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

by E. R. Slade

  “I have, thanks. Dunderland needs a couple of days, he says. Is that all right?”

  “I understand,” she said. She cleared her throat, looked off toward the corrals. “Come in and have some coffee.”

  She wanted somebody to talk to.

  Sitting in her kitchen, surrounded by the smell of coffee and baking bread, watching as she stirred the pot of beef stew simmering on the back of the stove, Buck came more and more to himself.

  “It does help to keep busy,” he said, thinking it was up to him to say something.

  “Those men will be hungry when they get back.” She poured coffee and sat down. Her two little girls came to stand close to her and stare at Buck.

  “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

  “You’re already doing it. Mack said if you ever quit the whole town might as well fold.”

  “Not everyone looks at it that way,” he said carefully. “After last night ...”

  “Last night? Don’t you stop because they killed Mack! Don’t you even think of it. If you quit now, Mack died for nothin’. He wouldn’t have quit, if it was you.”

  “I don’t suppose he would,” he said uncertainly, reliving the tightening of the rope around his neck.

  “You bet he wouldn’t. And neither would I.”

  “There’s people think it’s a lost cause.”

  “It ain’t lost if you don’t quit,” she said.

  “I’m getting a lot of good men killed.”

  “You’re trying to make this place safe for good men. You can’t stop because some people won’t take responsibility for themselves.”

  ~*~

  People were beginning to arrive for the funerals. They bristled with firearms, but mostly just old shotguns or derelict single-shot Army rifles.

  “One of Calpet’s Texans could handle the whole crowd,” Buck muttered as he looked out his store window at them.

  With nervous hands he double-checked the load in his pistol and Winchester. The panic was setting in again. He wanted to do anything but go outside.

  He saw the Parkers arrive. Parker had the new Winchester propped against his leg as he drove.

  “Got to get out there,” Buck said, but walked away from the door.

  The next time he looked he saw that Dunderland had already loaded the first of the coffins into his hearse and was climbing up to take the reins. Buck saw Mary Ellen looking toward the store.

  It was time.

  Buck fingered his rifle with sweaty hands. He was without options.

  So, out he went, stopping just outside the door to look carefully for any sign of Snake Ed or the Texans—saw none.

  There came a quivering deep inside him which affected his heart, weakened his legs. He glanced down at his Winchester, saw his knuckles were white from the grip he had on it. Trying to relax, he wiped first one hand and then the other on his pant leg, flexed his fingers, knowing he was so useless in this condition that he might as well have left his guns in the store.

  “Are you all right?” Mary Ellen asked, when he joined them.

  “We heard they got Mack Payson,” her father said. “That true?”

  “Yep,” he managed to say.

  “They lynch him?”

  “Shot him.”

  The quivering inside was growing. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to make it through all these funerals.

  “They must have got him before he made any stops,” Parker was saying. “I ain’t heard of a soul who saw him. Did you get the guns back?”

  “Hush,” Mrs. Parker said. “The hearse is pulling out.”

  There were so many people they walked in the street as well as on the sidewalk. The procession made it out of town without any dogs or hogs appearing, nor any small boys throwing rocks. Nor any Texans planning a show.

  The first funeral went off without a hitch. When Dunderland went to get the next body Buck thought about going back for his heavier coat. But people would notice and wonder, and maybe no coat would be warm enough to dispel the chill he felt.

  Mary Ellen, standing close beside him, leaned near and asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

  He shook his head, murmured, “Thanks,” trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

  By the end of the next funeral, he seemed to have recovered somewhat and was looking more carefully at this collection of farmers and settlers.

  Some of them were plainly ex-cowboys, some looked like recent arrivals from back East, some hard to place. But they were all men who were trying to build an independent future for themselves and give their wives and children a better life than they’d had where they’d come from.

  Some of them might be on claims that wouldn’t support what they hoped to do, and some might not have what it took to make a success of themselves out here. Most didn’t understand the point of view of the big cattlemen at all and weren’t capable of any sympathy for the men who had come here to tame a land full of Indians and pure wildness. They would always see them only as range hogs rather than strong men of vision.

  These people standing here in a huddled group in a poor little graveyard on a barren hill were not perfect. But they deserved their chance. Their dreams were no less important for being on a smaller scale.

  The more he watched the children hanging onto their mother’s hands, asking whispered questions, looking around in curious awe at the grim and grieving faces, or being held tightly to some frightened mother’s side, the more his anger began to come back. Why should these people be driven out by the likes of Snake Ed McFee and a bunch of hired guns from Texas?

  Yet Martha Parker had been right: it was irresponsible to ask men who weren’t seasoned gunfighters to face highly skilled professionals. Especially now when he couldn’t arm these men properly.

  He looked over at Beth Payson, standing straight and determined. “You can’t stop because some people won’t take responsibility for themselves,” she’d said. That had been her husband’s attitude, and until now it had been his own. But that attitude didn’t fit the situation.

  The long series of services finally ended. Everybody headed for town. Mary Ellen walked beside him, and something about her made him reach for her hand. She looked at him, flushing slightly, and held on firmly for some seconds. Then, gently, she pulled her hand away, blinking rapidly at the distant mountains. Buck’s quivering came back.

  “I need to see the harness maker about a new collar for Nellie,” Parker said as they neared the wagon. “Maybe you and Mary Ellen ought to wait in Buck’s store, Mother.”

  “I will not,” she said, as though shocked at the very idea.

  “I’ll be a few minutes at least,” Parker said. “You’ll be safer. I’ll come right by the door to pick you up.”

  “I don’t see why this couldn’t wait,” Mrs. Parker said. “Of all the unwise times to worry about harness work.”

  “Mother, it’s got to be done. Nellie’s getting sores and there’s a lot of work to do. Every day that goes by makes it worse for her. If I do this today we have other folks to ride home with for safety. Otherwise I’ll have to come to town alone.”

  “Well then, let us get about it. But we shall stay with you.”

  “Mama, I would like to stay in Mr. Maxwell’s store,” said Mary Ellen.

  Mrs. Parker gave Buck a cold look. “It will mean another stop,” she said.

  “The harness shop is over there.” Parker pointed. “We’ll come right past the door of the hardware store on our way home.”

  “Oh, very well,” Mrs. Parker said, flinging her hands up distractedly. “Let’s at least not be long about this.”

  “Quick’s we can, Mother,” said Parker, and helped his wife into the wagon for the short drive to the harness shop.

  Buck went with Mary Ellen to Wyoming Hardware. When they went in he left the sign on the door reading “closed.”

  “Are you feeling sick?” she asked. “You haven’t looked well all afternoon.”

  “I’m all right,”
he said.

  “I could bring you some chicken soup.”

  “That’s nice of you. But not necessary.”

  She looked at him closely. “I won’t pry. But if there’s anything I can do, please ask.”

  He wanted to tell her the quandary he was in, but he knew what she would say and the whole conversation would upset her.

  “I didn’t sleep well,” he said. “But I’ll be all right.” He thought he should apologize for taking her hand, but couldn’t think how to go about it.

  “Mr. Maxwell,” she said, then stopped, uncertain. “I didn’t mean to ... It just wouldn’t work out for us. There are reasons that ...” The color went out of her cheeks. Her hands began to wind around each other, knotting and unknotting.

  “It’s not your fault, Miss Parker,” he said. “I’m the one who should apologize. I don’t know what made me do that.”

  Surprisingly, she looked dismayed. “Mr. Maxwell, I’m sorry I’ve seemed so at odds with you about things. I don’t mean to give the impression ... I’m sure everything has been difficult for you and I know you are doing the very best you can. I should be clear and forthright with you, at least save you that much anguish ...”

  “I’m sure I’ve caused anguish enough,” he said. “I don’t want to see any more widows out of this.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you mean ... What do you mean?”

  “I know what has to be done, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do it.” Now he’d said more than he had intended to.

  “Oh, Buck ...” she began.

  Outside there came three shots in close succession.

  They both flinched, then ran to the front door. Buck held Mary Ellen back while he looked to see what he could from the windows.

  Saw nothing.

  Opened the door.

  Mary Ellen screamed, started running down the sidewalk. People were disappearing into doorways.

  There was a crumpled form in the mud, a woman bent over.

  In front of the harness shop.

  And Snake Ed aboard his big black prancing gelding forty feet beyond. When he saw Buck he whirled the black and cantered north out of town. Got several times the effective range of a Colt before Buck could make any of his limbs move.

  “Good for nothing,” he muttered as he went into a weak-kneed trot down the sidewalk.

  Martha Parker was screaming her grief, struggling to pull her husband’s body out of the mud into her lap. Mary Ellen ran to her, fell to her knees.

  Buck came up, more out of breath than the short run justified. His insides were quaking. He stopped, half bent over, breathing hard, looking at the three bullet holes in Allen Parker’s shirt, the big hands lying lifeless in the mud, the eyes staring unseeing past his grieving wife and daughter at the sky.

  Knowing it was useless, Buck knelt, felt for a pulse, listened for a heartbeat, for breathing.

  “He’s gone,” he said in a phlegmy voice.

  Mrs. Parker was weeping more quietly now, rocking the body in her lap, tears running down.

  “Oh, Mama,” said Mary Ellen, and put her face in her hands.

  Buck felt tears welling, too, but there was a deep explosion of something inside that shook his whole body, like a charge of dynamite going off underground.

  He stood. The tears were blown away by the explosion.

  “Goddamnit,” he said, “that’s enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Snake Ed was out of sight. A number of Parker’s friends had gathered.

  “I heard you’re lookin’ for men to sign on,” one of them said. His shotgun was so battered Buck wondered if it worked at all. “Count me in.”

  “Nope,” Buck said. “Go home and look after your family and your claim.”

  Buck crossed to the opposite sidewalk and went striding along to Dunderland’s.

  “Paying for this one, too?” Dunderland asked mildly.

  “Yes, but that ain’t all I’m here for. I want five pine boxes calculated to fit Texas gunslingers, and one more calculated to fit Snake Ed McFee. I want ’em now.”

  Dunderland’s eyebrows went up. “That so?” he said. “All right. I’ve got just what you’re looking for all built. Twenty-five dollars each.”

  “You deliver ’em to my store. But all I want’s the boxes; I ain’t buying funerals. I’ll give you fifteen apiece.”

  “Twenty-five is my price. In advance.”

  “Fifteen or I’ll just take ’em. I ain’t in the mood to dicker.”

  “All right, twenty. But like I say, in advance.”

  Buck whipped out some bills, paid over ninety dollars, hesitated, then thirty more.

  “I’ll start haulin’ ’em right away,” said Dunderland, quickly pocketing the money.

  “You’re a bandit, Dunderland,” Buck said. “But this time it’ll be worth it.”

  Some men brought Parker’s body in, Mrs. Parker and Mary Ellen following.

  “That shouldn’t have happened,” Buck said to them. “But he’ll be the last one. If you need me, I’ll be at Wyoming Hardware for the next half hour or so.”

  “If we need you!” Martha Parker’s shaking hands clenched into fists. “If it hadn’t been for you, Allen would be alive now and we’d be gone from this awful place.”

  “Oh, Mama, don’t ...” began Mary Ellen, breaking into sobs.

  Mrs. Parker was beside herself, couldn’t stand still or decide which way to turn. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t listen to reason. I just don’t know why.”

  “He was only trying to defend what he’d worked for—what you have all worked for. But I should have done before what I’m about to do now.”

  “What’s that?” Mary Ellen’s voice was tight with apprehension.

  “Call their hand.”

  He adjusted his Stetson and stalked out of the dim shop into the late afternoon sun, the men who had brought the body stepping silently out of his way.

  ~*~

  Buck built a fire in the open, found six short lengths of board on the ground around the partly built barn. He heated a poker, and burned onto five the boards: “Hired Texas murderer.” On the other he burned: “Snake Ed McFee, murderer.” Then he put out the fire, tossed the poker into the wagon shed, and carried a hammer, nails and his boards around front.

  The coffins were in two piles next to the door. Buck opened the lids and leaned them up side-by-side where they wouldn’t interfere with the display window. He nailed his boards above the boxes so they were all easily readable from the street.

  Then he locked up and went to find Olinger.

  The marshal was in his office, sitting with his feet on the deck, cleaning a pistol. When he saw Buck, the feet came down and he stood hurriedly. There were purple welts on his face left over from the pounding Buck had given him.

  “You come with me,” Buck said without ceremony.

  “What the hell?” Olinger’s face flushed in anger. He worked at his gun furiously.

  “That’s right, get it together quick. You’ll need it.”

  “What’s going on?” demanded Olinger, now uncertain.

  “Your professional services are required,” Buck said dryly. “Let’s go.”

  Olinger fumbled his weapon together, loaded it. He appeared to briefly toy with the idea of aiming it at Buck, but thought better of that and holstered the weapon, hoisted the gun belt up under his belly.

  “Now,” he said, getting back a bit of his self-importance, “what’s this all about?”

  “I’ll show you,” Buck said.

  Olinger followed him along the walk.

  “This better be important,” Olinger said, hoisting his belt again.

  “It is.”

  When they came near the store, Olinger asked, “What’s them? Gone into the coffin business?”

  “Take a look.”

  When Olinger saw the board labels he started to breathe hard.

  “What kind o’ trick is that?” he demanded angrily. “Ain’t I made it clea
r you got no business mixin’ in the law of this town? I’m the law in this town.”

  “You keep saying that,” Buck said, “but there’s a pack of killers roamin’ loose and you ain’t doing nothing about it. You got till dark to jail the lot of them. After that I’m going hunting. Don’t get in my way then, Olinger. Catch my meanin’?”

  “Why that’s a blame threat! I ought to jail you.”

  “You figure to do that, you might as well try it now. But unlike some, I shoot back.”

  “I warn you, Maxwell.” Olinger raised his voice—but kept his hand away from the butt of his gun. “Don’t push me. I’m a patient man, but I ain’t going to take no bullshit from you. You git rid of them coffins. I don’t want no more of this kind of thing in my town. And take down them signs. I see them signs again, you’re done makin’ trouble. Now, I got no more time to waste on you, got things to do.”

  Olinger turned and waddled off.

  Looking after him, Buck muttered, “Headed for his hole.”

  ~*~

  Buck approached the Lazy L cautiously, saw only two horses in the corral, nobody around outside.

  He cocked his Winchester and opened the bunkhouse door.

  The place was empty. He walked down to look in the little office out of which Calpet had stepped the last time, then thought he heard something.

  When he went back outside, Calpet stood on the ranch house porch holding a brand new Ballard rifle. Buck stopped, waiting to see what Calpet was going to do.

  Calpet did nothing. He said, “Why, if it ain’t the rustler-lovin’ storekeeper agin.”

  “Where’s my money?” Buck wondered if all the guns had ended up here, or only the Ballard.

  Calpet shot a stream of tobacco juice and surprised a cat. “I’m gittin’ tired of hearin’ about your confounded money.”

  “Money and guns to Wyoming Hardware, Snake Ed and the Texans in Olinger’s jail. By dark.”

  “Well now.”

  “There’s six pine boxes propped against the front of my store. I’m in the mood to fill them.”

  “Is that a fact.” Calpet spat again, and a grim smile thinned his lips. “You’re puttin’ me in the mood to ride along with the boys tonight to see you hanged.”