Slip Gun

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Howdy, gents,’ the gambler said, addressing the latter. ‘Would I offend you if I asked you to take a drink with us?’

  ‘We’ve never been offended by that,’ grinned the largest of the three.

  ‘I’ll have a Bourbon,’ the dandy ordered when asked to name his poison.

  ‘Not here, you won’t,’ Derham replied. ‘Boss don’t cater for eddicated thirsts, mister.’

  ‘Then he won’t mind if I drink my own,’ the dandy stated, pulling a silver flask from the inside pocket of his fancy fringed-buckskin jacket.

  ‘If he does, he’ll tell you,’ Derham answered. ‘It don’t make no never-mind to me what you drink.’

  With the round of drinks bought, the gambler set a conversation going. Introductions were made loud enough for Smith to learn that the gambler was Nolan Hardy and the dandy went by the name of Roy Hayward. After some preliminary chatter, Hardy suggested that they might find a means of passing a couple of hours.

  ‘I never sit in a game against a feller I know plays better’n me,’ the largest drummer replied warily.

  Lowering the flask from his lips, Hayward fixed the speaker with a cold eye and growled, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, Roy, nothing,’ Hardy put in. ‘That’s good, sound sense. I’m the same way. In fact, I prefer a game that does away with the ugly element of skill and lets luck have a full rein.’

  ‘Such as?’ challenged the middle-sized drummer.

  ‘This,’ Hardy replied and laid a small metal object like an eight-sided .50 caliber bullet set on a stick upon the counter. ‘What in hell’d that be?’ demanded the biggest drummer.

  ‘Just the latest sensation in San Francisco,’ Hardy replied. ‘A put-and-take top, it’s called.’

  ‘How do you use it?’ the smallest drummer inquired, staring wide-eyed at the thickness of the wallet from which the gambler paid for the drinks.

  ‘Simplicity itself,’ Hardy explained, dropping the wallet on to the counter and taking up the top. ‘You see that each face has a letter and figure or “All” on it. P-1, T-1, P-3, T-3, P-4, T-4, P-All, T-All.’ While speaking, he turned the faces to show the markings. ‘To play, you give it a spin with the stick and do whatever the uppermost face tells you. If it says P-1, you put one dime, or whatever you’re playing for into the pot. Say you get T-3 come up, you take three out. When the T-All shows, you rake in the pot. And that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Sounds easy,’ the biggest drummer admitted.

  ‘Only you don’t like it!’ Hayward spat out, glaring at the man. ‘Listen, feller, Nolan saved my life one time and I don’t let nobody disrespect him.’

  ‘Take it easy, Roy,’ Hardy said in a placating manner. ‘These gents mean no disrespect. Come on, you and I’ll have a game.’

  ‘I’d like to give that top a whirl,’ stated the medium-sized drummer, eyes flickering to Hardy’s wallet.

  ‘And me,’ declared the smallest, clearly sharing his companions’ interest.

  ‘Then borrow it and try it out amongst yourselves, gentlemen,’ Hardy offered. ‘That way you’ll be able to see how the game goes.’

  ‘I’ll bet they don’t,’ Burbury whispered in Smith’s ear. ‘Look at them. They’re eyeing that wallet like a deacon watching a pretty gal sinner undress.’

  ‘Why sure,’ drawled the Texan, settling his jacket more firmly on his shoulders. ‘Did you ever hear tell of that game?’

  ‘Nope. It looks square enough, though. And even up for all. Unless there’s some way a feller can control how that top falls, skill don’t come anywheres in it.’

  ‘Come on, let’s have a go at it,’ the biggest drummer said. ‘All of us.’

  ‘A dime a point?’ Hardy recommended. ‘We can always go higher later.’

  ‘Aw, make it a dollar,’ grinned the largest drummer. ‘Hell! Most we can lose at a go’s four.’

  ‘I’d prefer a dime,’ Hardy objected.

  ‘That’ll make ’em the more set to go for the dollar,’ Burbury commented. ‘They’ll be sure that he’s no edge on them.’

  The burly man proved to have a sound judgment of character. Brushing aside the gambler’s objections, the trio insisted that the stakes be a dollar a point.

  ‘AH right,’ Hardy sighed resignedly. ‘A dollar it is.’

  ‘How many can play?’ Billy McCobb called, having followed the conversation.

  ‘Any number,’ the gambler replied. That’s where put-and-take licks card games. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Might’s well,’ Billy agreed, darting a glance at the door of the women’s quarters. ‘There’s nothing else to do.’

  ‘Would anybody else like to come in before we start?’ Hardy inquired, looking around. The prospector shook his head and the little, soberly-dressed man showed his refusal. So the gambler swung his gaze to Smith and Burbury. ‘How about you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Smith replied, having no wish to be brought into close contact with the McCobbs; especially in a gambling game which he guessed might prove more expensive than the newly-introduced players suspected.

  ‘I don’t gamble with three kinds of people,’ Burbury declared, looking at Hayward. ‘Men, women or children.’

  Despite his previous touchy behavior, the dandy let the comment pass unchallenged. Taking another drink from his flask, Hayward leaned at Hardy’s side and did not attempt to join the game.

  ‘All right then,’ Hardy said. ‘Ante up a dollar, gents, and let’s see which way the luck’s going.’

  After each of the players had placed a dollar into the pot, one of the drummers made the first spin. Gripping the stick between his right thumb and forefinger, he twirled it in a clockwise direction. Whirling around on the nose of the ‘bullet, the top collapsed as its momentum ceased.

  ‘Take three!’ whooped the spinner, joyfully drawing three dollars from the small pile in the centre of the bar. ‘Here, Fred.’

  ‘Put four,’ muttered the smallest of the trio and did so.

  On the top reaching Billy McCobb, he threw a ‘P-All’ and learned one of the snags to the game. The ‘All’ meant that he must put in an amount equal to the total already forming the pot. Scowling a little, he shoved eleven dollars across the counter and thrust the top in Hardy’s direction.

  ‘Here’s a take-all for me,’ the gambler announced, spinning it awkwardly so that it turned anti-clockwise and made a wry face as it settled showing ‘P-4’.

  Another ‘P-All’, thrown by the largest drummer, swelled the pot to fifty-two dollars. With that much money at stake, none of the players as much as looked when the blonde came from the women’s quarters. After glancing at the bar, she went to sit at the main table.

  ‘Mow’s your chance,’ Smith remarked to Burbury. ‘I’d guess the lady’s not used to being on her lonesome.’

  ‘You could be right,’ the man admitted. ‘Why not come over and see?’

  ‘Two’s company,’ Smith drawled. ‘Asking to make it up to three’s plumb foolish doings.’

  ‘I’d like to see that gambling man spin the top again,’ Bur-bury replied.

  ‘You’ll be making me think you’re skirt-’fraid,’ Smith grinned. ‘After all the stories I’ve heard about you drummers, for shame.’

  ‘Damn it, now I’ll have to go,’ Burbury groaned. ‘I can’t let us travelling men’s good name down.’

  With that, the burly man strode across to the long table. Doffing his bowler hat with a flourish, he bowed and addressed the blonde. After looking at Burbury, she swung her eyes in Smith’s direction. From the man’s gestures, Smith formed the opinion he was asking her to join them at the bar. Again Smith felt puzzled by Burbury. Since first seeing her, the drummer had expressed considerable interest in Lily Shivers. Yet, given an opportunity to be alone with her, he seemed determined to throw his chance away.

  Something fell from the bar and bounced off the toe of Smith’s right boot. Although he felt only a slight tap, it took his thought
s off Burbury’s behavior. Looking down, he saw the put-and-take top lying close to his foot. Obligingly, he bent and picked it up.

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ Hardy said. ‘It slipped out of my hand. Perhaps fate guided it to you. Why not try a spin and see?’

  Glancing at the pile of money on the counter, Smith found that it had increased considerably since Burbury’s actions diverted his attention. Somebody obviously had hit a ‘P-All’ and there must be well over a hundred dollars in the pot. A tempting sum. More so since Smith had not risked anything to take a chance at it. Not that he intended doing so.

  ‘It’s not my game,’ the Texan said and held out the top to Hardy.

  ‘What’s up, beef-head?’ Hayward demanded. ‘Ain’t Northerners’ company good enough for you?’

  From all appearances, the Bourbon imbibed by the dandy was making itself felt. As he spoke, he thrust himself clear of the bar. Halting with the exaggerated attention to balance often displayed by one feeling the effects of liquor, he scowled menacingly at Smith. Hoping to avoid trouble, Smith placed the top on the counter. Without speaking, he turned his back on Hayward. Before the Texan had taken four strides in Burbury’s direction, the dandy’s voice came again.

  ‘Don’t go turning your back on me like I’m dirt, you three-fingered son-of-a-bitch!’

  Slowly Smith started to swing around. While doing so, he removed his right hand glove and held it in his left fist. Crouching slightly, Hayward stood with his right hand spread talon like above its revolver’s butt. At that moment Smith realized what the dandy had called him. Obviously Hayward was aware of his identity. What was more, knowing it, the dandy seemed set on forcing a showdown.

  ‘That’s a hard name, hombre? Smith warned, his voice quietly chilling. ‘So what’ve you got in mind now you’ve said it?’

  ‘I don’t take kind to unsociable bastards,’ Hayward replied. ‘So you’re either going to join the game, or get carried out of here feet-first.’

  Immediately the put-and-take players, with the exception of Hardy, began to edge away. Behind the bar, Derham started to move out of the line of fire. The gambler did no more than turn to face Smith, standing so that his right arm and hand was hidden from the Texan by Hayward. It was at Hardy that Smith directed his next words.

  ‘You’d best cool him off, mister. I don’t take kind to the names he laid on me; but I’m not looking for fuss and I’ll pass them up—this once.’

  ‘All we want’s a friendly game of put-and-take,’ Hardy answered. Trouble being, Roy’s a determined young man. You’ve riled him up and nothing short of you joining in’ll satisfy him.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Smith inquired.

  ‘I’ll damned soon make you!’ Hayward promised.

  Studying the dandy, Smith knew that he was facing a similar situation to the incident in the barn. If he backed down, Hay-ward was drunk enough to regard it as a sign of weakness,

  Or was he so drunk?

  The whole deal felt wrong to Smith. Fined down by long experience, his instincts sensed a trap. That Hayward knew him had been made clear. He had worn his gloves all the time the dandy was in the room. So Hayward could not have seen his hands that evening. Maybe the dandy hoped to gain a reputation by facing and killing Waxahachie Smith. Only that did not account for those other aspects of the affair which smelled wrong.

  One thing was certain. Backing down offered no solution. Apart from other considerations, to do so might encourage the McCobb brothers to resume their abuses. Right then, however, Hayward posed a greater threat than they had. Not only was he standing too far away from Smith to make use of the savate techniques which had quelled the McCobbs, but the dandy knew who he challenged. Hayward would not be goaded into coming closer.

  ‘Talk him out of it, mister,’ Smith told the gambler.

  ‘I can’t,’ Hardy confessed in a tone which meant, ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Then I will,’ Smith declared, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders. ‘How do you stand on that, gambling man?’

  ‘It’s between Roy and you,’ Hardy replied.

  ‘Which’s it to be, Smith?’ the dandy demanded and the Texan saw annoyance flicker on Hardy’s face at the mention of his name. I’ll give you a count of five. One—!’

  Instead of taking the count further, Hayward grabbed for his gun.

  An interested spectator, Dad Derham saw the treacherous move commence and wondered how Smith could hope to counter it without a trigger-finger on either hand.

  Chapter Four – The Sheriff Investigates

  Having watched Hayward’s eyes, Smith knew what the other was planning. Another fact had struck the Texan. Those were not the eyes of a man with a gut-full of liquor to make him ornery. Hayward was cold sober, no matter how he had been acting.

  Even as Smith’s mind assimilated the fact, his trained reflexes took over. Turning his right elbow outwards and almost to the level of his shoulder, he twisted his hand towards the Colt with the speed of a striking snake. Strengthened by hard exercises, his second and third fingers wrapped firmly about the butt and the fourth digit hooked under its bottom. At the same moment, the web of his thumb wrapped over the hammer’s spur. Snapping his elbow in, Smith not only twisted the revolver from its holster but its weight cocked the hammer without further effort by the thumb.

  With the dandy’s revolver still lifting from leather, the barrel of Smith’s Colt turned in his direction. Aiming by instinctive alignment, Smith relaxed the grip of his thumb. Freed from restraint, the hammer sprang forward to plunge its striker into the primer of the waiting cartridge. Flame rushed from the muzzle of the Colt and the crash of detonating powder shattered the silence. Hayward reeled back and to the left, his hand falling away from the gun.

  Despite his promise of staying out of the affair, Hardy started to draw his revolver as soon as Hayward’s hand moved. Faster than his companion, the gambler cleared his holster an instant after Smith’s shot rang out. Already stepping to the left, ready to take cards if he should be required, Hardy found the stricken man blundering between him and the Texan. Snarling a curse, the gambler reversed his direction. Ignoring Hayward’s crumpling body, he fixed his attention on Smith—and found that his movements had been anticipated.

  Using the Colt’s recoil and perfectly adapted balance, Smith thumb-cocked the hammer. As if drawn by magnetic force, the four-and-three-quarter inch barrel followed the gambler’s figure. While Hardy was still attempting to line his own weapon, Smith turned loose a second shot. Angled upwards the discharged load ripped into the gambler’s forehead. With the back of his skull shattered open, he slammed into the counter. Killed instantly, Hardy released the revolver and tumbled face forward across Hayward.

  Smith followed Hardy down with his eyes. For some reason, his attention was attracted by the mud on the pair’s boots. Seeing it reminded him of the man who had arrived shortly before them. The recollection came slightly too late. Even as Smith swung his head around, he found that the gaunt hard-case had stood up and was lining a revolver at him.

  ‘Moxley!’ Burbury roared, right hand flashing across to draw his gun.

  Hearing the bull-throated bellow, the gaunt man swiveled his head around. What he saw caused him to move his revolver out of alignment on Smith. A shot thundered from by the big table and the hard-case rocked under the impact of lead. About to try to save his life, Smith could not help glancing at the source of his salvation. Smoke rose from the barrel of Burbury’s Colt as it reached the height of its recoil kick. Although hit in the body, the gaunt man braced himself against the wall still holding his gun.

  For all his city clothing, Burbury handled the Artillery Model Peacemaker with casually-competent ease. What was more, he responded to the situation like an experienced gun fighter. Drawing back the hammer, he aimed and squeezed the trigger a second time, driving a bullet into the man’s head. Showing the same smooth, trained speed, Burbury again cocked the Colt. He did not relax until his victim let the gun fall and slid li
mply to the floor.

  A deep silence that could almost be felt dropped over the room. It lasted for almost thirty seconds, while the powder-smoke swirled away into nothing. Looking around, Smith saw that the farmer’s wife had buried her face in her hands. Lily Shivers was on her feet, but exhibited no signs of distress. Neither Derham nor the prospector showed any great emotion. Nor, for that matter, did the soberly-dressed little man. The drummers and the McCobbs formed a solid wedge of humanity, having crowded together when they had backed out of the immediate danger area.

  ‘Somebody’d best go tell the sheriff,’ Burbury suggested, holstering his revolver.

  Doing so proved to be unnecessary. Footsteps sounded outside, approaching on the run. Satisfied that he would have no further need for it, Smith returned his Peacemaker to its holster. Then he thrust the glove into his left hip pocket, picked up and was knocking the sawdust from his jacket when the door burst open. Gilpin came through, followed by the sheriff. Significantly, Smith noticed, the stationmaster held a gun while McCobb arrived with empty hands.

  ‘What’s been happening?’ Gilpin asked, after staring around for nearly half a minute.

  At least six voices started to give as many different versions in answer to the stationmaster’s question. Neither Smith nor Burbury offered to comment, but the burly man joined the Texan.

  ‘Don’t all talk!’ Gilpin bellowed, restoring order. He thrust the revolver into his waist-band and continued, ‘All right, Dad, you tell it.’

  ‘Ain’t that much to tell,’ Derham replied. ‘Them two in front of the bar tried to gun Mr. Smith down, helped by the jasper over there on the floor. Only things went wrong for ’em, like you see.’

  ‘Who started it?’ McCobb put in, suddenly realizing that, as sheriff, he should be conducting the inquiry. ‘Did you see it, Billy?’

  ‘He didn’t do anything to stop it,’ Burbury put in.

  Darting a scowl at the burly man, Billy turned his gaze to Smith. The deputy hesitated. Much as he wanted to try to blame the Texan for the shooting, Billy also remembered his uncle’s instructions. It might go hard for him if he lied, or made unnecessary trouble for a person of that big jasper’s importance.