

  Buck pulled out the bill of sale, showed Thompson the place where it said he was responsible for the debts and liens. “Don’t that say I got to pay them back?”

  “You’re only responsible for legitimate claims, not illegitimate ones. They’ve given up their rights to this claim, so it no longer need be considered legitimate. The main thing you have to do now is get on the right side of the cattlemen. If you do that you have nothing to fear from the Church Committee.”

  Buck stood up.

  “Obliged for your advice,” he said. “But I don’t do things that way.”

  Chapter Five

  The meeting started promptly at seven o’clock, but it was what they called an executive session and Buck sat in a chair outside Hastings’ office listening to an indistinguishable low rumble of voices for more than half an hour before there was a shifting of chairs, the door opened, and Hastings stood in it, smiling like a doctor about to tell him he had only a month to live.

  “Won’t you come join us?” he said, and Buck, feeling hot already, went in.

  Seven men sat in a semicircle behind Hastings’ ornate desk. Buck took the chair facing them, and Hastings formally put before the meeting a motion to invite Buck to speak. After seconding and a unanimous vote of approval, all eyes were on Buck. He remembered his hat and took it off, stood so he could put it in his chair.

  “If you give me the chance,” he said, “I will pay you back in five years.” On the basis of Skeetland’s books he thought this would be possible—if nothing too drastic happened to his market. He elaborated a little on the reasons why they should accept this offer, as he had done earlier to Hastings. When he finished, he picked up his hat and sat down, feeling very sweaty and uncomfortable.

  There was a pause, and then a scrawny little fellow with big ears and a very arrogant manner demanded, “Who put you up to buying that store in the first place?”

  “Nobody. I saw an advertisement.”

  “Well, who backed you?”

  “I paid for the store with my savings.”

  “You’re not asking us to believe you really had two thousand dollars of your own money to spend, are you?”

  “I saved it up for eighteen years.” Buck stopped himself from adding to that statement.

  “You saved it? Honor bright, now, ain’t you just a cowboy?”

  “I was a ramrod. Not big money, but I saved all I could.”

  “I don’t believe it,” the little man said flatly. “The Stock Growers’ Association has put you up to this, ain’t they?”

  Looks from others challenged him to deny it.

  “I’ve told you the truth,” Buck said, working hard to keep an even temper.

  “I move we take over the store,” the little man said, glaring at Buck. “We don’t need no highhanded big cattlemen sympathizer charging us inflated prices and calling in debts when nobody has the money to pay them. Skeetland was bad enough. But this fellow will be worse. He don’t
even try to hide he was a ramrod for one of them range hogs.”

  Hastings, looking apologetically at Buck, said, “Is that your motion, Gabriel?”

  “I just said it was.”

  “I have Mr. Tole’s motion on the floor. Do I hear more discussion? No?”—looking briefly both ways along the seated men—”Second?”

  “Seconded,” said a man with a long face and very large drooping mustache.

  And without a word in Buck’s favor from Hastings or anybody else, they voted. Only Hastings and one other man voted against the motion. Then Gabriel Tole offered to send his boy for the sheriff.

  Buck stood again.

  “I tried to do this right,” he said. “But you ought to know that I talked to a lawyer and he says I don’t owe you nothing. Told me not to bother coming here tonight.

  “You got it all wrong about me. I don’t bed down with Snake Ed or work for whoever he works for. All I come here to do was live peaceably and try to get along with folks. But if it’s a fight you want, you’ll get one.”

  He strode out, cramming on his Stetson.

  Outside on the board sidewalk he halted, hearing his name called. Hastings came puffing up.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in there. Before you were invited in I tried to convince them, but I’m afraid minds are made up—as I warned you. Nevertheless I do feel bad about all this. Was it Dirk Thompson you talked to?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s often pretty sharp about legal points. But you should understand that such subtleties don’t count for much in Wyoming courts. We have already been in contact with the sheriff and we believe if we ask he will come close the store pending a sale. So, unless you can convince the judge to stop him, you have lost your store as of the arrival of the sheriff. I doubt you can accomplish much with the judge—Dirk Thompson is too much of an Easterner to be to the judge’s liking. I really think you must give it up.”

  “We’ll see who gives up.”

  “Hold on, Mr. Maxwell. What I wanted to talk to you about was coming to work for me. I need another clerk in my dry goods store. And before you refuse, let me just say that it might well lead to better things, if you turn out to be capable. I own several properties besides the dry goods store, and my intention is to expand.”

  “Into the hardware line, perhaps?” said Buck, disgusted with Hastings.

  Hastings looked pleased. “I think you are the man for the job. You see far ahead. If you see far, you will go far, that’s what I always say.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Buck said. “If I ever start lookin’ for a job.”

  ~*~

  On Monday Buck had left his .45 under the counter; when he opened for business Tuesday he wore it. But he also sent for Thompson.

  At about nine, in he walked, looking pleased.

  “I’m glad you didn’t follow my advice,” he said. “I never thought you could alienate almost everybody in town other than the big cattlemen sympathizers by going to a single meeting. If you’re that good you ought to be in my business.” He grinned boyishly, an expression which looked as out of place on his permanently furrowed face as it would have on a fence post.

  “I didn’t know I had,” Buck said, thinking of the furtive way of the sole customer he’d had so far this morning. “I give them my offer. They didn’t take it.” He squinted off across the store a moment. “I don’t plan to walk away.”

  “I see you mean that.” Thompson eyed Buck’s pistol, still looking pleased. “The only thing I’d change is that suit—if you were to get back into your cowboy duds nobody would ever mistake you for a homesteader or a farmer.”

  “I’m a businessman now.” Buck propped his hip against the counter. “What can you do about the county sheriff coming to close my store?”

  “I can try to get the judge to issue an injunction, or at least a restraining order. But old Dudley doesn’t like me very well and it might not work unless he’s convinced you’re on the cattlemen’s side—not just at odds with the newcomers.

  “You’ve got the job half done. Now you have to make another brilliant move and finish it. If you just wait a day or so—maybe it’ll even happen today—I’ll bet the cattlemen will send somebody to see you. In fact I can almost predict who they’ll send. If you handle him as well as you handled the Church Committee I can do the rest very easily. Don’t worry about the sheriff—he won’t appear until the cattlemen have come to see whether you’re with them. Remember, they are getting outnumbered and need all the friends they can find.”

  “I tried to be fair to the Church Committee,” Buck said. “But I’m not likely to make any special effort to get on the right side of anybody would hire a varmint like Snake Ed McFee.”

  “Put your sweaty shirt and muddy trousers back on and you won’t have to,” Thompson said, heading for the door. “Must be nice to have it all come so natural. I’ve got to work at this kind of thing. Let me know when the cattlemen are in your pocket and I’ll do the easy part.”

  ~*~

  Not an hour later in came a square-jawed man wearing muddy riding boots, a faded cotton shirt, and packing a worn-handled Remington six-shooter.

  He stopped three steps inside looking Buck up and down doubtfully. He was chewing tobacco and after a few moments spat on the floor.

  Buck stepped from behind the counter, and when the other saw the pistol on Buck’s hip he paused in his chewing half a second.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Buck said.

  “Well, now, that’s a good question,” the man said in a slow Texas drawl, after scoring a bull’s-eye on a knot in a floorboard with tobacco juice.

  Buck waited.

  “Your name Buck Maxwell?”

  “Yep.”

  “I hear you bought out Skeetland.”

  “Yep.”

  The other spat again. “Know who I am?”

  “Nope.”

  “John Calpet. Ramrod of the Lazy L. Know where that is?”

  “Yep. Sand Creek.”

  Another squirt of tobacco juice hit the floor. “They say you were a ramrod. That so?”

  “Yep. Box TC.” Buck made an effort and continued. “Tar had to quit on account of the big die-up. How’d your outfit do?”

  A cloud passed over Calpet’s expression, and his chewing slowed. “Not too good. Down to about two hundred head, no more. We run as high as five thousand usually. I never see anything like it.”

  “We drove up here from Texas eighteen years ago, one of the first to come.”

  “You come from Texas?” Calpet looked surprised.

  “Not really. Went there from the Comstock after we got done losing our shirts in the gold fields. Thought we’d try our hand as cowboys. Drove a little herd of mavericks up here. Did all right until the weather cleaned us out. So here I am, punching hardware.”

  “Well,” Calpet drawled, looking around at the stock, “I guess somebody’s got to be storekeeper.” He looked up from admiring a Ballard .45-70 rifle he’d taken out of the rack. “We got hard times in the ranchin’ business, no doubt about it. All these here grangers and boys with little bitty claims is makin’ things that much worse. Once them sodbusters turn the ground over you’ve lost it for good. Know what I’m talkin’ about?”

  “Times are changing, and that’s a fact. I got my doubts about some of these farms, but there are some sensible men running quite a few of them—especially small ranches where they aren’t turning any sod.”

  Calpet was sighting the rifle on something at the other end of the store. “Sooner or later they’ll dry up and blow away,” he said. “But by then the damage will be done.” He put the rifle back in the rack and spat again, turned to look speculatively at Buck.

  “The cattle business has got changes ahead, no question,” Buck said. “Hard to say right now how things’ll come out. But I’ve staked this claim and I plan to stay as long as there’s anybody here doing anything.’

  Calpet came closer, put his hands on his hips.
“Looky, Maxwell, I didn’t come here to pass the time of day. You got a problem about a lien, and the Stock Growers’ Association stands ready to help. But there’s some things we want in return. First off, get rid of them plows and harrows and cultivators and all such that you have stocked up here. Stop giving credit to them damned grangers that’s wreckin’ the cattle business. Most of ’em don’t have cash—and ain’t ever likely to. You’d be doing yourself a favor, as well as us. You been here as long as anybody. You know what this country’s like. It’s cattle country, not sodbuster territory. Help us out and we’ll tell the judge and the sheriff to lay off. If we say so, they will.”

  Buck gazed absently down the racks of rifles. Then he shook his head.

  “A good part of my business is farm machinery. And if I was to cut off credit to homesteaders I’d be done. Sorry I can’t oblige.”

  Calpet chewed more briskly, his eyes hardening. Then he spat on Buck’s boot. “You’re a danged fool, Maxwell,” he said.

  Chapter Six

  Buck snapped the Peacemaker out of its holster, checked the load—an automatic reaction he was hardly aware of.

  He could tell Thompson the outcome of Calpet’s visit, but Thompson had already said he couldn’t do anything with a result like this.

  The lay of the land was clear enough.

  There were three ways to go: convince the Church Committee to reverse themselves—and he’d have to do it over the barrel of his .45; put more pressure on Snake Ed in hopes of getting the money back—more likely to result in a gunfight than money; shoot it out with the sheriff—a good way to start a war.

  He wasn’t going to be much liked in town no matter what he did.

  So far he hadn’t had but the one furtive customer who bought a hammer, and it was nearly noon.

  He went and looked gloomily out into the street. Snake Ed was probably drinking Wyoming Hardware money right now.

  Out came the Colt again for another automatic check of the load—but the ritual was cut short: something was fluttering gaily to the right down the street.

  A hat ribbon. The girl, riding on the seat of a farm wagon, held onto both her hat and her dress against the gusts of wind. An older woman sat on one side of her and the driver, a big, solid, ham-handed fellow, on the other. He pulled the wagon to the hitch rail in front of the store and helped the two women down, held the door open for them.