“If you remember, I smashed his shoulder pretty good with a .44 slug,” said Bob. “I’m guessing he didn’t feel spry enough to ride along for this try at revenge. If somebody was to backtrack the way these two came in, I expect the Mexican could be found waiting in an outlying camp somewhere up in the foothills.”
“I’ll take a shot at that come first light,” offered Vern Macy, who’d proven himself a good tracker on more than one occasion.
Bob nodded. “Take your brother with you. A wounded animal is the most dangerous kind.”
Bullock abruptly stepped closer to Bob, raising his lantern. “Good Lord, man, look at your face,” he exclaimed. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
In the glow of the lantern, Bob’s face appeared peppered with a dozen or more wood slivers from the exploding batwing doors. Several were superficial, but a number were large and imbedded deep. A mixture of blood and sweat was smeared across his forehead and running down the sides of his face.
Reaching up with one hand and tentatively probing with his fingers, the marshal realized the damage for the first time. “In all the excitement, I guess I never noticed,” he said. Then, with a wry grin, he added, “Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Mike. Now it stings like hell.”
“Go fetch Doc Tibbs,” Fred said to somebody in the crowd.
Bob made a chopping motion with his hand. “No. No need to roust the doc for a few splinters.”
“You were crazy in the first place, chargin’ after that shotgun blast the way you did,” drawled Quirt. “Now you ain’t showin’ no better sense.”
Bob grinned wearily. “Bad habit of mine.”
“Some of those are deep gashes. Bound to need a few stitches. You’re a damn fool if you don’t let the doctor look at ’em,” insisted Bullock.
Bob suddenly felt too tired to argue. “Okay. I’ll walk on down to his office, then. If he’s gonna do some sewing, that’s where he’ll want to do it anyway.”
Turning to his deputies, he added, “Somebody else we’ll need to roust is the undertaker. Load these bodies on their horses and take ’em to him. After that, Fred, I gotta ask you to go back on duty, officially, and finish taking a turn through town. I’m afraid I didn’t get very far. Hope you understand, by the time the doc gets done with me I think I’ll be ready to call it a night.”
“Sure thing, boss. You get patched up and go on home, don’t worry about a thing.”
“When we catch up with that Mexican, Marshal,” said Peter, “what do you want us to do with him?”
“Haul him back here,” Bob said through gritted teeth. “I want him to have a good look at how his two buddies made out and then we’ll let him sit behind bars for a few days to think real hard on whether or not he wants to try his luck.”
CHAPTER 17
Over breakfast the next morning, Consuela was still fretting and fussing about the damage to Bob’s face and the close call he’d had at the hands of the ambushers. Both she and Bucky had been waiting anxiously when he got home the previous evening, so he’d already related to them the basics of what happened. As usual, he tried to downplay the danger aspect. But a couple of busybodies from town had gone on ahead and filled them in more graphically while Bob was being tended to by Doc Tibbs.
Bucky, though concerned for his father’s well-being, was nevertheless enthralled by descriptions of the thunderous gunplay. And the resulting marks left on Bob’s face, including a few stitches on his forehead to close up the bigger wounds, he saw as “battle scars” to be proudly displayed.
Bob felt pretty good when he left the house and headed down the slope toward town that morning. The stitches made it necessary to wear his hat pushed back a bit higher, but otherwise he had no particular discomfort from last night’s activity.
At the marshal’s office, he found Fred already present and a pot of coffee bubbling on the stove.
After exchanging good-mornings with his chief deputy, who usually came in a bit later, Bob said, “You’re up and at ’em mighty early this morning.”
“Figured it was a good idea. Wasn’t sure how soon you’d get in or how you were gonna be feeling.”
A corner of Bob’s mouth lifted in a brief smile. “That’s real thoughtful, Fred. But all I got were a few scratches to my face. Not that big a deal. Consuela has been fussing and trying to baby me all morning—I don’t need any more, okay?”
“Okay, boss. Just trying to be helpful.”
“I know. You always are.” Bob went to the stove and poured himself some coffee. “You ready for a cup?” he asked Fred.
Fred made a dubious face. “Not yet, thanks. I haven’t worked up enough courage yet. I expect it’ll be as awful as always.”
Bob crossed the room and sat down behind his desk, took a drink. “Yep. It is.”
Fred hitched up a chair of his own. “Far as I know, Vern and Peter got off okay to try and track down that Mexican. They said they were gonna head out at first light.”
“With any luck they should be back by noon,” Bob said. “I hope so. Gafford is gonna start taking sign-ups for his shooting contest today and he plans on having those prize pistols on display while he’s doing it. Sure to draw in some true marksmen, but also likely to draw the kind of riffraff who could cause trouble. We’re all gonna need to keep a close eye on things to make sure none of it gets out of hand.”
“You still thinking about entering?” Fred asked.
During dinner last night, Gafford had again brought up the prospect of the marshal participating in his contest.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” Bob said with a resigned sigh. “Looks like I’m going to have to, the way Gafford keeps blabbing about it. Almost like a challenge I can’t turn down.”
“I’d be sorry to see you not try your luck. Heck, with you it ain’t even really a matter of luck. You’re flat-out one of the best shots around.”
“Maybe. But there’s plenty of other good marksmen around, too. For one, there’s Vern. He’s damn good with a rifle and I saw the way his eyes lit up last night when Gafford was talking about the contest.”
“But I doubt he’d ever shoot against you,” said Fred.
Bob frowned. “Why not? If he’s got any reservations like that, I’ll set him straight in a hurry. It’s a contest open to everybody, may the best man win. And, as far as that goes, I’ve been so busy using a handgun lately that I haven’t had much call to test my rifle skills. I’ll have to fit in some target practice before the contest to make sure I’m not rusty as an old gate.”
“I doubt you’ve lost your touch,” said Fred. “But you’re right about getting plenty of use out of your. 44. And you dang sure haven’t lost anything when it comes to that. If it was a pistol-shooting contest, nobody could touch you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Bob told him. “I saw Gafford’s man Quirt in action last night—for which I’ve got to say I’m glad he was on hand. But my point is, just like I told you at the train station, those .45s he packs ain’t just for show. He knows how to use ’em plenty good.”
“Well. Then it’s lucky he’s on our side, right?”
“Came in mighty handy last night,” Bob allowed.
Fred shifted a little straighter in his chair. “Oh yeah. Something else about last night. While I was finishing up rounds, I did some more asking around about that notch-eared horse. I ran across an old prospector named Gibbs, who only comes into town once in a while, but he told me he thought he used to see a horse like that around the Red-Eyed Goat Saloon. And then I remembered—that’s where I think I saw it, too. It used to be tied out back a lot of the time.”
“Out back of the Red-Eyed Goat?”
“Uh-huh. There’s a fella who sleeps back there, in the storeroom. Name’s Merle Conroy. He’s sort of a bouncer and handyman for Swede Simkins, who runs the place.”
Bob nodded. “Sure, I know Conroy. Kind of a rough customer. The type who takes a little too much delight in pounding the hell out of the drunks he throws out of Swede’s
place. Not that Swede is much better.”
“He’s a foul-tempered cuss, that’s for sure. Swede, I mean,” said Fred. “When I went into the Goat last night to ask about Conroy or the horse, he got real belligerent and snotty. Said he wasn’t Conroy’s keeper, didn’t know where he was, and for damn sure didn’t know nothing about no stupid notch-eared horse. Then he went to bellyaching about me showing up wearing a badge and upsetting his customers, chasing away business.”
“Not hard to see where the type of customers drawn to Swede’s place could be a little skittish with a lawman in their midst,” Bob said. “But I hope you didn’t take no guff off him.”
Fred waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. He’s all mouth—unless him and Conroy are knocking around somebody too drunk to fight back. I stuck around and asked some more questions, just to irritate him. But nobody else in there was willing to tell me anything, either. So I left and went around back to do a little more poking around. I didn’t see no horse, but the ground was trampled pretty good back there and I could definitely smell the leftover signs of a horse, if you know what I mean. I even poked my head into the storeroom and called Conroy’s name. I didn’t get no answer, so I didn’t push it. But I got a hunch he might’ve been back there hiding.”
“I got a hunch, too,” said Bob. “And it tells me you’re really onto something. Sounds to me like Swede was acting suspicious as hell. And, when you consider the Red-Eyed Goat is one of the most popular tent saloons on Gold Avenue, that makes it a prime candidate for losing business to the Crystal Diamond when it opens.”
Fred’s eyes widened. “Which makes Swede a prime candidate for not wanting the Crystal Diamond to open. And Conroy—who I believe the notch-eared palomino belongs to—works for Swede and does his dirty work . . . It all fits, don’t it?”
“It sure as hell could,” Bob responded. “We’ve just got to line the pieces up the right way and see if we can make ’em click into place. And, since we’ll be spending time up on Gold Avenue today anyway, watching over the contest signing and the display of the prize guns, it’ll give us a good chance to drop in on Swede again and see if we can’t pin down the elusive Mr. Conroy.”
Fred smiled. “I like the sound of that . . . a lot.”
* * *
It was just short of noon when Peter and Vern Macy came riding back into town. They were leading a third horse, across whose back was tied the body of Chollo Raza, the round-faced Mexican who’d been with Jax and Reeves.
As they reined up in front of the jail building, Bob and Fred came out to greet them.
“We backtracked the way the other two came in and found him camped up in the foothills, just like you figured, Marshal,” announced Vern.
“He acted cooperative at first,” Peter added. “But then he made the fool move of going for a hideaway gun. Didn’t leave us any choice but to kill him before he did one or both of us.”
“Not much else you can do when they call the tune that way,” said Bob. “Hate to say a man’s life is no big loss, but him and his pards come as close as any. He made himself another customer for the undertaker. All that’s left is to take him there.”
Fred stepped forward. “I’ll take care of that. You fellas have had a long morning in the saddle. Climb on down and stretch your legs, go inside and have a drink of cool water or maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Much obliged, Fred,” the Macy brothers said in almost perfect unison, something they had an eerie habit of frequently doing.
As Fred led the corpse-laden horse away, Bob called after him, “When you’re done with that, Fred, go ahead and grab yourself some lunch. Then meet me over at the Crystal Diamond. I’ll be hanging around out front where they’re holding the contest signing.”
“Will do, boss.”
Turning to the Macys, Bob said, “How about you boys? Did you even take time for breakfast, let alone lunch?”
The brothers shook their heads. In unison. Then Peter added, “Though we did eat some biscuits and jerky on the ride out.”
“Well, unless killing that Mexican upset your appetites—which it shouldn’t, not for the likes of a varmint like him—then you need to get some vittles in you. So, after you’ve taken care of your horses, do like I told Fred and get yourself some lunch. Then come on down to the Crystal Diamond, too.”
“You expecting trouble there, Marshal?” Vern asked.
“Could be. With those jeweled guns on display and a parade of gunmen being invited in, anything could happen. Plus we may have some related business nearby at the Red-Eyed Goat Saloon.”
“Related? How?”
“Fred got a pretty good lead on the purchase of that coal oil that was used to douse the Crystal Diamond the other night. It’s looking more and more like it traces to the Red-Eyed Goat.”
“That ain’t hard to believe. A pretty rough crowd hangs out there—you could find skunks capable of just about anything in that mix,” said Peter.
Bob nodded. “I know. And we’re aiming to smoke out a couple of ’em.”
“We won’t take long over lunch,” said Vern. “We don’t want to miss that.”
“Speaking of not missing something, that reminds me,” Bob said, locking his gaze on Vern. “You intend to enter that shooting contest, don’t you?”
Vern looked caught off guard, maybe even a little startled. “Well, I . . . I hadn’t made up my mind . . . I mean, I really haven’t thought about it too much.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I . . . That is, we . . . Peter and me, I mean, we got busy planning how we were gonna track that Mexican and all. There ain’t been a whole lot of time.”
“Gafford’s only holding open the sign-up today and tomorrow,” Bob reminded him. “And if he gets thirty entrants, which is the limit he set, he’ll close it sooner than that. So if you’ve got a notion to enter, you’d better make up your mind.”
“Yessir. I’ll do that,” Vern said.
Bob continued to eye him closely. “You wouldn’t by chance have another notion, would you? A very silly one—like being reluctant to enter because you think it might make me sore to have you shoot against me?”
Vern had trouble meeting the marshal’s gaze. “Well, I . . .”
“You know what would really make me sore?” Bob cut in. And then, going ahead and answering his own question: “If, after all these months of working for me, you didn’t know me any better than to think I might be small enough and petty enough to be bothered by something like that. That would chap my backside something fierce.”
“You’re right. Anybody who knows you oughta know better than that,” said Peter, casting a stern look at his younger brother.
“That settles it, then. You’re too good a shot not to enter that contest, Vern. You got enough money to cover the entry fee?”
Peter spoke up again. “I told him I’d chip in to help him cover it.”
Scowling, Bob said, “It’s still two weeks to payday. If it’s gonna run you tight, I’ll tell you what—I’ll advance you the twenty-five bucks. In fact, I’ll go ahead and cover it when I sign myself up. Then all you’ve got to do is put down your name and square with me when you do get paid.” He paused and flashed a lopsided grin. “Of course, if you win that fancy gun, then my interest rate on the loan is apt to go up considerable.”
Vern grinned, too. “Thanks, Marshal. If I’m lucky enough to win, you can bet I’ll pay you back with interest.”
CHAPTER 18
“Look at ’em down there. Swarmin’ around that fancy-pants blowhard like bees buzzin’ around honey.” Swede Simkins’s voice rasped bitterly. The bitterness in his tone was matched by the glint in his narrowed eyes as he glared down the street toward the crowd gathered before the Crystal Diamond Saloon. “What’s so damned interesting about gettin’ a peek at some jeweled pistols that are probably fake and can’t even shoot anyway, and watchin’ a handful of suckers sign up for a shootin’ contest? Come around here on a Saturday night—or practically any other nigh
t, as far as that goes—and you can see your fill of shootin’ for free.”
“Might be gettin’ a gander at those fancy guns that’s drawin’ ’em to begin with,” said Merle Conroy. “But what’s causin’ most of those slack-jaws to stick around is the leg show bein’ put on by those dance hall gals. That and the free beer Gafford’s offerin’ for as long as his keg holds out.”
“Warm beer out of a keg sittin’ in the noontime sun and some fat ankles bein’ kicked up by three over-the-hill crotch teasers,” grumbled Swede. “If that’s what has got those idiots so het up, then there’s more lunkheads around these parts than I ever figured. And it ain’t like I reckoned brains as bein’ in high supply hereabouts to begin with.”
The two men were standing out front of the oversized tent that housed Swede’s Red-Eyed Goat Saloon. Conroy was leaning against the signpost hung with a shingle bearing the name in sloppily painted letters. The heavy canvas flaps that served as a doorway to the establishment were open wide and pinned back, exposing an interior totally devoid of customers.
“Lucky for us it ain’t brains what leads a body to drink,” Conroy said. “It’s a parched throat and a cravin’ in the gut.”
“Is it lucky for us that there ain’t a blasted soul in here drinkin’ at the height of the noon hour?” snapped Swede. “And where do you get off with that ‘us’ crap anyway? Are you the one with thousands of dollars stuck in a supply of liquor that all of a sudden ain’t goin’ down nobody’s throats?”
“No. Not hardly. You’ve always run that part, the organizin’ and the money, Swede,” said Conroy. “But I been with you for such a long time that I just kinda think of what we got going as . . . well, us.”
“Yeah, we’ve been together for a long time,” Swede muttered. “Maybe long enough. Maybe too damn long.”
“Aw, you don’t really mean that.”
“The hell I don’t. You and that stupid horse and that stubborn fat deputy are really puttin’ the screws to me. Bad enough I got this Gafford puke threatenin’ to run me out of business, now I got to worry about the law comin’ down on me.”
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