“There’s another charge I can slap on with the rest—threatening and verbally abusing a law officer. You keep going, Moses,” Bob told him, “you’ll be spending the fall and a piece of winter in there.”
“Since when did this quit bein’ a free country? Can’t a man even speak his mind anymore?”
Bob made no reply.
After a minute, his tone now lowered, almost a whine, Moses said, “Can’t you at least step back here a minute so’s we can talk face-to-face, Marshal? I’ll keep a civil tongue, I promise.”
Sighing again, Bob walked back, toed open the cell block door and stepped through. The mixed stink of sour body odor, liquor breath, cigarette smoke, and traces of urine and vomit washed over him. Light from a low-burning lantern affixed to the wall of the corridor running outside the block’s two cells cast weak, shadow-cut illumination over the men in the cells. Moses and Wiley, his youngest, were in one cell; Cyrus and Harley in the other. All were bruised and haggard-looking, images better left in the dark.
“Make it quick, Moses,” Bob said. “I’m ready to call it a night and head home.”
“Yeah, I bet you are,” said a leering Cyrus from the opposite cell. “I had me a hot little Spanish number waitin’ back at the hacienda, like you do, I’d be in a damn quick hurry to head back home real often-like.”
Bob spun and thrust out his forefinger like a saber. “You watch your filthy mouth, you sniveling little bastard! I ever hear you say anything like that again, you’ll come out of that cell walking on sticks.”
Moses immediately joined in, saying, “Damn you and your gutter mind, boy! Didn’t you hear me give my word this was gonna be a civil exchange?”
Cyrus scowled, looking torn between cowing under the lash of his father’s tongue yet wanting to be defiant. “Jeez, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Pop. I was just sayin’—”
“You said too much!” Moses cut him off harshly. Then, gesturing to Harley, his oldest, he said, “Harley, you’re right there by him. You be my admonishin’ hand. Show your brother the consequence for his foul mind and for shamin’ us all after I gave my word.”
Harley’s body poised but he looked pained, reluctant. His eyes went from Moses to Cyrus and back to Moses again.
“You heard me,” Moses said in a gravelly voice. “Admonish him, I said. Do it!”
Harley tightened his right fist into a clublike ball and then, uncoiling suddenly, swung it in a vicious backhand blow to the side of Cyrus’s head. The impact sounded like two slabs of meat slapping together, and the force sent the slender Cyrus pitching limp and loose-limbed onto a cell cot where he lay totally still except for the worm of blood crawling out one corner of his mouth.
“Jesus Christ! Stop that,” blurted Bob. He wasn’t able to halt the initial act, too late to fully comprehend what it was going to consist of until it explosively happened. But, despite his own outburst toward Cyrus, he wasn’t ready to stand by and watch further such punishment that might be directed by Moses and carried out by Harley.
Fixing a furious glare at Moses, he said, “That wasn’t necessary! What the hell kind of father are you?”
Returning his own glare, Moses answered, “The kind of father who instills in his sons that a man’s word is a sacred thing that must be honored—and any who fail to do so must be admonished severely and swiftly.”
“A lesson taught the wrong way is no lesson at all,” Bob insisted. “It can become a wedge that, if you drive it in deep enough and often enough, will force the exact opposite results.”
“You let me worry about the lessons I teach my sons and how I go about enforcin’ ’em,” Moses said. “Ain’t none of it any of your business.”
“Maybe not—not as long I don’t have to be a witness to it. Whatever you wanted to talk face-to-face about is done, Shaw. I got no time or interest in anything more you have to say.”
As Bob turned to leave the cell block, Moses called after him, “You’d better let me out of here in time for that shootin’ match on Friday, you hear? I put down my money and made my mark. I got every right to compete. If you keep me locked away it only means you know I’m good enough to beat everybody else. Freezin’ me out will just prove one more time how everybody works at keepin’ me down and preventin’ me from gettin’ the recognition I deserve for—”
Bob slammed the cell block door and turned the old man’s lamentations into a muffled, monotonous drone.
“You can crack that door again and listen to his bellyaching and smell the stink all you want—after I leave,” Bob told Vern.
The young deputy shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He’d finished cleaning his Winchester and had it leaning against the front edge of Bob’s desk while he wiped gun oil from his hands with a soft cloth. The rifle was another ’73 model.
Bob pointed. “That what you’re gonna be shooting with on Friday?”
“What I figured,” Vern said. “There a problem with that?”
“Not at all. From what I’ve seen you’ll have a lot of company. Seems like most everybody is shooting a ’73 except me and my Yellowboy.”
“Not quite, though. Judging by the guns we rounded up after that fracas at the Red-Eyed Goat—well, what used to be the Goat—you won’t be the only one not shooting a ’73.” Vern jabbed a thumb to indicate a collection of rifles leaning up against the gun rack on one wall. “Looks like Moses’s weapon of choice is an old Henry repeater.”
“Not a bad gun, either,” Bob allowed.
“You gonna let him out in time for the contest?”
“Probably. Unless he acts up too much in the meantime.”
“Be nice to get the stink out of here.”
“Yeah, there’s that. Also, after hearing so much about what a rip-roaring sharpshooter he was in the war, I’m curious to see what he’s really got. An old Henry or what have you, we both know it’s more the man squeezing the trigger than the gun itself.”
“For a fact.”
Bob arched an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, I ran into a fella a little while ago out at Finn’s Meadow. I was doing some target practicing after we’d had our picnic feed, he heard my shots and come over for a look-see. Turned out he’s also entered in the contest. Name’s Clayton Delaney . . . Ever hear of him?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Well, you’re gonna. And I think he’ll stick in your memory, same as he did mine.” Bob twisted his mouth in a wry smile. “While we had some light left, me and him burned a little powder together. We stayed neck and neck until roughly about a hundred-forty yards. The light was getting pretty bad by then so we called it quits. I guess I could blame it on that—the poor light. Whatever the case, he plumb beat me on that last round. Didn’t plant a single round outside the edges of the black circle.”
“At a hundred-forty yards?”
“Give or take.”
Vern emitted a low whistle. “Clayton Delaney, eh? Sounds like he’ll be a pretty serious challenge.”
“He’ll be all of that . . . and then some.”
CHAPTER 26
Back out on the street, Bob wasn’t feeling quite as buoyant as he had upon first leaving Peterson’s livery. He still felt pretty good, though. The time spent out away from everything and everybody—with just Bucky and Consuela, and then even after Delaney showed up—had been too enjoyable to be soured by the unpleasant encounter with the Shaws. He was damned if he’d let them have that much sway over him.
Not even the thought of possibly coming up short in the shooting contest bothered him that much—as long as it wasn’t Moses Shaw who beat him. Normally possessing a very competitive nature, especially in his younger years, Bob was somewhat surprised by the ambivalence he felt toward the upcoming match. Naturally, he wanted to put in a good showing. But he’d grown secure enough in his own skin and in his sense of how others saw him, that if he failed to place first it would hardly be a crushing blow. In fact, to a certain degree, he might even feel a bit relieved at such an outcome. Should he
win, he knew damn well there would be those with bitter, suspicious minds and poisonous tongues who’d claim the whole thing was rigged so that he—gun-blazing Sundown Bob, the local law—was a lock to come out on top right from the get-go. Bob didn’t know why he let the potential mutterings of those kinds of people even cross his mind, let alone bother him, but they did all the same.
All he knew for certain was that, in the end, he’d do the best he could and things would turn out however it was meant to be.
“Hey, cowboy. No time to even say hi to an old friend?”
The voice, female, soft, and a bit smoky, came from a pool of shadows flooding the boardwalk near one end of Bullock’s Saloon building. Turning his head, looking in that direction, Bob saw Maudie Sartain sitting there on a wooden bench under the narrow strip of shake-shingled awning that cast her in such murkiness. By contrast, only a few feet from where she sat, bands of golden light streamed from the front window and through the batwing doors of the saloon.
Bob walked over to her.
“You’d think a fella that attracts trouble the way you do,” Maudie remarked dryly, “would stay a little more alert when he’s out walking around. Especially when he’s parading right down the middle of the street.”
Bob grinned. “And you’d think a good-looking gal like you ought to keep herself planted in the light for her admirers to see, not faded back into the dark. So why are you out here all alone anyway?”
“Just catching a little fresh air, is all. We don’t have a particularly large crowd tonight but there’s a tableful of poker players who all happen to be cigar smokers and they’re puffing hell out of their stogies, let me tell you. To make matters worse, one of them is Angus McTeague and he just got in a shipment of special cigars so he passed a couple out to everybody at the table. Nobody can stop carrying on about how great those special imports are. Maybe so, but all I know is that they stink to high heaven and I had to take a break from them.”
“Tell you what,” said Bob. “Without even taking a whiff of those stogies for myself, I invite you to go down to the jail and poke your head in the door—just for a second, that’s all it’ll take—and breathe in just a smidge of the odor from the guests we’re putting up for the night. Then come back and return to your cloud of cigar smoke. I guarantee you’ll find it sweet as a field of daisies by comparison.”
“Gee, you make it sound so tempting. But I think I’ll pass. At least, though, if you just came from there, maybe it explains why you came down the street in a daze like you were. You were half-stunned by that smell you’re describing.”
Bob planted one foot on the edge of the boardwalk. “Sounds like you got it all figured out. So I reckon I should be grateful for the diagnosis as well as for the fact you ain’t an ambusher laying wait for me.”
“There are different ways and reasons to ambush a man,” said Maudie, gazing up, regarding him closely.
Bob shifted somewhat uncomfortably.
“Straighten up and lean back a little more into the light,” Maudie abruptly instructed. When he’d complied, she said, “Good Lord, man. With a mug like that, you’re the one who ought to be sticking to the shadows.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Bob responded, returning to his former position. “What did you expect after that shotgun blast last night rearranged your batwing doors—which I see Bullock has replaced quicker than my mug is gonna heal—so that instead of hanging on their hinges they were hanging off the sides of my face instead.”
“I only caught a glimpse when that happened,” Maudie reminded him. “Before I could get a closer look, you pulled that damn fool stunt of charging right back out into the blast. Ever since then, you’ve been making yourself mighty scarce around these parts.”
“Been kinda busy.”
“So I’ve heard. In addition to various other shootouts and shenanigans, as recently as this afternoon you decided to let Moses Shaw and his sons decorate your face a bit more with their fists. Now I can’t verify all the reports I’ve heard but, judging from the peek you just gave me, I’d say the part about getting your face in the way of some fists was pretty accurate.”
“Once again you seem to have it all figured out.”
“And that would make your high-smelling jail guests the Shaws?”
“Another bull’s-eye.”
Maudie shifted over on the bench and patted the empty space beside her. With mock seriousness, she said, “You poor man. In your battered and stench-drugged state you’d better get off your feet. Come over here and sit down. You probably need some fresh air worse than I do.”
This made Bob feel even more uncomfortable. A couple days ago he would have taken the seat and thought nothing about it. But now, in the wake of Consuela’s recent remarks and the reflections that had been tumbling around in his head ever since, the marshal was a bit more hesitant. It didn’t help that Maudie was once again wearing a dress that left her shoulders bare and revealed a generous amount of cleavage. Bob appreciated the view but at the same time he felt half-guilty for doing so.
Nevertheless, he settled onto the bench beside Maudie.
Regarding him closely, she said, “You seem so tense. What’s wrong?”
“I thought we just covered that. A steady parade of varmints coming at you with bullets and bad intentions tends to put a fella on edge.”
“You sure that’s all there is to it?”
“Ain’t that enough?”
Maudie frowned. “It’s just that I’ve had this feeling you’ve been purposely avoiding me. And now—after you practically walked right on by without even noticing me—I can’t help but sense you’re ill at ease merely being next to me.”
“Ninety percent of the men in this town would break a leg to be sitting where I am right now. Why would I feel any different?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Ever since I threw that bottle the other day and you shot those two men . . . then you and I had a moment when you went out of your way to talk with me and calm me down . . . It seems like something has changed between us.”
Bob was feeling more and more uncomfortable, more pinned down. And increasingly annoyed. While Consuela’s jealousy might be questionable, her expectations were at least somewhat understandable. After all she’d been through with Bob—their childhood years, his time as the Devil’s River Kid, her care and devotion to both Bucky and Priscilla during periods when he couldn’t be there, the healing and rebuilding phase they were still in the midst of—she had earned the right to certain expectations. But all Maudie had ever been was a flirtation, a friend. She’d never been led on to believe or expect anything more. And now for her to pressure Bob with . . .
Salvation from the awkward moment arrived in the forms of Fred Ordway and Peter Macy, coming down the street from the direction of New Town, returning from their evening patrol.
“That’s a mighty leisurely pace you’re stepping off there,” Bob called out to them. “Things must be pretty quiet in town tonight.”
The two deputies angled in his direction.
“Hey, boss,” said Fred. “Almost didn’t see you sitting there. You neither, Miss Maudie.”
“Seems to be a lot of that going on,” remarked Maudie.
“Be a shame to miss seeing you, Miss Maudie,” Peter said with a smile. Then, realizing how that might sound, he dropped the smile and quickly added, “Uh, not that missing you would be a good thing, either, Marshal.”
“Surprised to see you out and about, boss,” said Fred. “I thought you’d be settled in at home by now, after your picnic.”
“I just dropped our buggy and team off and was on my way home,” Bob explained. “Made the mistake of poking my head inside the jail for a couple minutes to see how things were going there.”
“You run into some kind of flare-up?”
“Not particularly. Just had to listen to some mouth-running from Moses Shaw.”
Peter made a face. “Uh. And the smell, right?”
Maudie stood up. �
�I think I’ve heard enough about how bad the Shaws stink. So much, in fact, I’m beginning to imagine I can smell it wafting in the air clear from here. That being the case, I may as well go back inside and wrap myself in cigar smoke. Better the devil you know, right?”
“Hey, we don’t want to interrupt the visit you and the marshal were having,” said Fred. “You go ahead and sit back down. Me and Peter will mosey on our way.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Maudie, moving toward the saloon’s front door. “I need to get back inside anyway.” She paused, looked back over her shoulder. “See you around, Marshal. Stop by for a cup of tea sometime.”
CHAPTER 27
After Maudie disappeared through the batwings, Fred said, “Sorry if we barged in, boss.”
“Nonsense,” said Bob. “I called you over, didn’t I?”
“Speaking of that—you asking about things being quiet in town, that is,” spoke up Peter. “You’ll be happy to hear that they sure are. Real quiet.”
Fred nodded. “Reckon the Red-Eyed Goat being closed is part of the reason for that.”
“Swede acted that fast, eh?”
“Not only closed down, but practically every trace of it has disappeared,” said Peter. “Like it was never there.”
“He pulled down the tent,” Fred elaborated, “then folded it up and packed it, along with as much booze and barroom paraphernalia as he could fit, into a big old Conestoga wagon. That’s where he’s at now, stretched out on a bedroll underneath the wagon with a shotgun for company, guarding what possessions he’s got left until he’s ready to pull out at first light.”
“What about the stuff he couldn’t fit in the wagon?” Bob wanted to know.
“Sold it to other saloonkeepers and liquor dealers who were willing to pay cash and haul it off right away,” said Peter. “Since everybody knew the tight he was in, you can bet he got raked over the coals pretty good on some of the payment he had to accept.”
Fred’s mount pulled into a hard, tight line. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella. I’d’ve liked to seen him get raked over the coals even harder.”
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