by J. T. Edson
‘We’ll never know for sure which it was,’ Smith predicted and looked at Burbury. ‘How’d you figure that Moxley hombre was tied in with ’em?’
That didn’t take much doing,’ the burly man countered. ‘They’d all got the same kind of mud on their boots, for one thing.’
‘Moxley looked primed for trouble when he come in,’ Lily went on. ‘He’d been wearing a slicker, but took it off before he came through the door.’
‘In the barn, or wherever he left his hoss,’ Burbury corrected. ‘That didn’t mean much. Feller with a price on his head likes to have a clear grab at his gun when he walks into a room full of strangers. Somebody among ’em might recognize him.’
‘Somebody did,’ Smith stated, staring pointedly at the burly man.
‘Us travelling-man from Schuyler, Hartley and Graham get around,’ Burbury answered blandly. ‘And I’ve always been real good at remembering faces.’
‘You’re real good at handling a gun, too,’ Smith complimented.
‘Man totes a wad of folding-money like I do, he needs to be,’ Burbury answered. ‘Talking of guns, I’d admire to see yours.’
Although Smith sensed that Burbury was deliberately changing the subject, he did not argue. He owed the burly ‘drummer’ his life, so figured that he could put up with the other’s reticence and evasions. If it came to a point, Burbury could be speaking the truth and might be no more than he claimed, with a valid reason for knowing how to handle a gun.
‘You mean how does a feller like me shoot it,’ Smith drawled.
‘No offence, Wax,’ Burbury said and sounded sincere.
‘None took,’ the Texan assured him, lifting out the Colt and placing it on the table. ‘Here, take a look.’
At first glance, the revolver—with its metal parts the deep blue of the Best Citizen’s Finish—might have passed for an ordinary Civilian Model Peacemaker. Closer observation revealed certain alterations. There was neither foresight nor trigger. The spur had been reduced in size, its checkering removed to leave it smooth and was fitted half-way down the curve of the hammer instead of at the top.
‘It’s a slip gun, isn’t it?’ Lily asked, studying the weapon. ‘I’ve heard of them, but the only one I ever saw just had its trigger tied back. Feller who used it fanned the hammer. He sure made a life-like corpse.’
‘Most folks who fan regular get that way,’ Smith admitted. ‘Which’s why I had this old plough-handle fitted up special.’
‘How?’ Burbury inquired and his interest had a genuine ring to it.
‘Had the trigger and its half of the bolt spring left off. That lil stud on the hammer, what they call the bolt-cam, ’s only half the regular size. Throws less strain on the bolt-arm and makes it work smoother. That short, slick spur’s set low on the hammer so’s I can thumb it back easier and the butt’s maybe an inch shorter to give me a better grip.’
‘You must have put some thought into getting it right,’ Lily praised.
‘Man with only one trade has to get the right tools, regardless,’ Smith answered. ‘Handling guns was just about the only thing I knew.’
Looking at the tanned, expressionless face, Lily sensed something of the long, hard struggle Smith had made to face life after the accident that had cost him both forefingers. Only vague rumors circulated about how the loss had occurred. What she did know was that Smith’s name had been prominent among Texas Rangers and he was said likely to become the youngest captain of that fabled law enforcement body. Receiving what would be regarded as a completely incapacitating injury had blasted his chances. Many men would have turned their back on guns and gun-fighting, but Smith did not. She wondered what deep, driving compulsion had helped him to overcome the handicap and develop such a deadly technique and a weapon so perfectly adapted to his needs.
Waxahachie Smith interested Lily for a number of reasons.
‘See you had the foresight took off to stop it catching on anything when you make that high cavalry twist-hand draw,’ Burbury commented, taking up the Colt for a closer inspection. ‘You wouldn’t need it, anyways. They do say a slip gun’s only good for close-in shooting.’ He glanced into the muzzle, stiffened and took a longer, more searching look down the tube. ‘Hey! The barrel’s not rifled.’
‘Like you said,’ Smith replied, retrieving the revolver and returning it to his holster. ‘A slip gun’s not much use over a distance. So I figured to give it a mite more range. I use three balls to a bullet, ’stead of one.’
‘Three!’ Lily ejaculated.
‘What they call a multi-ball cartridge,’ Smith elaborated. ‘Feller called Captain Wright designed them for the Army back in seventy-nine and I figured they’d be what I needed.’
Coming through the front door, looking disconsolate and close to nausea, the McCobb brothers slouched without a glance at Smith across to the sheriff. After listening to what they had to say, McCobb walked over to the big table.
‘Their hosses are down at the barn,’ the sheriff told Lily and her companions. ‘Moxley’s slicker was on his saddle, but there wasn’t nothing in their gear to help us.’
‘Wasn’t, huh?’ Burbury grunted.
‘No,’ McCobb replied. ‘I didn’t think there would be, but a peace officer has to make sure.’
‘Ain’t that the living truth?’ Burbury agreed solemnly, then he yawned and stretched. ‘Now me, I’m fixing to go to bed.’
‘Had they off-saddled, sheriff?’ Smith inquired.
‘Not none of ’em,’ McCobb answered. ‘You don’t expect that kind to care for their hosses, do you?’
‘Likely not,’ Smith admitted. ‘I reckon I’ll be turning in, too. There’s a long day’s ride ahead of me comes morning.’
‘I’m going, comes to that,’ Lily declared. ‘If I stay out here, I’ll have those drummers and—such—swarming all over me. It’s bad enough I have to “dovetail” all day with ’em, without being with them all night.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ McCobb announced.
‘I get the feeling you don’t like peace officers, Ric,’ Smith commented as the sheriff ambled back to the bar.
‘I don’t like some peace officers,’ Burbury answered. ‘And them’s’re put in as political office-fillers’re some of the some I don’t like.’
‘Quastel, over to Fremont County’s one of the some,’ Lily remarked. ‘Are you headed for Widow’s Creek, Ric?’
‘Sure. A county fair’s a good place for a selling-man to be. Folks have cash money in their pockets and’re just itching to spend it.’
‘Just happen I want to buy something, Ric,’ Smith said. ‘What sort of do-dads’re you selling?’
‘If it’s in the company’s dream-book, I sell it,’ Burbury replied. ‘Well, I’ll be saying good night.
‘That’s the first salesman I ever saw who didn’t try to sell something given half a chance,’ Lily commented, watching Burbury head towards the men’s sleeping quarters. ‘And was he fast, Wax. Real fast.’
‘Might not be a drummer, huh?’ Smith said.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Lily countered. ‘Good night, Wax. I’ll likely see you in the morning, but if I don’t, drop by the Happy Bull for a drink—after the stage gets in.’
While Lily glided off towards the women’s room, Smith followed Burbury. On entering, he found that the farmer was already in bed. The little undertaker stood by another bed removing his jacket.
‘If you gents’re going out back,’ the small man said. ‘You’d best ask the stationmaster for a new dream book. I used the last page and the covers’d be rough on the butt-end.’
The reference to the dream-book explained how the undertaker came to be in the building, although he had not passed through the barroom. If he had been using the privy, he could have entered the sleeping quarters by the back door.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ Burbury grinned. ‘I was just going.’
‘Rain’s stopped,’ the undertaker remarked to Smith as Burbury returned to the
barroom.
‘That’s something to be thankful for,’ the Texan replied, realizing he had been so fully occupied all evening that he had been unaware of the aching which usually accompanied wet weather.
‘Gilpin’s gone to tell the dudes they don’t need to be scared anymore,’ Burbury announced, returning with a newspaper in his hand. This’s the best old Dad in there could do.’
‘If it’s a two-holer, I’ll come with you,’ Smith offered. ‘I have to go and there might not be any paper.’
‘A two-holer?’ Burbury grinned. ‘It’s a six-holer. The pride of Sweetwater County, I’ve been told.’
‘May I have a private word with you, Mr. Smith?’ the undertaker asked. ‘On a matter of some importance, for your ears alone.’
‘I reckon so,’ the Texan agreed. ‘You’d best go on ahead, Ric’
‘Sure,’ the drummer replied. ‘I’ve near on waited too long now.’
Letting Burbury get out of the back door, the little man stared at the farmer and made sure that he was asleep. Crossing to Smith’s side, he dropped his voice in a secretive, almost furtive manner.
‘I have something which might be of use to you.’
‘Such as?’ Smith asked.
‘Not so loud, I beg of you, sir,’ the undertaker hissed. ‘It is a sheet of paper I found in the third man’s pocket.’
‘I thought you was supposed to be helping the sheriff,’ Smith said dryly, but held his voice to little higher than a whisper.
‘In the Good Book, sir, we are told that the laborer is worthy of his hire. So I assume that I, Otis M. Capey, being a professional gentleman, should be even more so.’
‘Get to the white meat.’
‘Of course, sir. When I broached the subject of payment for my professional services, I was made certain that none would be forthcoming. So I considered myself ethically entitled to look out for your interests.’
‘And your own,’ Smith drawled. ‘Sure, I know. The laborer is worthy of his hire. Well, let’s see what you’ve got.’
‘Just a sheet of paper,’ Capey replied, taking it from his left hip pocket but not holding it out. ‘With a message on it—but we haven’t spoken of my hire.’
‘I haven’t heard anything that’s worth money,’ Smith pointed out.
‘The message reads, “Smith on his way from Laramie. Stop him getting here”.’
‘Is that all?’ Smith sniffed. ‘I know somebody sent them after me.’
‘There is something more, sir,’ Capey promised, still not offering the paper to the Texan. ‘A name. But it would not be good business to proceed further until money has been discussed.’
‘Twenty dollars,’ Smith suggested, showing none of the interest he felt. If the message should be genuine, it proved that somebody in Widow’s Creek had hired the three men.
‘Twen—!’ Capey began.
‘That’s a fair price and I’m too tired to bargain. ‘Specially when all I have to do is call in the sheriff, tell him and see what you’ve got for free.’
‘I could destroy the paper before he came,’ the undertaker blustered.
‘Not with me this close,’ Smith pointed out. ‘And if you did, you’d be in bad trouble. Maybe you don’t know, but Article Eleven, Section Twenty-Three, Clause Sixty-One of the Wyoming Territorial Penal Code, Withholding Information from a Duly Sworn Peace Officer, says you can get five years in the pokey for doing it. Double if you attempt to, or destroy said evidence.’
‘I don’t share your legal knowledge, Mr. Smith,’ Capey confessed. ‘But there is small need for unpleasantness. We are both businessmen. I accept your offer and, as evidence of my good faith, here is the document.’
‘Gracias,’ Smith said, taking out his wallet and exchanging two of its ten dollar bills for the piece of folded paper.
On opening it out, Smith found it to be a page torn from a notebook. Wanting a better view of his purchase, he took it under the small lamp which hung in the centre of the room. He did not doubt that the message would be as Capey had claimed, but wanted to check on other details. Although printed in block letters, Smith concluded that it had been written by a hand used to holding a pencil. The slight irregularities in the otherwise neat writing could be to disguise it, or caused by it having been written in a hurry.
‘I took the opportunity of examining it in the barn, sir,’ Capey commented quietly from Smith’s side. ‘A businessman must be aware of his wares’ value. There were slight scratches on the bottom of the paper. So I used my pencil and brought them into view.’
Smith was already looking at the marks left in the blackened area at the foot of the page. Somebody had been writing on the sheet which had been above the one he held in the book. By rubbing a lead pencil gently over the area, the undertaker had exposed the two words that pressure had imprinted upon it.
‘Well, sir,’ Capey breathed. ‘Have I been worthy of my hire?’
‘I don’t want the twenty simoleons back, if that’s what you mean,’ Smith replied, folding the letter. To himself, he continued, ‘Who the hell, or what the hell, is Poona Woodstole?’
Chapter Six – A Lady of Talent and Integrity
‘Dad! Dad Derham!’ Waxahachie Smith roared, his voice throbbing with rage.
‘What’s up?’ asked the old hostler, hurrying into the barn.
‘Look at this!’ the Texan commanded, furiously shaking two connected leather straps in his clenched left fist.
Even before he reached the burro, Derham recognized the things in Smith’s hand for what they were. Coming up, he saw that the right girths—with the spacer still fitted between them—had been cut off just below the saddle’s girth rings. Looking over, he found that the left side girths had been treated in the same manner. Smith’s bed-roll lay on the floor, the Colt New Lightning rifle leaning on it.
‘What—!’ the old timer spluttered. ‘Who did it?’
‘How the hell would I know?’ Smith spat out savagely. ‘But happen I find out, I’ll shove my fingers up his nose and poke his eyes out from the inside. Where are those hombres who’re supposed to sleep in here?’
‘Hey!’ protested a sleepy voice. ‘What’s all the noise about?’
Still gripping the severed reins, Smith glared at the tall, gangling man who emerged from the rear of the barn. A second man followed him, coming from the small room, clad in undershirt, Levi’s and bare-footed. Each showed signs of having been awoken from sleep. At the sight of Smith bearing down on them, the first man made as if to pick up a pitch-fork which leaned against a stall.
‘Leave it be, Seth, happen you know what’s good for you,’ Derham warned. This here’s Waxahachie Smith and he’s got good cause to be riled.’
Jerking his hand away from the pitch-fork, the man stared at Smith. Behind Seth, the second hostler lost all his aggressive air.
‘Some son-of-a-bitch cut my girths,’ Smith announced, holding them before the duo. ‘Was you pair in here all night?’
‘’Cepting when we was working,’ Seth answered. ‘Which was most of the time. We had the stage to get ready for tomorrow, stock to tend to—’
‘Did anybody come in while you was here?’ Smith interrupted.
‘Them fellers toting in the dead’n’s,’ Seth replied.
‘And after them?’ the Texan asked.
‘Nobody’s I saw. Me ‘n’ Joel had to clean up in the bar after our other chores. Then we had us a meal, come down here and went to bed.’
‘Who-all left the men’s room last night, Mr. Smith?’ Derham inquired.
‘Near on everybody, I reckon,’ Smith replied bitterly, walking back to the burro.
By going to the privy as soon as Burbury had come back, Smith had kept the undertaker’s information to himself. In fact, the burly drummer had shown no interest in the matter and was already in bed when the Texan returned. After that, Smith had spent a somewhat disturbed and restless night. His natural caution had dictated that he should select a bed in a corner. Situated at the l
eft side of the rear wall, he found his choice to have disadvantages. Always a light sleeper, he had been wakened every time one of the other travelers went out back. During the night, all the room’s occupants, except Capey, had gone by his bed at one time or another.
At the time, Smith had regarded the departures and returns as nothing more than a nuisance which disturbed his rest. Looking down at the saddle, he could see that one of the men who went out might have had a motive other than relieving the call of nature.
‘You’d best go see if I can get a place on the stage, Dad,’ Smith said, modifying his anger-filled voice as he realized that he could not hold the hostlers responsible for his misfortune. ‘I’ll ride up in it, with my horse tied to the back.’
‘Sure thing, Mr. Smith,’ Derham answered and scuttled away.
Footsteps came to the Texan’s ears. He heard a rapid exchange of talk, without being able to make out more than the old timer’s cracked voice speaking hurriedly. A few seconds later, Burbury and the McCobbs entered.
‘I hear you’ve had trouble, Mr. Smith,’ the sheriff greeted, a malicious glint of satisfaction warring with the worry in his eyes.
There’s some’s’d call it that,’ the Texan agreed. ‘My girths’ve been cut.’
‘Cut?’ repeated Billy, throwing a delighted grin at Angus.
‘You reckon it’s funny?’ Smith demanded quietly.
‘Go tend to the horses, you pair!’ McCobb snapped at his nephews, then turned to the Texan. ‘Them three fellers who tried to kill you must’ve done it afore they come looking for you.’
‘Sure,’ Burbury agreed. ‘They did it so you couldn’t come after ’em after they’d killed you, Wax.’
‘Nobody else’d have reason to do it,’ McCobb protested. ‘Er—What do you intend to do now, Mr. Smith?’