“Okay. I guess it holds together a mite better that way,” Boyd allowed grudgingly. “The train opportunity is gone anyway. Like I said, I ain’t one for frettin’ and regrettin’. So I’ll ride back and tell the boys how it is. How we’ll just sit tight until we see which way that shootin’ contest goes.”
“On the day of the contest, I’ll want you and one more man back in town,” Delaney said. “If the contest doesn’t go my way, then we won’t want to waste any time in forming a fallback plan.”
Boyd nodded. “Got it. The shootin’ is on Friday, right?”
“That it is.”
“Good enough. I’ll see you then.”
CHAPTER 11
Fifteen miles east and a bit north of Rattlesnake Wells, four men stood in an open area covered by brownish prairie grass reaching to the tops of their boots and dotted with numerous tree stumps. A little over a hundred yards away, in the direction they were facing, was a horse corral contained by weathered gray fencing. At their backs, in the distance, the ragged outline of the Shirley Mountains thrust up into the cloudless blue afternoon sky.
One of the men was considerably older than the other three. His name was Moses Shaw. He was of average height, bandy-legged, with thick, powerful forearms and solid shoulders in spite of his nearly sixty years. Stringy gray whiskers covered his chin and jawline and more streaks of gray were shot through his shoulder-length hair. He wore a patterned red bandanna around his forehead, no hat, and part of the hair falling over his left shoulder was gathered, braided, and tied with a leather thong marked by Indian designs.
The three younger men lined up beside him were his sons—Wiley, Cyrus, and Harley. Wiley, the youngest, was tall and lanky, with a jutting chin and deep-sunken pale blue eyes. Cyrus, the middle one, was equally as tall, slim to the point of looking gawky and somewhat frail, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a sizable gap between his two front teeth that caused him to whistle sometimes when he spoke. The oldest, Harley, was shorter, more like his father, stocky in build, with a broad, squarish face, squinty eyes, and limp, greasy hair spilling to his shirt collar.
Moses was holding a Henry repeating rifle, the stock resting in the crook of his left arm. His sons all held Winchesters in a similar manner. On the railing of the corral they were facing, four paper targets had been nailed. Each had a black bull’s-eye dot, approximately an inch in diameter, painted on it.
“Well, there they be,” Moses announced, tipping his head in the direction of the targets. “Equal distance, equal targets, weapons of choice. We each take three shots, measure the spread, see who comes out the tightest. Can’t be no fairer than that.”
“Pop,” said Harley at the end of the row, “we really don’t need to go through all this. Ain’t much doubt who’s gonna come out on top. You taught each of us boys about shootin’ since we was knee high to a swaybacked hound dog. You saw to it we was all pretty good, but none of us ever came close to matchin’ you.”
“That may be true, Harley, and it’s kind of you to give your old man his propers,” Moses said. “But the truth is that you boys are all still young and full of vinegar. Me, not so much. I’ve slowed down considerable and I ain’t so sure my eyesight ain’t faded some. Can’t know for positive ’cause ain’t none of us done any serious shootin’ in a while. That’s what I want to make sure of. I can’t afford to pay for all of us enterin’ that shootin’ match in town so I want to be certain as I can that us Shaws are puttin’ forth our best. And I ain’t the kind of pa who lords it over his boys and don’t give ’em a fair shot to stand on their own.”
“Ain’t nobody knows that better’n us, Pop,” said Wiley.
“I’m proud to hear you recognize that.” Moses paused and pulled his brows into a scowl. “But see here now. I’d better not catch any of you rascals holdin’ back just to let me win, you hear? If I think that, I’ll tan your dad-blamed hides. That I still got enough vinegar for.”
The three sons cast their eyes momentarily downward.
Cyrus said, “Yeah, we know that, too, Pop.”
Moses nodded. “All right, then. We’ll shoot on down the line. Harley, you go first; I’ll finish up.”
And so it went. Inasmuch as it was a still, clear day and all four men were skilled marksmen, it didn’t take long for the dull, flat cracks of a dozen shots to roll across the prairie.
When the shooting was done, the four Shaws walked up to the railing. The results were predictably close. Harley’s pattern was well within the bull’s-eye, holding right at a half-inch spread. Cyrus planted two rounds square in the center of the black dot but the third went wide, extending a whisker past the outer edge. Wiley’s pattern was almost as tight as his older brother’s but fanned out a sliver more than half an inch. It all became moot, however, when they got to Moses’s target. His three slugs were dead center and grouped so tight it looked practically like a single oversized hole.
“Real shame about that faded eyesight of yours, Pop,” Harley said dryly. “Looks to me like you ain’t lost a tick from the days when you was sharpshootin’ for the Blue and got awarded all those medals in the war.”
“Yeah, and what did it gain me?” Moses answered, his tone suddenly bitter. “I found out soon enough, when the war was done and they didn’t need me no more, that a fella with a chestful of medals is just as poor and left out as a scrounger who stayed safe on the back lines.”
Cyrus looked a little confused. “But ain’t goin’ after this here shootin’ prize kinda the same thing?”
“Hell no, it ain’t!” snapped Moses. “Take all those shootin’ medals and ribbons from the war, put ’em in a sack, haul ’em to the bank, and what would you have? Nothing, that’s what. Get you laughed out of the joint. But those prize shootin’ irons, with all their gold and diamonds, now that’s a different story. There you’d have value. You’d all of a sudden find yourself respected, a man of stature!”
Now it was Wiley who looked confused. “Didn’t know we was ever interested in havin’ stature, Pop.”
“Maybe we are, maybe we ain’t. Point is,” Moses said stubbornly, “we’d have it if we wanted it. And it’d mean that a sharp aim and a steady trigger finger would by-God count for something, the way they ought to.”
* * *
“Jeez, Swede, I sure hate doin’ it. I really do.” Merle Conroy’s mournful tone was matched only by the expression he wore as he voiced this lament. He was a beefy man in his midforties, thick through the shoulders, thicker still and somewhat soft-looking through the gut. A fringe of beard encircled the lower half of a homely, bloated face boasting a pasty complexion and red-rimmed eyes. On his head sat a battered Stetson whose flat crown had once been adorned with a band of silver conchos, though now there were gaps where more of the decorative discs were missing than in place.
“Do you hate it less than you’d hate havin’ your sorry ass thrown in Marshal Hatfield’s jail? If you don’t, then I guarantee you’ll damn well hate it less than what I do to your incompetent hide if you end up dragging me into this with you!”
Swede Simkins was narrow shouldered and lean, less powerfully built than Conroy. But, at six-six in height, he towered over the sallow-faced man by more than half a foot. This, combined with a fierce scowl, a commanding voice, and the surly attitude that seemed second nature to him, clearly made him the domineering half of the pair.
“Aw, come on, Swede,” Conroy protested. “You know better than that. I’d never rat on you or drag you into any kind of trouble. I mean, you are part of it—you’re the one who sent me after that keg of coal oil in the first place and had me take it to those other two characters. But nobody will ever hear that out of me.”
“Hell, then I got nothing to worry about, do I?” Swede sneered sarcastically. “At least those other two jaspers had the decency to get themselves killed when they got caught. That leaves you as the only one who can drag me into it!”
“But I won’t, I tell you. I ain’t ever tripped you up before in all the
years we been together, have I?”
“It only takes once,” Swede hissed. “That’s why you’ve got to get rid of that stupid damned horse of yours. You’ve got to do it before he trips up both of us.”
Conroy hung his head, and his whole body seemed to sag.
The two men were standing in the partitioned-off storage area at the rear of a large tent supported by wooden beams. On the other side of the partition, the front three quarters of the tent comprised the Red-Eyed Goat Saloon, owned and operated by Swede. All around where they stood were crates of whiskey and barrels of beer. A collapsible army cot shoved against one wall marked Conroy’s sleeping quarters. Out back of the tent, through the slit of a doorway hanging partially open, two staked horses were visible. One was a tall palomino, the other a sleek black blaze-face.
“If there ain’t no other way, I guess I got to go through with it,” Conroy said, his chin still down. Then, lifting his face, he managed a weak smile and added, “Ol’ Sol sure has been a mighty good horse to me, though, Swede. That time the posse was on my tail, throwin’ lead, and one of their shots blasted that chunk out of his ear? He never slowed a step. He just kept chargin’ on, and pretty soon we were leaving ’em in our dust.”
“I know. I’ve heard the tale a thousand times. And I know how much Sol means to you,” allowed Swede. “But it’s that very damn notch in his ear that’s got us on the brink of big trouble. If you hadn’t used Sol to haul away that keg of coal oil, none of this would be necessary. But you did. And now Hatfield’s fat deputy, after tracing the keg those other two morons left behind, is going all up and down Gold Avenue asking who belongs to a notch-eared palomino. How long do you think it’ll be before that leads to you? And then, since everybody knows you work for me, guess where it’s bound to lead next?”
“I get the picture, Swede.” Conroy hung his head again. “I just wish there was another way, that’s all.”
“Well, there ain’t! And the longer you put it off, the longer you’re exposing our necks to the chopping block. So take that nag out into the rugged country somewhere. Take my horse along so’s you got something to ride back. Put a bullet in ol’ notch-head and get it over with. Then bury him.”
Swede clapped a hand reassuringly onto Conroy’s shoulder. “Use my Big Fifty Sharps, he won’t feel a lick of pain. That’s as humane as you can be. Afterward, when Hatfield or that fat deputy comes around—which they’re bound to do—you say you sold that horse a week, ten days ago to some fella you can’t remember the name of. That’ll be the end of it. Not them or anybody else will be able to prove a damn thing otherwise.”
Conroy neither moved nor said anything for a minute.
Swede took his hand away and, for the first time, his voice seemed to take on a trace of gentleness. “You’re gonna want to get a move on, Merle. Evening will be settling in soon.”
Conroy gave a slow nod. “I think I’d rather do it in the dark. Then I won’t be able to see so good in case ol’ Sol looks back at me.”
Swede sighed. His voice turned impatient, all trace of gentleness once again gone. “Whatever works best for you. As long as you get it done.”
CHAPTER 12
“What’s the sense in getting all spruced up at the end of the day?” Bob Hatfield wanted to know. “They’ve already seen me and met me once today. I made whatever impression I’m going to make. I don’t see the point in going to all the trouble of trying to fiddle with it now.”
“Well, you should,” Consuela told him firmly. “You’re the town marshal and you’re attending a dinner with special guests in one of the Shirley House’s private dining rooms. That calls for ‘sprucing up’ a little.”
Bob looked plaintively over at Bucky, who was sitting at the kitchen table and grinning broadly. “I don’t think you’re gonna win, Pa,” said the boy. “I’ve gone through this a lot, mostly on weekends when it’s time for Sunday school. I always lose.”
Evening had settled in and Bob had returned home, intending to relax a bit before heading down to the Shirley House for the get-together with Gafford and his entertainers. He thought he would do this while visiting with Bucky and Consuela as they were taking their own supper, maybe enjoy a big mug of Consuela’s good coffee with them as they ate, and answer some more of the questions he knew Bucky still had bottled up about last night’s shooting at the Crystal Diamond.
No sooner had he advised Consuela not to set a place for him and went on to explain why, however, than she began fretting and fussing about her ironing a shirt and laying out a change of duds and him getting washed up and shaved and so on.
“Scraping the whiskers from your chin and then putting on a clean shirt and your good suit coat,” she insisted now, “is hardly the torture you make it seem. Plus it will be a good chance to wear that nice new string tie Bucky got you for your last birthday. After I iron your shirt, I will polish your dress boots and get them ready.”
“Now, doggone it, ’Suela, you don’t have to do that. Not for the likes of them,” Bob said.
“I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for you, because you represent the town. You need to show everyone that you are better than to show up for a fine dinner in dusty boots.”
Bob sighed and looked at Bucky again. “You’re right. I ain’t gonna win, am I?”
“Tried to tell you.”
“She make you shave for Sunday school, too, does she?”
Bucky’s eyes went wide. “No. But can I start, though?”
Bob laughed, reaching out to tousle his son’s mop of hair. “Not quite yet. I’m afraid you might do too much damage trying to even find a whisker, maybe end up cutting your nose off instead . . . Come on, we can talk while I’m capitulating to the terms of this battle I’ve lost. I’ll tell you some more about that shoot-out from last night. Then you can help me tie my tie.”
* * *
A quarter hour before seven, Bob made his way down the slope from his house and angled onto Front Street, aiming for the Shirley House. As he approached, he saw his three deputies waiting for him on the boardwalk out front. As he stepped up next to them he got a better look in the illumination thrown by the lanterns hanging on the posts of the shingled awning. He could see that each of his fellow lawmen appeared freshly scrubbed, shaved, and all were decked out in clean shirts. The Macy brothers were tieless but Fred sported an oversized bow tie as well as a vest. The tie looked like it could have doubled as a ribbon on a woman’s Easter bonnet.
The aroma of hair oil and bay rum hung heavy under the awning.
“Jeez, fellas,” Bob remarked wryly, “careful not to stand too close together for any length of time, else the concentration of all those high-smelling fumes might set off a doggone explosion or something.”
Yet, even as he said this, he was questioning his own laxity in wanting to prepare for this event. It had taken Consuela to prod him into sprucing up at all. But here were these three—none of whom had a steady woman of any kind in his life—who’d taken it upon themselves to clean up. Bob wondered if he was at risk of turning into some kind of slob in his advanced years. Well, not as long as Consuela was around. But if not for her . . .
“We’ve never been invited to dinner in no fancy place like the Shirley before,” Peter explained. “We weren’t sure what was appropriate.”
“Don’t worry. You look fine,” Bob told him.
“Mrs. Nyby saw to it I fitted out proper,” said Fred rather proudly. Mabel Nyby was the widowed landlady of the boardinghouse where he stayed.
“She did a right good job,” Bob said. “But are you sure you didn’t steal that tie off one of her bonnets?”
“Why, no,” Fred answered earnestly. Then, frowning, looking suddenly uncertain, he said, “Why? Is there something wrong with it? I thought—”
“You thought right,” Bob interjected, mouth stretching into a wide grin. “The tie looks great. I was just joshing you out of jealousy. Each of you looks just fine. Hell, we all look fine . . . So let’s go on in
side, give those dancing ladies a treat by showing ’em some of the best-looking Western hombres they’re likely to lay their eyes on, and then eat a bunch of the Shirley’s fancy cooking.”
Which was exactly what they proceeded to do.
The evening went well, and even Bob, when all was said and done, had to admit to having a good time. Much of his enjoyment came from seeing his men so eagerly soaking up the experience. The food was excellent, the conversation was interesting and at times highly amusing when Gafford would spin an anecdotal tale from one of his many experiences, and the ladies were definitely exquisite to look upon.
It crossed Bob’s mind more than once that he could be in for a very difficult time when it came to keeping the peace in Rattlesnake Wells over the next several days because it might take that long to wipe the dreamy looks off the faces of Fred, Peter, and Vern after their time spent in the presence of Alora Dane. How intimidated would potential troublemakers be if they found themselves facing a bunch of lawmen walking around with glazed eyes and sappy grins?
Otherwise, the only drawback to the dinner as far as Bob was concerned was the absence of Simon Quirt. He still wanted some words with the former Pinkerton man. But then, thinking it through, he realized it was really no loss because the kind of discussion he figured to have with Quirt wouldn’t have been a good fit for this evening’s circumstances anyway.
When it was time to call it a night, Bob and his deputies departed together, as they’d arrived. Before leaving, each expressed his sincere gratitude for the invitation and the pleasant time that resulted.
Back out on the boardwalk in front of the Shirley House, Bob immediately sensed the letdown in his men. He understood, even though he didn’t quite feel the same. The good news was that his earlier concern about them venturing out entranced and maybe walking into a post or something now didn’t look like so much of a problem. He guessed their slumped shoulders and hangdog expressions were an improvement as far as going about their business, but it was still a pitiful thing to see in grown men. Pitiful enough to be annoying and to make Bob feel compelled to call them on it.
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