by Tony Masero
So Diehard was still a virgin and that troubled him some if there was to be a prospect of marriage with Aileen. He hoped his inexperience would not be a problem and decided to worry about it when it arrived. In his heart though he trusted that there would not be any real difficulty, Aileen was too fine a woman to find fault in any clumsiness he might display. He was sure she was the one for him and he knew he would do all he could to make their life together one of happiness.
It was dusk by the time Diehard arrived in Marionville and lights were going on across the township as he rode in. A homemade sign made from stitched sheets stretched across the main street and the hand painted letters proclaimed A GRAND AUCTION was to be held on the coming morrow. Diehard urged the mules on under the sign and towards the livery stables and busy corral he could see signposted as Dalton’s Livery and Feed at the end of the street. He pulled up outside the barn-like structure of the livery and a muscular looking man wiping his hands on a rag and dressed in a dirty leather apron came out as he did so.
‘Evening, stranger,’ called the fellow, a bald headed burly gent his face marked by streaks of soot and sweat. ‘Looking to stable your mules?’
‘I am,’ Diehard agreed. ‘You the owner?’
‘Jacob Dalton’s who I am and the blacksmith around here too if you need him.’
‘Just a night’s lodgings for the mules.’
‘Take them around back to the corral. Long as they ain’t the troublesome sort they can stay in there with the others. It’s a little crowded with folks coming in for the auction but that’s all there is.’
‘Sure, mind if I leave the buckboard around there too?’
‘That’s okay,’ said Dalton cheerfully. ‘There’s plenty of room, it ain’t nothing but desert from here on out. Your responsibility though.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Diehard as he geed the mules on.
Once he had unharnessed the mules and seen they had water and feed he set them loose in the corral and taking the shotgun walked through the rear open doors to the stables.
‘How much I owe you?’ he called to owner who was hammering on a piece of hot iron to one side of a glowing brazier.
‘It’ll be four bits, you can settle up in the morning. You here for the auction?’
‘I heard they had a fine horse for sale.’
‘That she is,’ The blacksmith pointed with his hammer at a stall behind Diehard.
He turned to see the nose of the bay mare protruding over the top of the stall door and he crossed over to take a closer look.
‘Uno,’ he said stroking the mare’s forehead and letting her scent his hand. ‘I knew it would be you.’
The horse whickered as it recognized Diehard and shook its head in a flurry of greeting.
‘Hey there!’ called Dalton. ‘Don’t go upsetting the animal. The owner will be a mite upset that creature gets disturbed, he aims to make a righteous pocket full on her sale come the morning.’
‘Who is the owner?’
‘Garby Mainwearing, he’ll be drinking down his expected windfall over at the saloon.’
‘He get this horse from two fellows called Carter and Betterman?’
The blacksmith frowned, ‘He did that, I was there when they agreed the sale.’
‘How much he pay for her?’
‘It was eight hundred dollars even.’
‘Phew! I reckoned on seven, so they went a bit better.’
Dalton was suspicious, ‘Just what is your interest in this, fella?’
‘They stole her from me.’
‘You’re kidding me!’ gasped Dalton. ‘You got proof of that?’
Diehard shook his head, ‘Nope, I found the horses out in the desert running free and those two come on me one night and beat me bad and stole the string before I could get true provenance for them.’
‘Well, ain’t saying I disbelieve you, mister. They was certainly a shady pair but they had a bill of sale sure enough. Made out by some Spanish gent as I recall.’
‘Easy done if you have the writing.’
‘This here had a notary seal on it, looked pretty genuine.’
Diehard guessed the whole thing had been a forgery but he realized no one would believe him without more proof.
‘You know where those two was headed?’
Dalton scratched his head, ‘They didn’t say, but they left with rest of them fine ponies they had and headed out north.’
‘Four of them all told, am I right? Two bays, a dapple and one white as snow.’
‘That’s it,’ said the blacksmith, biting his lip. ‘Sounds to me like maybe we need a word or two with Sheriff Bolton.’
They found the Sheriff at his evening meal in the dining room attached to the saloon. They were both big rooms, the tables in the dining area separated from the sawdust covered floor of the saloon by a partition with a large curved open doorway between the two. The whole interior was constructed from patterned mirrors and darkly polished mahogany wood and spoke of a wealthy town, its income encouraged by the nearby mining community.
The dining room was full of potential bidders at the coming auction and the saloon was packed with drinkers from all over. They were a noisy bunch in the saloon, well into their cups and centered on one flush faced fellow with reddish-blond hair who seemed to be prepared to buy everybody drinks.
The Sheriff was not amused at having his steak and potatoes interrupted.
‘You’d better hear this Mister Bolton,’ said Dalton as he ushered Diehard up before the man’s table.
‘What, now? Can’t it wait?’ grumbled Bolton, looking up angrily.
‘I reckon so.’
‘Goddamn! What is it? I got enough going on with all these people busting up the town, don’t I even get a minute to set down and eat a meal in peace.’
He was a thickset, irascible fellow in his forties, well dressed in striped silk vest and pale tailored jacket with a looped watch chain across his belly and a ribbon tie at his throat. The hair was long on his neck and streaked with gray and he sported a drooping mustache that held flakes of what looked like potato on the ends from his meal.
‘This here fellow has something to tell you concerning that mare for sale.’
‘That so?’ said the grumpy law officer.
‘Er, you got something stuck on your mustache, Sheriff’ the blacksmith advised.
In annoyance Bolton wiped his face hurriedly with his napkin, ‘Well, get on with it,’ he snapped, casting a steely glance in Diehard’s direction.
Briefly, Diehard repeated his tale of woe and when he had finished the Sheriff eased back in his chair and shucked out a cigar case and selected a cheroot.
‘You expect me to believe this?’ he asked, watching Diehard as he ran the tobacco under his nose and scented the tobacco.
‘Don’t matter to me you believe it or not,’ said Diehard. ‘That’s what happened. It’s the truth, them two fellows robbed me and left me for dead then ran off with my horses.’
Bolton fiddled with the cigar, turning it through his fingers as he mused on the problem.
‘We got half the county here, waiting to bid on this animal. What do you expect me to do? Hold off the sale on the say-so of some stranger without no proof whatsoever. Talk sense, son. I’ll have a riot on my hands I try that on; these folks here are all het-up and ready for entertainment. And look there,’ he pointed with the stogie towards the saloon. ‘That’s the so-called owner, old Garby Mainwearing, a mean-faced and troublesome bastard at the best of times. Rich as they come and intent on making even more money from the sale. He’s drunk now and will be even worse in a while. If I cut him off whilst we check out your story with the law down at Prentice Bridge then there’ll be all hell to pay.’
Diehard shrugged, ‘What can I tell you, Sheriff? That’s how it is, what you do is up to you.’
‘Shoot, boy! You sure know how to upset a body’s digestion.’ Bolton turned to the blacksmith, ‘What do you think, Dalton? You was there when the deal wen
t down.’
Dalton rubbed his dirty palms down his leather apron, ‘I got a mind to take this young fellow at his word, Sheriff. Them two was sharp looking and couldn’t wait to get out of town quick enough once they got their cash. Where do a couple of travel bums like that get the money to buy a fine string of ponies like they had? Diehard’s story, odd as it is, is a sight more convincing to my way of thinking.’
‘But they had the bill of sale,’ pressed Bolton. ‘There’s no arguing with that, this fellow here has nothing but his word.’
‘Awkward ain’t it?’ agreed Diehard.
Bolton fumbled in his vest pocket for matches, ‘Well, I….’
‘What’s going on?’ interrupted an angry voice and the red-faced figure of Garby Mainwearing bustled up to the table. ‘I hear somebody saying I don’t own that horse.’
‘Where d’you hear that, Garby?’ asked Bolton calmly.
‘One of them waiter fellows, he just whispered in my ear.’
Bolton looked quickly around the dining room but all the aproned waiters had vanished from sight.
The Sheriff gave out with a long sigh, ‘We got a problem, Garby.’
‘Ain’t no problem far as I’m concerned, I got legal right to that animal, sealed and signed by a notary.’
‘Turns out it may be fake, Garby. This young fellow claims the two men stole the string from him.’
Garby glowered at Diehard, ‘The hell you say,’ he blustered. ‘That damned horse is mine I tell you.’
‘Look at my face, sir,’ said Diehard, pointing at the bruising and still evident abrasions. Those two beggars beat me near to death, Mister Mainwearing. They stole everything I had and left me out on the desert to die,’ said Diehard.
Garby puffed himself up, his face glowing scarlet from drink and anger, ‘You going to believe this, Sheriff? It’s a damned pack of lies. Some drifter comes by and makes up a story and you’re about to take it as gospel.’
Bolton gnawed on the end of his as yet unlit cigar and tilted his chair back as he considered, ‘That ain’t the case, Garby. You know how it is with horse stealing, that’s a serious offence and this young fellow don’t strike me as no chancer. Might just be he’s telling the truth and maybe I should check this out with Sheriff Baldwin over at Prentice Bridge.’
‘Goddamn it, no!’ roared Garby. ‘That’ll take a week at least. These people here can’t hang around for that, all the high bidder’s will be long gone by the time its verified.’
Bolton pushed back his chair decisively and got to his feet. He was obviously rankled by Garby’s bombastic attitude and did not take the questioning of his legal standing kindly, ‘Well, that’s what I aim to do, Garby. The law’s the law and I’m calling a halt to the auction until I can check this out.’
Garby fumed, his face taking on a twisted snarl. ‘That is not going to happen, Sheriff. I got four men from my mine here to back me and I say the sale goes ahead.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Garby,’ warned Bolton.
‘Stupid!’ screamed Garby, eyes popping and rage barely containable. ‘Me? I’m the stupid one? Get your head out your ass, Sheriff. You’re being hoodwinked by this kid and you call me stupid?’
Bolton had taken on a grimmer aspect and as he saw Garby’s four mining men coming in from the saloon he eased back the tails from his jacket to reveal the long-barreled sixgun he had strapped to his waist. The Sheriff held up a restraining hand, ‘You don’t want to do this,’ he warned.
Diehard stepped over to stand beside the Sheriff, his shotgun held in both hands with the barrel tilted downwards. Dalton, who did not like the way things were going, backed away quickly and the rest of the dining room customers began to shuffle clear. In the silence following, chairs scraped and tables squeaked as they were pushed aside with the diners hurrying to a safer position along the walls.
‘You don’t have to be here, son,’ said Bolton around the cigar still set between his teeth. ‘This is my job, just stand down.’
‘Five to one, I don’t think so, Sheriff. I’m with you,’ said Diehard, clicking back the hammers on the shotgun.
‘Damn you, Bolton,’ growled the irate Garby. ‘You think you can take on all of us?’
The four big men behind Garby were sure of it too, they were all tough looking characters with their features set confidently in eager anticipation.
‘We’re with you, boss,’ one promised.
‘Come on let’s do this,’ rumbled another.
‘However this goes down, Garby. You’re the first, now back off,’ warned the Sheriff.
He had moved into a gunfighter’s crouch, his body slightly bent forward with his free hand holding back the tails of his coat whilst his gun hand hung ready over the firearm.
Garby sucked through his teeth, his anger beginning to shrink as he saw the determination in the Sheriff’s eyes. Commonsense finally penetrated through his drunken wildness and he cautiously half turned his head in order to call his men off but he was too late in that. One of the mining men lifted the corners of his mouth in a thin smile and let loose with a little nervous give-away snigger as he went for his sidearm. It was a compulsive laugh to ease his tension and almost despite himself the man found his palm on his gun butt and the weapon sliding from its holster.
‘No!’ squealed Garby.
As the miner drew, Diehard fired off both barrels.
Leaning forward in a predatory fashion the Sheriff drew smoothly and fanned the hammer in one slick action, firing off two quick shots at Garby in a well-practiced manner.
The boom of the shotgun and the crack of sixgun smacked into the air and flame and smoke shot away from both lawman and cowboy. There was no more than a few feet between the two parties and the lethal effects were sudden and total.
Two of the miners instantly felt the impact of Diehard’s spread shot and they spun away as if jerked on an invisible wire, one with his left arm shredded in a splash of red meat. The other, the sniggerer, took the main load and half his face and upper chest opened up as if they had been bloodily unzipped.
Garby choked and staggered a few steps back, his expression one of total surprise. Then with his head wobbling uncertainly on his shoulders, his legs gave way under him and he dropped like a sack of flour to the floor and lay in a heap. He panted a few palpitating breaths, his eyes blinking uncertainly and looking blindly up at the ceiling before a long gasp whistled from his lips and he lay still.
Behind him the remaining two miners had tugged out their weapons and without hesitation, Diehard launched his empty shotgun at them. One took the hefty butt on the chest and his pistol went off blasting a sailing shot into the ceiling. His companion felt the tip of the flying double-barrel jag into his face but did not have time to assess the damage as Bolton fired and put a bullet in him high in the left shoulder.
The air was full of the stink of cordite and a pale mist of smoke hung between the two parties. The last standing miner quickly dropped his gun and raised his hands, ‘Don’t shoot,’ he cried. ‘Don’t shoot, I’m giving it up.’
‘The hell you are,’ growled Bolton, who’s eyes burned red with the killing. Angry and tense with his whole body sprung tight as a wire spring, he let go with a blast at point blank range and dropped the miner in his tracks with a bullet in the brain. ‘Damn me!’ the Sheriff cursed shakily, breathing hard through his nose. ‘Damn me, indeed!’
Two of the miners still lived and badly wounded they squirmed on the floor, sobbing in agony. The other three were dead, Garby amongst them. Bolton stepped over the seeping pools of blood and spread bodies, his smoking pistol down by his side and for a moment Diehard feared he was about to cold bloodedly execute the remaining wounded. Turning his head to one side the Sheriff spat out his unlit and badly chewed cigar and looked angrily around the room.
‘Somebody get these stiffs out of here. Clean this place up.’
He holstered his pistol and strode through to the saloon, fronting the now empty bar and calling loudly
for whiskey. Diehard picked up his shotgun and followed the Sheriff over, behind him a general hubbub broke out in the dining room and Dalton the blacksmith started giving instructions as to the removal of wounded and dead.
Bolton threw his head back and swallowed his drink in a single swinging motion and called for another. He saw Diehard’s approach reflected in the mirror across the bar.
‘Have one with me,’ he grunted, more of an order than a request.
‘I will,’ said Diehard, resting his shotgun against the bar.
As the bartender poured, silently watching them both cautiously, Bolton looked across at the young man. The ferocity that had overtaken him was settling down and as the nervous tension eased he returned to his steadier self.
‘You sure caused a ruckus in my town.’
Diehard shrugged, ‘I thought it was Garby back there that did that.’
The Sheriff nodded, ‘Well, I’m obliged to you for standing up with me.’ He reached his shot glass over and clinked it against Diehard’s. ‘You ever thought of taking it up professionally? I could use a deputy here.’
Diehard shook his head, ‘Not for me, Sheriff. I ain’t the killing sort.’
‘You did well enough back there. Ploughed through them assholes without a second thought.’
‘It was them or us, that’s all.’
‘Damn but I’m getting too old for this,’ grumbled the Sheriff. ‘I ain’t got the temperament for it any more.’
‘What happens now, Sheriff?’
Bolton sucked air in a deep breath, ‘I guess we go ahead with the sale of that damned horse. There’ll be money enough then to pay for the burials. Your end of it, I don’t know. I guess I still have to take it under advisement.’
‘Well, if it’s alright with you I reckon I’ll be heading out come morning. I’ve still got the rest of my string to find and the two outlaw dogs who stole them.’
The Sheriff smiled wanly, ‘Maybe you is the killing sort after all, Mister Diehard.’
‘No, sir. I’m the justice sort. What they did was bent as a crooked twig and I aim to put it straight.’