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

by E. R. Slade

  “You ride anywhere with them and you’ll find one of my pine boxes at the end of the trail.”

  ~*~

  He arrived back in town at dusk. The liveryman seemed wary.

  “Word is them Texans is goin’ to lynch you,” he said.

  “Them Texans is going to be dead by morning.”

  “Jesus. If it was me, I’d ride.”

  Buck gave his horse a currying, picked his hooves, fed oats and hay, made sure the water bucket was full. After that he went and bought another coffin from Dunderland, set it up with the others, labeled, “Calpet, done the hiring.”

  He did chores; then, in the last of the light, he went to the shed to open a hole in the middle of the woodpile big enough to hunker down it. While his supper was cooking, he pulled some heavy furniture in front of the rear door and all but the front windows. He got a pinch bar and a hammer and loosened boards in the floor in several places. At this point he sat down to eat his stew.

  Riders entered the north end of town—Calpet and the Texans. Buck calmly went on eating as they rode by.

  Done eating, he started stringing barbed wire.

  He was well along in this project when he heard footsteps outside. Gun in hand he faced the door.

  When it opened, there were Mary Ellen and her mother.

  “Watch out for the wires,” he said, putting away his gun. He went and helped them through the maze, then closed the door. “You picked a very dangerous time to come here,” he said.

  “Mama and I agree that we do not want you to avenge us.” Mary Ellen was emphatic.

  “How did you get here?”

  “In the wagon,” Mrs. Parker said. “We left it and the team at the livery. Mary Ellen would not listen to reason and stay home, so here we are. It seems you have infected everyone with foolhardiness.”

  “Mama,” Mary Ellen pleaded. “You agreed this is important. Mr. Maxwell feels responsible, but it’s not his fault.”

  “She thinks you had decided to leave,” Mrs. Parker said. “But after ... this morning ... you changed your mind.”

  “We don’t want you to get killed for our sakes,” Mary Ellen said.

  “I won’t,” he told them. “But this ain’t a time for talk. Something’s liable to happen here any minute.”

  He opened the front door and made a careful examination of the street. The Texans’ horses, along with Calpet’s and a few others, were at the hitch rail of the Bucket of Blood.

  “Better come with me,” he said.

  “You won’t fight them, will you?” Mary Ellen’s voice wavered.

  “Hurry,” he said, still watching the saloon.

  They went out into the gathering darkness. The women turned toward the livery, but Buck said, “Better not try driving back tonight.” He locked the door and hurried them in the other direction.

  “But we have nowhere in town to stay,” Mrs. Parker said.

  “Yes, you have.”

  He led them through the machinery lot and along the rears of the buildings to Hastings’ kitchen entrance.

  “Who lives here?” Mary Ellen asked.

  “Man who’s going to learn something more about his Christian duties.”

  “What does that mean?” Mrs. Parker was darting nervous glances in all directions.

  The Chinese cook opened the door, looking astonished.

  “You understand English?” Buck asked in a low voice.

  “Yes?” said the cook, with only a slight accent.

  “Get Hastings.”

  “But we don’t want to impose on people we don’t know,” Mary Ellen said.

  “Yes?” said the cook. He went on standing in the doorway.

  “Hastings,” Buck repeated, and when the Chinese still did nothing, Buck stepped forward. The Chinese got graciously out of the way. Buck looked back. “Come on,” he said to the two women.

  They followed him in reluctantly. The Chinese closed the door, watching them.

  “Hastings?” Buck asked him, and pointed at the door leading into the rest of the house.

  “Ah,” said the Chinese, and with a slight bow went off.

  “I don’t think we should be here,” Mary Ellen said. “We had no intention of staying in town. We were hoping you would leave with us.”

  “This’ll be all right. Hastings is an idiot sometimes, but he’ll come around.”

  Shortly there were heavy footfalls and in the man walked. When he saw them his color went.

  “Maxwell,” he said, “you can’t come here. This is awful. They plan to lynch you, so I’ve heard. And here you’ve come into my house, bringing them down on my family.”

  “Parkers need your help. Know you’ll do right by ’em. I won’t be staying.” He turned to go.

  “I told you ...” Hastings began, but Buck was at the door.

  “Buck!” Mary Ellen said, following him. “Don’t do it!”

  “Be all right,” he told her. “Over soon.”

  She impulsively grabbed his arm, then backed away when she saw the look in his eye.

  ~*~

  From the machinery lot he very carefully examined what he could see of the street, the Bucket of Blood. The horses were still at the hitch rack. Light fell out onto the sidewalk. He could hear laughter, faintly.

  The rest of town was dark and silent. Nobody felt like being a target tonight—that was good. The idea was to make the vigilantes concentrate on him.

  Carefully, he went and let himself into his store. With the door locked, he strung more barbed wire, working by feel. Then he went into his office, which had no windows, and lit the lantern, turned it low, made a final check of his weapons. This done, he put out the lantern and went to a front window.

  Nothing to see.

  The quivering started in him again. He looked at the door, uncertain.

  He could still slip along to the livery, get away. If they saw him leaving they might not bother to pursue. He could avoid the thing yet.

  Not really. No.

  He unlocked the door, his heart pounding. He paused to wipe his palms dry.

  Then he cocked his Winchester and stepped outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He was trying to be quiet, but his footsteps sounded loud on the sidewalk. His heart was even louder.

  He thought, this is stupid.

  But he kept going.

  He stopped across from the Bucket of Blood, looking in over the batwings. All he saw was the barkeeper standing in front of the mural of a reclining nude. Buck moved on so as to get a look at the rest of the bar.

  There they were, including Snake Ed. One of the Texans was tying a hangman’s knot while the others watched, drinks in hand.

  Buck felt gently of his sore throat. The quivering was taking over again.

  He looked away into the darkness, drawing deep breaths. No sense trying this if he couldn’t get control.

  He knelt down, attempted to sight on the glass in Snake Ed’s hand.

  No good. His aim wavered so much even getting lead inside the saloon doorway would have been a luck shot.

  He lowered the rifle and wiped his palms, his brow, thinking of Allen Parker staring sightless into the sky.

  Snake Ed laughed at something, lifted his whiskey. The others lifted theirs. The man working the rope held it up.

  Buck slammed the Winchester to his shoulder and fired.

  The rope jerked, snipped half in two, and six glasses fell to the floor. Lead was pumped out over the batwings at a blinding speed.

  Buck dove behind a water trough as bullets broke glass behind him. The horses at the hitch rail shied and whinnied, but didn’t pull loose.

  Then it was quiet. There was nothing to be seen in the areas above or below the batwings. When it stayed quiet for the better part of a minute, Buck figured there was a back door and they were using it. He darted into the nearest alley and ran along behind several buildings, then returned to the street. Saw nothing but the horses. Nobody.

  He retreated to th
e rear again and went on along to the livery, found a way up onto the roof. He climbed to the low peak, peered cautiously down the other side. The false front wasn’t three feet higher than the roof edge, but that was still enough to prevent a look at the street.

  Betting they’d come from the rear, he hunkered on the front side of the peak, giving an occasional glance over his shoulder, just in case. His heart thumped in his throat and the quivering came in spasms. He thought about being shot at from directly underneath, became irrationally worried about it.

  A scuffing, a boot scraping stone. A man appeared from the south, cautiously, gun in hand. He happened to look up.

  Buck put the rifle to his shoulder and fired.

  Missed.

  The other’s pistol roared, the muzzle flash jumping out of the dark at him. A bullet chunked into the roof at Buck’s elbow. Another gun opened up from just beyond the first man.

  Buck fired twice in close succession, saw the nearest man drop, the other take cover around the corner of the saloon next door.

  Someone was running, coming this way. Buck put a slug into the corner post to wake up the man behind it; then when the man appeared to return the fire Buck shot him.

  “Two,” Buck muttered under his breath. He slithered down to the false front, looked over.

  Nobody in the street. The running behind the building stopped. Horses were whinnying inside, and Buck thought he heard a low curse from the liveryman.

  Buck jumped down to the sidewalk, noisy and awkward in his landing, and ran across the street. Gunfire rang out behind and he darted into an alley as lead splintered wood on both sides of him. He continued on through to the rear, then north at a run, tripping over ash piles and played out tinware until he was opposite his own store. He slid through between the wagonmaker’s house and shop and peered cautiously into the street.

  As usual, he saw nothing.

  Somebody came into the alley behind him. He spun on his heel and let fly in the dark. There was a deafening blaze of return fire, but Buck wasn’t in the alley by then.

  He charged across the street, mud sucking at his boots, and piled against the door of Wyoming Hardware.

  He was still fumbling for the latch when there came the sudden close roar of gunfire. The door gave and he went in leaving it open, stepped left as bullets splintered wood, rang off metal. He felt his way through the barbed wire to his office.

  The barrage kept up for about a minute more, then stopped. A man came phantom-like through the doorway, snagged his foot and fell.

  Buck shot him. “Three,” he said.

  There was silence for a minute or so. Buck stayed just inside the office.

  The shooting resumed. Three, maybe four guns, Buck thought.

  Bullets tore through into the office occasionally, but they were spent by the time they made it that far.

  Another lull. Went on some minutes. Buck took a careful look at the open doorway.

  “Maxwell!” Snake Ed’s voice. “We got you surrounded. You cain’t go nowhere. Throw out your guns.”

  Buck went silently through one of the loose-floorboard hatches, crawled quietly to the rear of the building. One of the Texans was down behind the corral fence.

  Buck worked his way over to the alley next to the saloon, saw Calpet was watching it from the street end.

  “Maxwell? You hear?” hollered Snake—from across the street, Buck judged.

  He decided the Texan was likely to be faster than Calpet. He got where he could see them both, then aimed carefully.

  The first bullet went between the rails of the corral, slamming the Texan backwards; the second was on its way to Calpet before the Texan hit the ground.

  Calpet clutched his gut and stumbled out of sight. In seconds Buck had crossed to the woodshed. He dropped into the hole he’d made in the middle of the pile and listened.

  Somebody running. A dim form appeared at the far end of the hardware store, peering cautiously around the corner. Buck let the last Texan start for the cover of the corral fence before firing.

  “Six,” Buck said grimly. He wasn’t quivering anymore.

  He climbed out of the woodpile and went through the alley Calpet had been guarding.

  There was no sign of Snake Ed. Calpet was slumped on the walk within a few feet of his coffin. Buck circled the building, but Snake Ed had disappeared.

  After looking inside the store, Buck went down the sidewalk, making no effort to be quiet.

  The liveryman was astonished to see him.

  “Snake Ed ride?” Buck asked.

  “Yeah, he rode. South.”

  Buck went to the Bucket of Blood.

  The barkeeper froze at sight of him. Two tables of card players made out to be engrossed, as though nothing but their game was happening in town tonight.

  Buck kicked the batwings open, went in with the Winchester cocked. The card players refused to take notice.

  “Pick that up,” Buck said to the barkeeper—the rope lay on the floor where the would-be lynchers had dropped it.

  The barkeeper just looked at him.

  “Hear what I said?”

  The barkeeper came and picked up the rope.

  “Hold it high so everybody can see it.”

  The barkeeper did as told. The card players decided it would be wise to be seen paying attention.

  “I want you gentlemen to take a close look at that noose,” Buck said. “Seven men calculated to lynch me with it. Six of ’em fancied themselves gunfighters. Now there’s only one of ’em left alive, and he’s run away.

  “There’s going to be no more lynchin’s in this town. Anybody tries it again, they’ll have me to deal with. Catch my meanin’, boys?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “You tell Snake Ed McFee I’ll be waitin’.”

  Buck went out and down the street to the Hastings’ house. He thought Mary Ellen might like to know he was still alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Buck opened for business at seven o’clock Monday morning, he also opened the coffin lids. A few people came to look, but when they saw that the box with Snake Ed’s name on it was empty they hurried away.

  Buck had removed the barbed wire and cleaned up the worst of the mess made by the shooting. He dozed in a chair behind the counter. Mary Ellen, who had arrived very early bringing him breakfast, and had insisted on keeping watch ever since, sat near the display window.

  “Mr. Maxwell?” she said suddenly. “Mr. Maxwell? Come look at this.”

  Buck yawned and got to his feet.

  “That’s Marshal Olinger,” she said. “Down there—see?”

  Buck opened the door, stepped into the warm morning sun to take a better look. Mary Ellen came to stand beside him.

  “Olinger, all right,” Buck said, watching the man ride south out of town. “Looks like his bedroll on behind.”

  “Do you think he’s going to tell the cattlemen?”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it.”

  “Do you think you ought to stop him?” she asked tensely.

  “No.”

  Mary Ellen glanced along the row of bodies, her eye halting at the empty coffin. She shivered, looked up at him quickly, and went back inside.

  She wanted him to convince her Snake Ed wouldn’t be back. No good to do that and be proved wrong.

  He wished he understood her better. Last night when he reappeared after the gun battle she had called him Buck. Now she was back to calling him Mr. Maxwell. Did that mean anything? Why was she hanging around here this morning? Her mother had gone back home.

  Within the hour Hastings came puffing along. He stopped to look at the bodies for a minute and then stepped into the store.

  “I’m still getting used to this,” he said. “I can’t understand how you managed to pull it off. I know you explained it all to us last night, but the more I think about it the less I can imagine anyone getting away with such a thing. You’re a very lucky man, Maxwell.”

  “Probably,” Buck agr
eed.

  “But you know this won’t be the end. Snake Ed will be back with more men, possibly many more. I hope you haven’t put our town in a hopeless situation.”

  “It was already in one,” Buck said.

  “Not like this. I’ve just been by Olinger’s office. He’s left his badge on his desk.”

  “We saw him ride away,” said Mary Ellen.

  “You have given us a lawless town, Maxwell,” Hastings said to Buck. “When Snake Ed comes back from Casper or Cheyenne with a small army, you’re all we’ve got.”

  “If you’d rather have Olinger, he’s headed south.”

  “I’m only trying to make you realize the seriousness of the situation you may have put us in.”

  “They was hanging three men a night. You don’t think that was serious?”

  “Certainly you can grasp the point I’m making, Maxwell.”

  “It’s the cattlemen need to get the point, Hastings. If they still ain’t too clear about it, I’ll buy more pine boxes. I got the money.”

  “This is not a time for flippant remarks. We are all in serious danger.”

  “I’ve got a couple of rifles left, if you want one.”

  Hastings walked out in disgust.

  Mary Ellen said, “What can you do if Snake Ed does come back with a lot of men?”

  “I don’t believe he will.”

  “Why?”

  Buck thought of Snake Ed on his big black, in his best duds, the handles of his pistols snowy white. A man who thought no other could outdraw him.

  “He wants a stand-up gun battle. He underestimated me and now his pride’s at stake.”

  “Oh, Mr. Maxwell!” Mary Ellen’s color drained away almost entirely. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  Buck thought of the faces at the funerals, of Allen Parker lying in the mud, Martha Parker in screaming fits of grief.

  “I would,” he said. “He’s got it coming.”

  “I don’t understand how letting him kill you is what he’s got coming.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Mr. Maxwell, your pride is not at stake—is it?”

  He thought a moment. “The other way to do it is shoot him in the back. I’ve never done that way before and don’t intend to start now.”

  “No one would blame you if you shot him from a window.”