Slip Gun

by J. T. Edson

  ‘How about your regular marshal?’

  ‘He agreed to start his vacation from the time I appointed a temporary successor.’

  Taking the badge, Smith pinned it on to his vest’s left breast. He tried to recall how many times he had performed such an act since taking up his new profession. With his right hand on the bible and left raised, he repeated the oath of office after Wil. One thing he knew for sure. No matter how she tried to hide it, he had never been sworn in by a prettier person. Not until the ceremony had ended did he realize that Wil had not put on her spectacles before reading the words for him to repeat.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Jeffreys,’ the teller said, poking his head around the door after knocking. ‘Mr. Hopkirk and Mr. Wood-stole are waiting to see you.’

  ‘Ask them to come in,’ the girl replied. ‘Don’t go, Mr. Smith. I would like you to meet these two gentlemen.’

  Smith nodded his agreement. That suggestion had saved him trying to invent an excuse to remain. He wanted to meet Poona Woodstole, whose name had been on a message carried by a man sent to kill him.

  Chapter Eight – Faces from Smith’s Past

  In appearance, the two men who entered Wil’s office could not have been different. First of them to come through the door was a short, leathery old Texas rancher. One of the breed who, in the depression-dark days following the War Between The States, had helped Texas grow from hide and horn and reach prosperity, vi and who, later, had seen the potential of the Wyoming range lands which had been spurned by the homesteader to whom it had originally been offered.

  Keen eyes twinkled in a seamed, oak-brown face. To show that he did not hold with new-fangled contraptions, Charlie Hopkirk carried a cap-and-ball 1860 Army Colt in his holster. Smith did not regard it as a relic or a decoration.

  Like his partner, Poona Woodstole wore the dress of a working cowhand. Tall, slim, good-looking, there was an air of neat, calm ability about him. Balancing the holstered Colt Peacemaker, a long, wide, curved knife of Oriental aspect swung in a metal-tipped black leather sheath at the left of his gunbelt. Directing his attention to the knife, which had a length and heft that beat even the fabled James Black bowie, Smith saw two smaller knives fitted into the sheath behind its fancy, quillon-less hilt.

  No matter how Poona Woodstole dressed, to Smith he looked like a fine example of the British upper-class; and the Texan had reason to feel gratitude to one of them. Woodstole was the type of man whose courage, initiative, self-sacrifice and ability had built a tiny island into what, in the 1880’s, was the most powerful and respected nation in the world.

  ‘It’s here, Wil,’ Woodstole announced, taking a telegraph form from his vest pocket. ‘Cousin Basil’s bringing them—’

  ‘Howdy, young feller,’ Hopkirk boomed, directing his words at Smith. ‘Don’t recollect seeing you around.’

  Despite the welcome, Smith guessed that the words had been uttered as a warning and to direct Woodstole’s attention to the fact that there was a stranger in the office.

  ‘This’s Mr. Waxahachie Smith, Poona, Charlie,’ Wil introduced. ‘Mr. Smith, meet the owners of the C Lazy P ranch. Charlie Hopkirk and Poona Woodstole.’

  ‘Do we say “Mister” or “Waxahachie”?’ Woodstole inquired cheerfully, transferring the paper so that he could extend his right hand.

  ‘Try “Wax”,’ Smith offered, trying to read any hint of guilty knowledge on the other’s face and failing. The hand which closed on his had strength, without deliberately trying to impress him by that quality.

  ‘I mind ye pappy when he was running the law in Houston,’ Hopkirk stated, clearly satisfied with the Texan’s bona fides. ‘Wasn’t you going to tell Wil something, Poona?’

  ‘I wondered if I’d ever get the chance,’ Woodstole replied with a smile.

  ‘Blasted young whippersnapper!’ Hopkirk sniffed. ‘And don’t ask me what one of ’em is, Wax. He taught me to say it. Blasted Britisher.’

  ‘Ignoring the ribald peasantry, Wil,’ Woodstole began.

  ‘I ain’t bald!’ the old timer protested.

  Raising his eyes to the roof in a resigned manner, Woodstole continued, ‘Cousin Basil is bringing them. He’ll be at Laramie on Friday.’

  ‘At Laramie?’ Wil repeated. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just one of Basil’s precautions,’ Woodstole explained. ‘He’s not let us know when he’s coming until the last moment. We’ll meet him at Laramie and bring him the rest of the way.’

  ‘Both of you?’Wil asked.

  ‘Just me,’ Hopkirk corrected.

  ‘I believe that Cousin Basil’s strong enough to stomach the sight,’ Woodstole informed the girl. ‘So Charlie’s going. Of course, I’m sending four of the boys along to lessen the blow.’

  ‘You’re probably wondering what all this is about,’ Wil remarked to Smith.

  ‘Yes’m.’

  ‘Poona’s cousin, Sir Basil Houghton-Rand, is British Ambassador in Washington. He’s bringing his family jewels, worth five hundred thousand dollars, for us to put on display at the fair.’

  ‘That’s something I hadn’t heard about,’ Smith said quietly.

  ‘We haven’t been spreading it around,’ Wil admitted. It’s to be in the newspapers around the Territory on Saturday and will be mentioned on the posters I’ll have passed around the town

  over the weekend.’

  ‘Five hundred thousand dollars!’ Smith ejaculated. ‘That’s a whole slew of money to have on display.’

  ‘Pinkertons are guarding it,’ Woodstole put in. ‘We’re only sending the extra men to cover the last part of the journey so that I can get this old goat out from under-foot for a few days.’

  ‘Ranch’ll be in ruins and belly-deep in nesters time I get back,’ Hopkirk declared in a mournful voice. ‘Still, I’ve told him so.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wil said to Smith. ‘They go on like this all the time.’

  ‘Sounds that way,’ the Texan grinned, having caught the undercurrents of mutual respect and affection in the caustic comments and abuse.

  Smith had also noticed the change which had come over Wil Jeffreys since the arrival of Woodstole. Gone was much of the business-like severity and efficiency. Although she seemed to be trying to avoid it, she showed something of the vibrant beautiful woman that lurked beneath her cold exterior. Almost as if reading the Texan’s thoughts, Wil picked up her spectacles and brought herself back to the level on which he had first made her acquaintance.

  ‘I’ve arranged for Mr. Bilak—’ she said in an impersonal tone.

  ‘Blasted nester!’ spat Hopkirk.

  ‘To come and talk with us,’ Wil continued as if the interruption had never been made. ‘He will be meeting us at the mayor’s office at noon. I hope that you remembered to bring documentary proof of your title to the C Lazy P land, Poona?’

  ‘I did,’ the Englishman assured her, tapping a slight bulge on the left side of his vest. ‘I fetched the deeds with me.’

  ‘You’ve no objection to Mr. Smith being present at the meeting?’

  ‘None, Wil,’ Woodstole confirmed. ‘How about Bilak, will he be alone?’

  ‘No,’ Wil admitted. ‘He sent word last night that he’s bringing one of the Grange’s organizers from Cheyenne.’

  ‘There ain’t but one way to deal with that blasted Grange crowd!’ Hopkirk announced, slamming on his Stetson to emphasize his statement. ‘And it ain’t to go sitting guzzling Limey tea ’n’ soft-talking all loving with ’em.’

  ‘Bloodthirsty old devil, isn’t he?’ Woodstole sighed, with a languid, disdainful glance at his bristling partner. ‘Thinks all the world’s problems can be solved with war-whoops, shooting and scalp-lifting.’

  ‘You can’t talk peaceable to the son-of-a-bit— Grange!’ Hopkirk warned, hurriedly revising his final words. ‘All they want’s to grab off land’s somebody else’s come in, tamed and’s proved worth having.’

  Listening to the old timer, Smith could scent trouble. Maybe Wil Jef
freys had tried to import five known gun-fighters to handle the law so that she could compel peace between the ranchers and the homesteaders during the fair. If Woodstole and Hopkirk had learned of his coming, they might have sent Hardy’s party to stop him. Except that neither had given any hint that they might object to his presence. Nor did they appear to have taken any action against Ottaway.

  ‘I think you’d best head for Laramie before the meeting,’ Woodstole declared to the old timer. ‘Don’t mind him, Wax. He always get this way if I let him go out in the rain. It must rust what passes for his brains.’

  ‘Just for that,’ Hopkirk threatened, ‘I’ve a danged good mind to go afore it and leave you to handle them ba— Grange gentlemen yourself.’

  ‘Come on. If you’ll promise to go, I’ll buy you a stirrup-cup to speed you on your way,’ Woodstole answered. ‘We’ll see you at noon, Wil.’

  ‘That will give me time to show Mr. Smith the marshal’s office,’ Wil replied. ‘Unless you have other plans, Mr. Smith?’

  ‘Nary a plan, ma’am,’ Smith admitted, drawing on his glove and taking his hat from where it swung by its barbiquejo chin-strap on the back of his chair. ‘It’ll help if you’re along to talk to your marshal.’

  The three men accompanied Wil from her office. Informing her tellers that she would not be back until one o’clock, she led the way to the front door. Following close behind, Smith heard Wil’s sharp intake of breath and saw her pause with her hand on the handle. He looked over her shoulder and through the door’s glass panel, wanting to find out what had caused the reaction. Carrying a canvas bag and dressed as she had been in the barroom the previous night, Lily Shivers was strolling across the street. Stiffening her shoulders, as if going to face an unpleasant ordeal, Wil opened the door and stepped out on to the sidewalk.

  ‘Hi, Poona, Charlie,’ Lily greeted as the men emerged from the bank, then indicated a pair of excellent saddle-horses standing tied to its hitching-rail. ‘I thought I knew those two flea-bitten, cow-hocked crow-bait when I saw them. Well, hello there, Wax.’ She looked at the badge on his vest for a moment. ‘I didn’t know I was entertaining the town’s new marshal last night.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ Smith admitted.

  ‘Sure hope it won’t stop you coming with Poona and Charlie to the party on Saturday night,’ Lily went on.

  ‘Party?’ Hopkirk put in, displaying lively interest. ‘What party?’

  ‘It’s what you might call my un-wedding party,’ Lily explained and held up a left hand devoid of rings. ‘My divorce’s come through at last, boys, and I’m a free woman again.’

  ‘Do you want to see me, Miss Shiver?’ Wil asked, with icicles in her voice.

  ‘At the party?’ the blonde grinned. ‘Why it’d be a pleasure and a sure-enough delight to have my banker and the town’s esteemed mayor as a guest.’

  ‘I mean now!’ Wil gritted, knowing that several ‘good’ women were watching and being aware of how they felt about the owner of the Happy Bull saloon.

  ‘Nope,’ Lily answered, sharing Wil’s knowledge without it causing her any concern. ‘I was just going to pay some money into the bank. Old Ryall likes me to come dressed this ways, it gives him pleasure to see a real woman in there.’ She had raised her voice, to make sure the listening women could hear. When Wil did not speak, she went on louder than was necessary, ‘Say, though, why don’t all of you come on over, have a snifter on the house and take a look at the new sign I’m having painted special in honor of the county fair?’

  ‘It might prove interesting,’ Wil replied, contriving to sound as if she doubted that it would. ‘Unfortunately, we all have other things to attend to.’

  ‘That’s our mayor talking,’ Lily said, in mock admiration. ‘Always business first with him—her. Why Wil’s a regular day-and-night, rip-roaring businessman. Isn’t she, Poona?’

  Stiffening slightly and losing his smile, Woodstole made no reply. A red flush crept into Wil’s cheeks, but she said nothing.

  Watching the by-play, Smith could almost smell the waves of hostility flowing between the two women. They could be caused from jealousy over a mutual interest in the British rancher. Or they might have older, deeper roots. Either way, Smith’s work could be adversely affected. As far as he had seen last night, Lily ran a clean, well-kept, honest place. Unless he missed his guess, it would be the gathering point for the male civic dignitaries and important visitors. In consequence, it would need supervision to prevent any untoward incidents occurring. Lily’s whole-hearted co-operation would be needed in that.

  Which posed a question.

  Would Lily Shivers’ obvious hatred of Wil Jeffreys cause her to try to spoil the fair and discredit the town?

  If so, Lily could have learned of Wil sending for Smith and the other gun-fighters. She had been in Laramie when Smith arrived and might have sent for Hardy to meet them at Gilpin’s way station to prevent him reaching Widow’s Creek. Her mention of having seen the gambler coming from Wil’s private office could have been said to make him distrust his employer. There were a number of explanations why Poona Woodstole’s name had been imprinted on the paper found by Capey, all innocent, if Lily had sent it.

  ‘Come on, Charlie, Poona,’ Lily continued after a moment.

  ‘You can make time to see it. And I’ll bet Wil’s just itching to take a look. Only she’s one business-maw who doesn’t dare come into a saloon.’

  ‘I’m not particularly interested—!’ Wil gritted.

  ‘Maybe we’d best take a look at it, Miss Jeffreys,’ Smith suggested, recalling the blonde’s comments the previous night and deciding that the new sign might be worth seeing before its completion and erection. ‘It’ll not take us far out of our way, or much of our time.’

  ‘And you’ll have a snort of Old Stump-Blaster before you look?’ Lily inquired, flickering a long, appraising look at Smith.

  ‘Not right now, ma’am,’ the Texan refused.

  ‘No drinking on duty, huh, Wax?’ the blonde challenged.

  ‘It’s a right good rule to stay alive by,’ Smith answered. ‘But I’ll hold you to the offer when I’m not.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t be open then,’ Lily warned.

  Smith looked at the blonde, meeting her eyes until she turned her head. Up to the conversation, he had liked Lily and respected her as a shrewd woman competing in a man’s world on male terms. By her behavior, she was asking to forfeit his friendship and respect.

  ‘I’ve bought my own liquor afore and expect to again,’ Smith told her.

  ‘So you finally got free from that no-account varmint, Lily,’ Hopkirk put in, clearly considering that the subject should be changed. His diplomacy did not continue. ‘He wasn’t never a lick of good. Wil had the right notion when she told him to go to hell.’

  ‘Wil’s always been the one for right notions,’ Lily replied and the edge of bitterness in her voice gave Smith an inkling of the cause of the girl’s enmity. Then she gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. ‘Come and see the sign. It’s in the back-room, but maybe our mayor daren’t go through the front door into a saloon—?’

  ‘There’s a door around ba—’ Hopkirk began.

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll get too contaminated, the short time I’ll be inside,’ Wil interrupted, stepping by Lily as if the blonde did not exist and starting to cross the street. ‘It can’t be as bad as all that.’

  If looks could have killed, Wil would not have taken three steps before she died. Lily showed all the symptoms of a gambler whose bluff had been called. Clenching her fists and gritting her teeth, Lily led the men after the other girl. Going by the few horses secured to the saloon’s hitching rail, Wil stepped up and crossed the sidewalk with an air of cold determination. Even so, she seemed to hesitate at the batwing doors. Then she pushed them open and stepped through.

  Trailing along behind the girls, Smith glanced at the horses. Two had army McClellan saddles and stood a few feet away from three which toted Texas rigs. The latter had no
special significance, for many Texans rode the Wyoming ranges. At that moment, Smith was more interested in watching Lily and Wil.

  Already the saloon was doing a brisk trade. The arrival of the mayor caused surprise, if not actual consternation, amongst the majority of people in the barroom. Townsmen stopped their conversations, put down their drinks and stared at Wil. A low giggle broke from one of Lily’s girls, but the remainder scowled their animosity at the invasion of their domain by a ‘good’ woman—and one who their well-liked boss had reason to hate.

  Always alert, as a man in his line of work must be to remain alive, Smith scanned the room for enemies. His attention came to rest on three men standing at the bar. All had their backs to him and two of them held their heads inclined forward so that he could see no more than the tops of their hats reflected in the big mirror behind the bar. Tall, wearing ordinary cowhand clothing in the fashion of the Southern ranges, gun-hung, they might have been no more than a trio of ranch employees visiting the town’s best saloon to see how it stacked up in comparison with their more usual haunts north of the river.

  Glancing at the newcomers reflected in the mirror, the man whose face Smith could see—but did not recognize—addressed his companions. Up tilted the Stetsons, while hands crept surreptitiously towards the butts of guns. Two tanned, unshaven, heavily-mustached faces came into view. Smith identified them as belonging to the Sheppey brothers, Arnie and Tod. What was more, Smith could guess how they would react to being in the same room as himself.

  ‘Look out!’ Smith barked.

  Giving the warning, he lunged to the right and away from the rest of his party. Flying across as he moved, his left fingers met and closed on the right glove. There would be little enough time for him to save his life. Already the three men were turning from the bar and drawing their revolvers.

  At Smith’s words and the sight of the trio of customers’ behavior, Lily dived to the left and down. Showing an equally astute and rapid grasp of the situation, Wil matched her blonde rival’s movements. They landed side by side on the floor, flattening belly-down regardless of the layer of sawdust that covered it, and stayed there.