Slip Gun

by J. T. Edson

  ‘You’d best tell him who we are, old man,’ Billy ordered, trying to retain his habitual tough tone.

  ‘They’re Sheriff McCobb’s nephews, mister,’ Derham introduced.

  ‘Deputies!’ Billy corrected coldly. ‘Nephews’ did not carry a sufficiently impressive connotation at that moment. Turning what he hoped to be an officially threatening eye on Smith, he continued, ‘And we’re on law business, stranger.’

  ‘Which nobody’s stopping you doing,’ Smith pointed out. ‘I’ll take the water and grain for starters, friend.’

  ‘That’s im—imp—im—!’ Angus spluttered, trying to remember an imposing legal term he had heard used by his uncle.

  ‘Impeding an officer in the right and lawful execution of his sworn duty’s what you mean,’ Smith supplied. ‘And, afore you tell me I’m doing that, you pair’s near on been guilty of felonious assault on a law-abiding citizen, threatening behavior and malabusement of civic authority as covered in Amendment Eleven, Twenty-Three, Sixty-One of the Constitution.’

  Although the rifle had turned away from them while Smith was speaking, the brothers refrained from further hostilities. They were impressed by his quick and thorough command of legal phraseology. Whatever that ‘malabusement of civic authority’ might be, it sounded important—and liable to make bad trouble for lawmen caught doing it. The brothers eyed Smith with renewed interest and some concern, wondering who the hell he might be. He knew the law and handled that rifle real good. Maybe he was a peace officer in transit between jobs. Or, worse still, he might be a U.S. marshal touring Wyoming Territory to find out how it stacked up for State-hood.

  Whoever the stranger might be, he exhibited no concern over what the brothers might do next, nor for their uncle’s, the sheriff’s, possible wrath. If he should be a U.S. marshal, he packed a whole heap more political say-so than any sheriff and Uncle Horace would not want him riled. It might be smarter to let the matter drop, cut their losses and depart before worse happened to them.

  ‘Come on, Angus,’ Billy snapped, sounding briskly and artificially efficient as he made his second wise decision in one day; a record which he would probably never again equal. ‘Let’s get moving, we don’t have time to waste here.’

  ‘We sure don’t,’ the younger McCobb agreed. ‘Unc— The sheriff’s counting on us to see the stage comes in safe.’

  Having convinced themselves—if nobody else—that they were withdrawing from the unpleasantness by their own choice, the brothers slouched across to the inverted V-shaped wooden burro erected along the left side wall. They collected their saddles, went to and entered their horses’ stalls.

  ‘You can lend them a hand,’ the Texan told Derham. ‘If you’re so minded.’

  ‘I ain’t,’ answered the old timer. ‘Boss’d charge my time to the county if I did. Which, being a tax-paying citizen, I ain’t fixing to see my hard-earned money wasted a-pampering the sheriff’s shirt-tail kin. What can I get for you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ grinned Smith and joined the gelding in the stall. ‘But the horse here can use some grain, hay and water.’

  Cackling appreciatively, Derham ambled away. Smith slid the rifle back into its boot, removed his jacket and hung it over the dividing wall. At the other end of the line of stalls, the McCobbs kept up a too-loud conversation and acted as if they had intended doing their own saddling from the beginning. Clearly they had no intention of making more trouble. The gist of their conversation—designed, Smith guessed, to mollify him—was that any owlhoot stupid enough to try robbing a stagecoach under their protection would rapidly and permanently learn the error of his ways. While Smith harbored considerable doubts on that subject, he kept his comments to himself.

  Derham had been sufficiently impressed by Smith to overlook the other’s earlier brusque conduct. So he took a bucket and filled it with fresh-pumped water, then mixed a meal in a new feedbag. By the time he returned, carrying the bucket in one hand and bag in the other, the McCobbs were leading their horses from the barn.

  Going towards the stall where Smith stood rubbing the gelding’s back with a fist-full of straw, the hostler satisfied some more of his curiosity and gave himself another puzzle. Removing the jacket had exposed Smith’s calfskin vest. It also presented the old timer with the first view of his gunbelt. As when Smith had faced the McCobbs with hands in pockets, Derham felt a sense of anticlimax. The belt was higher on Smith’s waist than favored by real fast men. Carrying a Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker with its staghorn butt reversed, an excellently-made, contour-fitting Missouri Skintite-style holster rode at an extreme forward tilt just behind his right hip.

  In all Derham’s experience, which stretched back over more years than he cared to consider, he had never seen a gun carried in such a manner. Other details about Smith’s armament might have struck the hostler, but he became aware of something which drove all thoughts on it from his head.

  Dropping the straw, Smith walked by the saddle which hung on the wall near his jacket. Derham was holding out the feed-bag and the Texan reached over the gate to take it from him. Idly the hostler glanced down as the transfer was being made. Then his eyes swiveled from Smith’s extended right hand to the tanned face and back in what would eventually become known as a double-take.

  Where the three sections of the first digit should be, only a small, puckered pad of flesh remained. Derham decided that must be the reason for the stranger’s unconventional method of toting the Colt, he drew it cross-hand with his left.

  Thinking back to the newcomer’s first unsociable response—and forgetting that Smith had been wearing gloves—Derham decided that he had expected some comment about his injury. A man who had suffered such a loss would not want reminding of it. So the hostler relinquished the feedbag and schooled his face into an expression which he hoped would register disinterested, unseeing nonchalance.

  All Derham’s ability as a poker-player was needed a moment later. Taking hold of the feedbag’s strap with his left hand, ready to fix it on the gelding’s head, the stranger showed that it too had lost its trigger-finger. Only by a considerable effort did the old hostler hold down an exclamation of surprise.

  ‘I’ll get you some hay,’ Derham offered, setting down the bucket.

  Straightening up, he stared at the Texan. Memory came to the old timer, of stories which he had previously discounted as newspaper lies, about a man who had lost both trigger-fingers and yet still followed the trade of hired gun fighter.

  Could the stranger be that man?

  Certainly the loss of the two fingers did not greatly handicap him. He had removed his gelding’s saddle and bridle quickly enough. Come to that, he had displayed considerable speed in producing the rifle from its boot. No wonder that the McCobb boys had suspected nothing. The way that long Texan handled the rifle, he might have had two extra fingers a hand instead of one less.

  Derham suddenly became aware that he was staring at the stranger; showing all too much interest when dealing with a man who might earn his keep by selling his gun-savvy.

  ‘Thanks,’ the Texan said, showing no annoyance at the scrutiny. ‘And you’re figuring right. I’m Waxahachie Smith.’

  Chapter Two – The Man from Schuyler, Hartley and Graham

  ‘I’m right sorry for staring thatways, Mr. Smith,’ Derham apologized. ‘That must’ve been a bad accident.’

  ‘It was bad, but it wasn’t an accident,’ the Texan replied and his tone warned that the subject must be forgotten. ‘Say, were them two lame-headed yacks for real deputies?’

  ‘There’s some argument on that,’ the hostler admitted. ‘You sure handed them a surprise. Hey, what’s that there mal—whatever-you-called-it?’

  ‘Malabusement of civic authority?’ Smith grinned. ‘I dunno. I made it up, but it sure sounds like it means plenty. Why’d the sheriff have them here, is he expecting trouble?’

  ‘Naw!’ Derham sniffed contemptuously. ‘Allows that with all the folks headed for Widow’s Creek, the stages’
d be sweet pickings for owlhoots. Now me, I reckon he don’t go for keeping ’em ’round Green River for fear the tax-payers start figuring he’s feeding his kin outen their pockets.’

  ‘Such doings wouldn’t be tolerated back in Texas,’ Smith declared. ‘So there’s big doings in Widow’s Creek then?’

  ‘They’re fixing to throw the biggest, fanciest county fair Wyoming Territory’s ever seed, all I hear be true. Yes sir, their mayor’s—’

  ‘Gilbert! Gilbert Derham!’ screeched a tinny female voice. ‘If you want anything to eat, quit loafing in the barn and get in here.’

  ‘That’s me wife,’ the hostler informed Smith. ‘She don’t understand me Or she do, which’s a danged sight worse. I’ll get the hay.’

  Despite the waiting meal, Derham hovered around until Smith had finished attending to the gelding’s needs. After donning his coat and gloves, Smith left the stall carrying his saddle.

  ‘There’ll be somebody around all night?’ the Texan inquired as he hung the rig and bridle over the burro.

  ‘Sure,’ the hostler confirmed. ‘Couple of the boys sleep in here.’

  Freeing his bed-roll, Smith tucked it under his left arm and drew out the rifle with his right hand.

  ‘Ain’t never seed a Winchester like that one,’ Derham hinted.

  ‘Maybe that’s ‘cause it’s a Colt New Lightning,’ Smith replied amiably. ‘What they call Elliott’s trombone slide-action. This here’s one of the first. I had it fitted out special.’

  Taking a closer look as Smith held the rifle for his inspection, Derham received yet another surprise. Not only was the traditional Winchester lever missing—hardly surprising, considering the rampant colt motif engraved on the hand grip and words ‘colt’s lightning .44/.40 cal’ inscribed on the barrel near the frame—but the weapon had neither trigger guard nor trigger.

  ‘Gilbert Derham!’ yelled the woman, before the hostler could comment on the phenomenon. ‘You get in here, or I’ll throw it to the hawgs.’

  ‘Maybe I’d best go,’ the old timer remarked. ‘She’s likely to do it and I don’t have a thing again them hawgs.’

  ‘I’m through here,’ Smith replied, watching the horse munching at the hay, the feedbag having been emptied and removed. ‘Now I can tend to my needings.’

  Going to the big main building, Smith entered and secured his accommodation. He left his rifle and bed-roll on the rope-bedstead allocated to him in the men’s communal quarters. Returning to the porch, he removed jacket and gloves so that he could take a wash in the basin which stood on a bench by the front door. While drying himself on a somewhat cleaner than usual roller-towel attached to the wall over the basin, he heard the sound of hooves and wheels. Looking around, he saw a big, heavily-mustached, florid faced man driving up in a buggy. From his bowler hat and grey overcoat, open to show a matching suit and gaudy necktie, taken with the trunk strapped to the back of the vehicle, he might be a drummer of some kind. Nodding a greeting to Smith, the man went by and halted outside the barn.

  With his hands dry, Smith gathered his property and entered the combined bar and dining-room. He selected a small table by one of the windows and sat at it. The owner had warned him that no food would be available until the stage arrived, so he settled in what comfort he could manage to wait for it. Letting the jacket hang on the back of his chair, he slid on his gloves. The first drops of rain splattered against the window-panes and he felt the expected twinge of pain commence.

  Experience had taught Smith that he could forget the pain if he found something to occupy his mind. So he took his wallet from the jacket’s inside pocket and extracted a buff-colored telegraph message form. Opening the paper, he laid it and the wallet before him on the table.

  ‘W. Smith. Marshal’s Office. Albertsville, New Mexico,’ Smith read, ‘Need your services urgently by end of month. If can come, bank your town authorized to advance two hundred dollars as evidence our good faith, also railroad fare to Laramie. W. S. P. Jeffreys, Mayor. Widow’s Creek, Wyoming Territory.’

  Not much to go on there, but Smith had felt justified in investigating. The money had been handed over by the Albertsville banker without batting an eye. If anything, considering that he was one of the city fathers, the banker had probably been pleased with the sign that Smith was leaving.

  They were all the same, Smith mused, eager to hire his gun in times of trouble; but even more eager to see him move on once he had hauled their hot chestnuts out of the fire. That was understandable, for his services came higher than the wages paid to an ordinary town marshal. Of course, Smith took chances and handled chores an ordinary town marshal would never be called upon to face. That was why he was hired.

  Folks did not like hired gun fighters, even when they brought one in to help them. Such a man provided an answer to difficult problems, or applied a drastic remedy for certain social ills. With the problems solved, or the ills cured, he became an expensive luxury and an unpleasant reminder of things the sober, upright citizens who hired him would rather forget.

  All right. So Smith had known what he was getting into when he had first hired his gun. Doing so had seemed to be the only answer to his problems. Until he had lost his trigger-fingers, his sole trade had been that of peace officer. The skills he had acquired at it were of small use in any other field.

  ‘Easy there!’ Smith warned himself silently but sharply. ‘You always get to thinking that ways when it’s raining and your hands hurt.’

  Even as he gave himself the advice, Smith became aware of a feeling that somebody was watching him. The front door had opened and the scrutiny came from that direction. Swinging his head, Smith found that the dude from the buggy had just entered. For a moment, the Texan thought that he had forgotten to replace his gloves. His hands always attracted attention, which was why he kept them covered. No, he had the gloves on. By his hands lay his open wallet, its well-filled interior exposed to the newcomer’s gaze.

  ‘Howdy,’ greeted the man, bringing his eyes to Smith’s face. ‘We’re in for a real wet one tonight, I’d say.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Smith admitted and wondered why the hell folks always had to talk about the weather.

  ‘I’m pleased I got here before the storm breaks,’ the man went on.

  Crossing to the bar without as much as another glance at Smith’s wallet, the man spoke to the big, bulky stationmaster. He would be arranging for his accommodation, Smith guessed. Sure enough, Gilpin took him into the men’s bedroom. Replacing the telegraph message in his wallet, Smith returned them to his jacket’s pocket. More rain beat at the windows. Like the nagging throb of toothache, the pain grew in his hands. Coming to his feet, he draped the coat over his shoulders and went to the counter.

  ‘Stage should be along soon,’ Gilpin commented, slouching back to his position behind the bar. ‘If it’s not, I’ll have the missus set out your meal.’

  ‘Gracias,’ Smith replied.

  Going by the stationmaster’s lack of interest in his gloved hands, Smith guessed that the old hostler had not mentioned his identity. That was lucky. Some folks fought shy of giving information to a known gun fighter. Being something of an unknown quantity, Smith might learn about the prevailing conditions around Widow’s Creek. Maybe he would even discover the reason he had been sent for. Way station personnel heard much gossip and Gilpin had the look of a man who liked to talk.

  ‘Have something while you’re waiting,’ the stationmaster suggested, reaching under the bar to bring out a bottle and two glasses. Winking as he drew the cork, he went on, ‘Missus don’t cotton to me drinking alone, so you’ll be doing me service taking one.’

  ‘I’ve always been told we was sent here to help others,’ Smith drawled. ‘Only nobody ever says what the others were sent for. Anyways, all us fellers should stand together.’

  ‘You headed for Widow’s Creek?’ Galpin inquired, after they had exchanged salutations over the drinks.

  ‘If I get there,’ Smith answered, in a non-
committal manner calculated to extract further information about the town and its affairs.

  ‘All I’ve heard,’ Gilpin said, ‘it’ll be something to see, that county fair. ‘Less there’s trouble.’

  ‘Should there be?’ Smith asked, sensing that he was close to achieving his desire.

  ‘You mix cowhands and nesters, that’s trouble,’ Gilpin replied. ‘Which’ll be a damned shame. Wil Jeffreys’s aiming for a celebration that’ll make the big county fair they held at Tombstone a few years back look like a church social in a one-hoss village.’ iv

  That so?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Town’s staking a whole bundle of cash-money on doing it. I’ll bet Wil’s raising a muck-sweat ‘n case something goes wrong. Wil’s mayor up there and a mighty smart—’

  ‘That’s what I like to see!’ boomed a voice, cutting Gilpin off just as Smith stood to hear about his prospective employer. ‘An open bar, with drinks on it. Mind if I join you, gents?’

  Striding across to the bar, the dude beamed jovially from Smith to Gilpin and back. With his overcoat off and bowler thrust to the back of his head, the man looked even bigger than while riding the buggy. Although he wore a well-cut Eastern suit, with a gold ‘Dickens’ watch chain glinting across the front of his vest, a Western gunbelt was cinched about his middle and a Colt Peacemaker rode in a cross-draw holster at its left side.

  ‘Feel free,’ Gilpin confirmed, producing another glass and filling it.

  ‘Burbury’s the name, gents,’ the dude continued, exuding the professional bonhomie of a drummer. ‘I sell general merchandise for Schuyler, Hartley and Graham of New York City. And now one of you gents’s going to say, “Why doesn’t one of them come selling while the other two mind the store?” ‘

  ‘I’ve often wondered about that,’ Gilpin grinned. ‘Why don’t they?’