“You’ll outfox ’em, Swede. You always do.”
Swede’s jaw muscles visibly bunched and unbunched. “Even the slyest fox gets run down sooner or later. I ain’t so worried about Gafford and his fancy show saloon. If I have to, I got tricks that slickster ain’t never heard of to put the run on him. That lard-assed deputy is the one who troubles me more. I don’t figure him showin’ up last night was the end of it. He’s bound to come around again.”
“So what? He can’t prove nothing. Not now that you made me . . . now that I got rid of ol’ Sol.” Conroy’s expression took on the weight of sadness. “I’ll stay out of his way as long as I can. And if he does corner me, we’ve got our story all made up, right? I sold Sol quite a while back to some farmer I don’t remember the name of.”
Swede scowled. “As long as you stick to that we should be okay. But if Deputy Fred ever gets around to bringin’ the marshal with him, there’s where the real pressure, the real test, will come. He’s the one you got to watch out for, Merle. You can’t let him trick you or make you fold.”
“He won’t, Swede. I know a few tricks of my own.” Conroy’s expression hardened. “Everybody’s heard how he slipped out of that ambush last night. But that don’t mean he can always be so lucky.”
Swede’s scowl turned into something resembling a smile but was really more akin to a wolf showing its fangs before the snarl escapes its throat. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. The kind of thing that makes me feel better about knowing I can still count on you.”
“You shouldn’t ever doubt that, Swede,” said Conroy. Then, sensing movement farther back up the street, he turned his head and looked that way. After a moment, a smile formed on his own lips. “Look yonder. Here comes something else that oughta help you feel better. Moses Shaw and his sons are ridin’ into town. You know dang well that some serious drinkin’ is gonna get done in the Goat tonight, now that they’re here.”
“Yeah,” said Swede, looking not quite so elated. “Thing is, like usual when they show up, you just gotta hope they don’t kill any of the other customers before they pass out.”
CHAPTER 19
As he approached the Crystal Diamond, Bob was surprised to see how many people appeared to be gathered for the contest signing. He’d expected a fair number of gawkers coming by to look at the jeweled guns, mixed with a trickle of others interested in trying their luck as marksmen, but that was about it.
Drawing closer, he saw the crowd equaled or possibly exceeded that which had shown up at the railroad station yesterday. Spotting the keg of beer being freely distributed by Oliver Pruitt and hearing the plunk of Lyle Levitt’s banjo accompanying the voices and tapping feet of Alora Dane and the Diamond Dollies, Bob began to understand what was attracting such a turnout.
A temporary platform of fresh timber had been constructed over the front steps of the Crystal Diamond. On one edge was propped the beer keg that Pruitt was manning. On the ground in front sat a small wooden table with the sign-up sheet and entry fee box for the contest placed upon it. At the other edge of the platform was the propped-open case holding the jeweled guns. And, in the center of the makeshift stage, the dazzling, smiling song-and-dance ladies were exhibiting a preview of their beauty and talent.
Bob walked up to the signing table. Angus McTeague, who would be serving as one of the judges for the shooting, sat behind it on a wooden chair. McTeague was a big, beefy man in his forties who still showed the rough edges from working his way up the hard way while at the same time showing some of the refinements, mainly in the way he dressed, from his recent successes. As one of the earliest and hardest-working men to go after the gold in the Prophecy Mountains, McTeague came out the wealthiest man in Rattlesnake Wells. He was now the head of the New Town miner’s council and owner-operator of three current mines where others, but not McTeague, broke sweat. Yet he remained a down-to-earth sort, well liked around town, with a reputation for being strict but fair to his employees.
“Afternoon, Marshal,” he greeted. “Been expecting you to show up.”
Bob grinned. “If I’d known this sign-up was going to be such a big shindig, I would’ve come around sooner.”
“Gafford seems to find a way to squeeze attention out of practically everything he does, at least as far as it relates to the opening of this saloon,” said McTeague. “I’ve been up in the mountains tending my mines for the past few days yet his name and talk of the Crystal Diamond was on practically every tongue, even up there.”
“I can believe that.”
McTeague arched a wiry brow. “Which is not to say, I might add, that your name and the escapades of you and your deputies over the past few days didn’t go undiscussed, either. I got back into town late last night and practically the first thing to reach my ears was an account of the attempt on your life only a short time earlier. I see by your face that some of the details I heard weren’t exaggerated. You’ve been a very busy fella.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed,” remarked Bob. “Wouldn’t break my heart to be unbusy for a spell.”
“You think this shooting contest and Gafford’s grand opening are going to lend themselves to that?”
“Don’t you?”
McTeague’s shoulders rose and fell in a fatalistic shrug. “Gonna be a lot of activity attracting a lot of people. Could be a breeding ground for some interesting things to happen. Especially”—he reached out and tapped a thick forefinger on the sign-up sheet—“considering some of the sterling individuals it has already drawn.”
Bob leaned closer to take a look at where he was pointing. He was surprised to see a dozen names already on the list. The one where McTeague’s finger was tapping wasn’t so much surprising as disconcerting.
“Moses Shaw,” he read aloud.
“Yep. Him and his whole sorry clan—all three sons,” McTeague confirmed. “Not a damn bit less scruffy-looking or any more cordial than they ever are when they come to town.”
“Sorta surprised they didn’t all enter,” said Bob. “Living out half-wild like they do on that pathetic excuse for a horse ranch, talk is they’re all crack shots when it comes to hunting and providing for themselves.”
“But Moses is the one—according to him at least—who was the decorated sharpshooter in the war,” McTeague reminded him. “He gets a little liquor in him, there’s no end to his laments about how he practically won the war by himself and then had his country turn a cold shoulder after the fightin’ was done. His tale of woe never ends or never changes. And, like a lot of born losers, if he showed half as much ambition as he shows sorrow for himself, his lot in life could be way better.”
“Yeah. The sad part is that his kind seldom changes,” said Bob. “And he’s got a ready-made audience to listen to all his woes in those three boys. Since that old Indian squaw who raised ’em took a notion to up and die, they don’t have either the sense or ambition of their own to look up to nobody else.”
“I’ve always kinda wondered what happened to Moses’s first wife, the birth mother to those boys.”
“Hate to think.”
“Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”
Bob straightened up and turned his head to the left and then to the right, scanning faces in the surrounding crowd. “The Shaws didn’t stick around after the old man signed up? Not even for some of that free beer?”
“Nope,” said McTeague. “They bulled their way in close, shouldered everybody back while Moses signed and paid, then bulled their way back out. Moses told everybody in earshot that he didn’t ride all the way into town for no stinkin’ beer, he wanted some double-rectified busthead.”
“Let me guess. Him and the boys headed straight for the Red-Eyed Goat.”
“I didn’t see for sure. But I expect so, yeah. That’s where they usually hang out when they come to town. Moses and that ornery old Swede are about the only two that can stand each other. Two peas in a pod.”
“Two crooks in a crack, is more like it,” Bob muttered.
“How’s that?”
“Aw, I probably shouldn’t say,” Bob grumbled, suddenly feeling surly for no particular reason. “But those two scoundrels have always rubbed me the wrong way. I know—leastways I got a hunch digging into me like a shovel—that neither one of ’em is on the up-and-up. But I’m blamed if I can ever catch ’em at anything so’s I can prove it.”
“You mean like Moses and his boys venturing south to hit the occasional stagecoach or rustle a few head of cattle here and there?”
“Those are the stories, yeah. They come to town—not all that often, thank God—and they’re rowdy and rude and loud, and we’ve had to jail one or two of ’em overnight a couple times for being drunk and disorderly. But they’ve never broken any serious laws here in Rattlesnake Wells. I guess I ain’t supposed to worry about what they do outside my jurisdiction. But I do. I don’t like having ’em come around my town, not even once in a while, with the stink of law-breakin’ on ’em.”
McTeague smiled. “The law dog in you barks loud, my friend. Which is, I’ll quickly add, to the benefit of our town.”
“Yeah. Well, Swede Simkins and his shithole of a saloon fill my nose with the same stink.” Bob’s jaw muscles clenched. “Reckon I’d be benefiting the town even more if I could find a way to get the goods on him.”
“Maybe Gafford’s success will fold his tent for you.”
“You never know,” said Bob, his expression suddenly relaxing. “Something might come up even before then.”
McTeague gave him a questioning look. But before he could ask anything further, Bob leaned back over the sign-up sheet, saying, “Reckon I’d best go ahead and get my name down without wasting any more time.”
After he’d written his own name, he made a small x on the space below it, explaining, “There’ll be a young fella along in a little bit, one of my deputies, to finish filling that in. So his place is held. I’ll go ahead and pay his entry now, along with mine.”
“Good,” said McTeague. “That takes us almost halfway to our thirty entrants already. Looks like it’s gonna be a real good turnout.”
As he pulled a handful of bills from his pocket and stuffed the proper amount into the deposit box, Bob scanned the rest of the names on the list. He knew most of them, but not all. “Appears to be a pretty good mix.”
“Uh-huh. A real interesting one.”
Bob’s mouth pulled into a tight, straight line. “Long as it don’t get too doggone interesting.”
“Reckon that’s in the hand of fate . . . along with you and your deputies.”
“We’ll hold up our end. Let’s hope fate does the same.”
“One way that might help you hold some sway over fate—at least as far as shooting results—is to make sure you’ve got yourself sharp and ready.” McTeague pointed to a stack of papers on one end of the table. “Those are paper targets, duplicates of the ones that will be used in the contest. You’re welcome to grab a handful if you want to take ’em and do some practicing.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Bob, helping himself to several of the papers.
CHAPTER 20
“Marshal! There you are! I’ve been on the lookout for you all morning!”
Apparently noticing Bob for the first time as the banjo playing and singing and dancing reached an intermission, August Gafford came hurrying over from the edge of the platform where he’d been hovering near the display of prize pistols. In his wake, the guns hardly went unattended. A stone-faced Simon Quirt and another somber, competent-looking gent whom Bob took to be the Cecil Yates Quirt had mentioned the previous evening, stood close on either side of the propped-open case.
“Good Lord, look at your face,” exclaimed Gafford as he reached the marshal. “Quirt gave me a detailed account of the occurrences from last night and I see now he wasn’t exaggerating one bit. We heard all the shooting from inside the hotel but I thought it best to stay put and make sure the ladies remained safe.”
Bob nodded. “That was good thinking. And if it wasn’t for an assist from your man Quirt, by the way, I might be carrying around some unwanted lead instead of just a few splinter cuts. I expect he’s the type who may have downplayed that part a mite.”
As he said this, Bob caught Quirt glancing his way, and so touched a finger to the brim of his hat, snapping it away in a kind of salute. Quirt acknowledged with a faint tip of his head but his expression showed nothing, and then his gaze returned to scanning the crowd.
“Yes. Yes, Quirt did mention that he got involved a bit in that terrible ambush attempt on your life,” Gafford replied. “If he was of value to you, then I’m glad. That’s wonderful. But what he talked about the most and was clearly impressed by—and this is from someone, I assure you, who is not easily impressed and even less likely to indicate such—was the way you rushed out to the street practically into the teeth of a shotgun blast!”
“It was after a shotgun blast, when I knew the shooter would need some reloading time,” said Bob. “No need to make it out more than it was.”
“That’s our Sundown Bob for you,” interjected McTeague wryly. “He don’t allow no dressing-up of what he considers only doing his job. And, by the way he’s glaring at me right now, I’m reminded that he also doesn’t like being called ‘Sundown Bob.’”
“Well, he’s certainly earned the right to that courtesy, then,” Gafford said. “But the bravery and vigor with which he and his men attack danger and threats to the community—that can hardly be overlooked.”
Now Bob adopted his own wry tone as he said, “Keep right on talking, Mr. Gafford. You keep building me up like that, you’re apt to convince me that me and my deputies are worth a lot more money. That’d mean a tax increase on the local businesses.”
“Surely, Gafford,” McTeague said, “you’ve learned by now how stories about daring gunplay and so forth get very exaggerated out here in the Wild West. Haven’t you?”
Gafford held up his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “Thank you for reminding me, McTeague. As the good marshal suggested, let’s not make more out of it than it was.”
The three men shared a good laugh over the exchange.
Further discussion was held at bay by the approach of a tall, lanky man, fiftyish, with a weather-seamed face and wearing a buckskin shirt. “Excuse me, gents,” he said in soft Virginia drawl, “but is this where one signs up for the shooting contest?”
Bob and Gafford stepped to one side and McTeague motioned the newcomer forward. “You bet it is, mister. Come right ahead and put down your name or make your mark. There is, I expect you know, a twenty-five-dollar entry fee.”
The lanky man nodded as he moved the rest of the way forward. “Understood.” In his left hand he casually held a Winchester ’73 rifle. On his left hip, in a cross-draw holster hanging from a wide leather belt, rode a Schofield revolver. A bone-handled bowie was sheathed on the opposite hip. A well-worn war bag, buckskin fringed and designed with Indian beads, hung over his right shoulder, held there by a scarred, knuckly fist.
Leaning his rifle against the front edge of the table, the man swung down his war bag and from it withdrew a leather pouch tied with a thong. From this he extracted some neatly folded bills and held them out to McTeague. “Count it if you like.”
McTeague shook his head. “Looks right to me. Go ahead and put it in the box. Then mark yourself down on the list.”
As the lanky man put pencil to paper, Bob leaned in a little closer and watched him write Ben Eames in a neat, slightly cramped script.
Taking back the pencil that Eames held out to him, McTeague said, “Welcome to our little contest, Mr. Eames. Thank you for participating.”
“Pleasure’s mine. Just like it will be to take those fancy gold guns off your hands,” Eames replied.
“Never hurts to be confident,” said McTeague. “You look as though you’ve had that Winchester to your shoulder a time or two.”
“You could say that,” Eames allowed.
Gafford s
tepped forward and extended his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself, sir. I am August Gafford. I am the owner and soon-to-be operator—as soon as we have our grand opening, that is—of this fine establishment we are gathered in front of. I also conceived and organized the contest you’ve just entered and, as Mr. McTeague told you, we are grateful to all you participants who are coming forward to make it a smashing success.”
Eames took the hand and gave Gafford’s arm a vigorous pumping.
As the saloon owner retrieved his hand, wincing though trying not to show it, he said, “Perhaps you’d like to meet one of your competitors, who also happens to be the marshal of our fair city . . . Mr. Eames, Marshal Bob Hatfield.”
Bob shook the lanky man’s hand and it was quickly evident why Gafford had pulled his paw back the way he did. Eames clamped on with a firm, bone-crunching grip. Bob was always prepared for such tests, though, so he made sure to give as good as he got. The thing that caught him by surprise was how soft Eames’s palm was, not nearly as rough and calloused as he would have expected.
“Passed near here a few years back when your town wasn’t but a speck, just a handful of buildings,” Eames said. “You’ve done a powerful lot of growing in the time since then.”
“That’s how a gold boom will change things. Some ways for the better, some ways not so much.” Bob regarded him more closely. “If you don’t mind my saying, I don’t recall seeing you around before. You just passing through again?”
Eames smiled. “Am for a fact. Back when your town was just a speck, it was already too big for me. Size it is now, it for sure ain’t my cup of tea. I mostly like keeping to myself, you see. I’m on my way down out of the Snowy Range, where I keep an old cabin and spend some time now and then in the warm months. On my way back to Kansas to hole up for the winter. When I heard about this contest and the prize of those guns, it occurred to me that if I could win ’em and then sell ’em off again, well”—Eames’s mouth spread in a wide, sly grin—“I might could afford me a little tonier winter digs than what I originally had in mind.”
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