by Neil Hunter
Jim reined in and climbed down off his horse. He took a set of saddlebags and placed them on the steps just below where Beckmann was standing.
‘Sam, he’s all yours,’ Jim said, indicating the man on the second horse.
‘You all right, Jim?’
‘I’m fine, Sam.’
From what Tyree could see Jim was far from being fine. He looked dog-tired. At the limit of his endurance.
‘There’s a spare cot in back of the jail,’ Tyree said. ‘Jim, why don’t you use it. We can talk later. Any time you’re ready’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘I’ll take care of our friend here,’ Beckmann said, indicating Luke Parsons. He walked by Jim, saying: ‘You made it, Jim Travis. Welcome home.’
‘Sam, you hear anything about John Mulchay?’ Jim asked.
‘He’s doing fine. You saved that man’s life, Jim. Last message I had from him said to tell you he expects you to visit first chance you get. And so does Jenny.’ Tyree smiled. ‘Appears you’ve been a trifle busy since you left Sweetwater.’
Jim nodded. ‘Some,’ he said. His reply expressed a great deal of what he was thinking, and what he’d been through.
Behind Jim the street was beginning to fill as his return was noticed. In ones and twos the people of Sweetwater began to gather.
‘Hey, Travis, looks like you got ’em.’
Jim turned at the call. He faced the growing crowd, his face expressionless. Among the spectators were many of the men he’d argued with the night before he’d ridden out. Jim felt a growing resentment. Here they were. The ones who had let him ride off alone. Not one of them had shown enough guts to go after what was rightly theirs.
‘Jim, did you get our money back?’ someone yelled from the body of the crowd.
Jim turned his back on them.
‘Well did you, Travis?’
Jim recognized Henry Sutton’s harsh voice instantly. He spun on his heel and watched the banker of Sweetwater elbow his way through the crowd.
‘I asked you a question, boy,’ Sutton snapped.
‘The name’s Mister Travis to you. Not boy. And I don’t feel I have to jump, Mister, just because you decide to bark. I don’t work for you, Sutton, and I damn well don’t owe you a thing.’
‘Now look here, Travis ... ’
‘No. You listen to me,’ Jim said, his voice rising. ‘I went after Parsons to get my money. Not for the bank. Or for you. Or for anyone else in this town. Nobody wanted to know me when I looked for help.’
‘I still have a right to know where the bank’s money is,’ Sutton demanded.
‘As far as I’m concerned, Sutton, right has to be earned. That’s something you don’t have.’
Sutton looked to Tyree for help. It wasn’t forthcoming. Sweetwater’s sheriff was watching the proceedings with interest, and a trace of amusement.
Marshal Beckmann had released Luke Parsons from his horse and was leading him to the jail. As Parsons started up the steps to the boardwalk he kicked the saddlebags holding the money down onto the street.
Henry Sutton glanced at the bags, then at Parsons, who gave a knowing grin before Beckmann hustled him out of sight.
‘It’s in there,’ Sutton said. ‘The money’s been there all the time.’
He started forward, reaching for the saddlebags.
‘Keep your hands off those bags,’ Jim said softly, keeping his voice suddenly low, so that only Sutton and Tyree could hear. ‘I ain’t made up my mind to let you have that money back just yet.’
It was the hard edge to Jim’s words that made Tyree sit up and take notice. He realized that Jim was close to the edge. If Sutton persisted Jim might easily hit back.
‘Henry,’ Tyree said evenly, rising from his chair, ‘leave it for now. Just back off and let me handle things.’
‘You heard what he ... ’ Sutton blurted out.
Tyree stepped down beside Jim, touching him on the arm. ‘Take the bags inside my office, Jim, and we’ll sort all this out.’
Jim nodded. He picked up the bags and walked for the jail, just ahead of Tyree.
Over his shoulder Jim said, ‘And you can close my account, Mister Sutton. I don’t think I’ll be banking with you any more.’
‘You came that close, Henry,’ Tyree said. ‘If anything had happened I’d have found it hard to blame Jim for any of it.’
He followed Jim into the jail and closed the door behind him.
‘Give me those damn bags,’ Tyree said. He took the saddlebags and dumped them in a corner of the office. ‘You get it all back?’
‘Far as I know,’ Jim said. He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes. ‘I took mine out.’
‘I’m damned sure you did. I’ll hand the rest back to Sutton. In my own time. Let him sweat a while first.’
‘Is that offer of a bed still open?’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’
‘I’ll rest up a while,’ Jim said. ‘Then I’m heading out, Sam. Got my money and I’ve got a place to go now.’
‘The Mulchay place?’
‘I reckon.’ Jim smiled. ‘Got a few things to say to someone. If she’ll listen.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Tyree said.
He watched Jim vanish through the door leading into the rear of the jail.
Tyree busied himself with a few items of business. Beckmann returned from the cells where he’d locked Parsons up.
‘I’ll go talk to the boys out there,’ the Marshal said. ‘Tell them their money’s safe.’
Tyree nodded. He took a walk through to the rear of the jail and had a quick look at Parsons. The outlaw was stretched out on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. Before he went back to the office Tyree looked in on Jim. The door of the small room was open. Jim was sprawled across the low cot. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his boots or gunbelt. He was already in a deep sleep. His right hand hung over the edge of the cot. Most of his three thousand dollars had slipped through his fingers and lay on the floor. Tyree stepped into the room. He crouched beside the cot and began to pick up Jim’s money.
It was, he decided, the least he could do.
The End of
A Piccadilly Publishing Western
By Neil Hunter
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