by J. T. Edson
Continuing the motion which snatched his right hand from its leather covering, Smith snapped out, cocked and fired the slip gun in a single blur of motion. At the end of his sideways bound, he let both legs bend until he was crouching almost on his knees and with a considerable decrease in his normal height. Lead from Arnie Sheppey’s Colt passed above Smith’s head, but he had assumed the stooping posture in time to save himself from injury.
By the time Smith’s bullets reached Tod Sheppey, always the faster of the brothers, they had separated a little from their line-ahead flight. Three holes formed a small triangle in Tod’s forehead just before his brother got off a shot. Jerking, Tod staggered against the third man and disturbed his aim. Although Tod’s Colt cracked, it had been fired by a dead hand and its bullet did no more than spike a hole in the floor-boards at the far side of the room.
Although concentrating on the three men at the bar, Smith was also aware of how his companions were reacting. Reflected in the mirror, he saw the women sensibly throwing themselves out of the danger area. Woodstole and Hopkirk clearly intended to take a more aggressive role in the proceedings.
Which could prove mighty dangerous for Smith, if it had been the Englishman who sent the three killers to meet him at Gilpin’s way station.
Flashing across at some speed, Woodstole’s right hand gripped and slid the big knife from its fancy black sheath. It had a blade as strange and Oriental-looking as its hilt. Extending straight from the bolster of the hilt for about six inches, the back of the blade curved downwards to form the upper curve of the spear-point vii At first narrow, the blade’s cutting edge widened into a semi-circle to complete the point. An inch ahead of the choil on the edge, a notch like a very shallow W had been cut.
To eyes accustomed to American knives, the weapon drawn by the Englishman appeared heavy, awkward and badly-balanced. Certainly it did not seem to be the kind of knife a man would select if he intended to attack an enemy standing several yards away; the distance separating Smith’s party from the trio at the bar.
Carrying the knife around and out to the extent of his right arm, Woodstole pivoted on his left foot and carried the right forward to stride in Smith’s direction.
Chapter Nine – The Happy Bull’s New Sign
Even as Woodstole’s actions went a warning screaming through Smith, while the slip gun’s barrel pointed up from the recoil, the Englishman continued his movements. About to throw himself sideways and, if he avoided the attack, turn his Colt on his assailant, Smith saw Woodstole swing away from him.
Swirling around on his right foot, the Englishman whipped the knife forward parallel to the ground. Giving a sharp, snapping motion to his wrist, he flung his weapon in Arnie Sheppey’s direction. Doing so caused it to spin around on a slightly upwards plane and pass through the air with an audible ‘whoosh!’. Luck, or an accurate estimation of distance and the revolutions of the knife, caused the blade to be swinging inwards as it reached the man.
Razor-sharp steel sliced into Sheppey’s Adam’s apple, the weight of the knife and its spinning flight’s momentum driving it deeper and deeper. Dropping the smoking, uncocked revolver, he clawed unavailingly at the strangely-shaped weapon which protruded from his throat. With his life’s blood spurting from the wound, he tottered around in a crazy circle and collapsed
Struck by Tod’s staggering body as he cut loose, the third man knew that he had missed Smith. Although he was aware that Woodstole had selected the other brother as target for the strange knife, the man knew that he still was not out of danger. Dragging out his old Army Colt, Hopkirk slanted its eight inch long barrel in the man’s direction.
With commendable speed, the man’s left hand caught hold of Tod’s sleeve. A surging heave sent the stricken Tod reeling to intercept the bullet fired by the old rancher. Having protected himself, the man flung himself across the room. Gun in hand, he sped along parallel to the counter. Both of the bartenders ducked out of sight. Women screamed and men hurled themselves to the floor, or crouched behind tables. In doing so, they effectively prevented Smith and Hopkirk from taking shots at the departing man. Ducking his head down and left shoulder forward, he plunged through a side window to disappear from view.
Regaining an upright position, Smith leapt in pursuit. Charging through the excited occupants of the room, he flattened himself against the wall by the window. Fast as he had moved, on peering cautiously out he found that the man had acted even faster. On quitting the building, he must have landed running for he was nowhere to be seen.
Smith remembered the horses at the hitching rail. Three carried double-girthed saddles such as Texans, many New Mexicans of Anglo-Saxon origin and Arizonans used. The Sheppey brothers hailed from the latter Territory. Deciding that the horses belonged to the trio, he sprinted towards the batwing doors. Already Hopkirk and Woodstole, the latter now holding an Artillery Model Peacemaker, were preparing to go out through them. Joining them, Smith plunged on to the sidewalk. He landed ready to throw lead. There was no need. The man had not come around the front to collect the means of making good his mistake.
‘Blast it!’ Hopkirk spat out. ‘He’s hornswoggled us.’
‘Round the back!’ Woodstole went on.
Although the three men ran to the corner, through the alley and to the rear of the building, they saw no sign of the third man. He had clearly wasted no time in leaving the vicinity of the saloon. Nor did there appear to be anybody around who could shed light on the direction he had taken.
‘We’ve lost him!’ Hopkirk declared, angrily thrusting the Army Colt back into its holster.
‘If it’s not a personal question,’ Woodstole remarked to Smith as they returned their weapons to leather and retracted their footsteps along the alley. ‘Who were those chaps?’
‘I don’t know the feller who got away,’ Smith admitted. ‘But the other two’re Tod ’n’ Arnie Sheppey. I shot their brother down in Arizona a couple of years back. Word’s been going ’round that they was gunning for me on ‘count of it.’
‘Come up here a-hunting for you, huh?’ suggested Hopkirk.
‘More likely they just happened to be around,’ Smith answered. ‘Knew I’d recognize them and started to stop me doing it out loud. There’s a bounty on each of their scalps.’ Then he recalled something. ‘I haven’t thanked you two gents for siding me in there.’
‘Had to do something, old boy,’ Woodstole drawled, in a languid manner which did not match the speed he had shown in drawing and throwing the knife. ‘Those blighters looked a bit aggressive and had to be stopped before somebody was hurt.’
‘Didn’t reckon you could take the three of ’em, neither,’ Hopkirk continued. ‘So I cut loose with my old Colt ’n’ Poona started tossing his kukri around. Danged heathen weapon.’
‘Your what? Smith asked the Englishman.
‘Kukri? Woodstole elaborated. ‘I learned how to use it while I was serving with the Gurkhas in Poona.’
‘They’re some blasted Injun tribe in what he says’s the real Injia,’ Hopkirk explained. ‘Like I tell him, our Injuns’s allus been real enough for me.’
Smith knew that Great Britain ruled a country called India. There was more than a hint of military training about Wood-stole. According to what he had said, some of his service had been with the native troops who used the strange kind of knife he carried. That reference to Poona accounted for his unusual first name. Maybe, like Smith, he had been christened after the town of his birth.
However, at that moment Smith felt less interested in the Englishman’s past than about the present. If Woodstole and Hopkirk had wanted him dead, they could have achieved their ends by not moving so fast, letting the Sheppey boys kill him and then wiping them out. That last would have prevented the brothers from answering questions in the event of their capture. Smith was inclined to believe that finding Woodstole’s name on the message had been no more than a coincidence. He must look elsewhere for the person who wanted to have him gunned down.
/> Did the answer await him inside the saloon?
Going in ahead of the ranchers, Smith found Wil and Lily on their feet. Brushing the sawdust from her dress, Lily was telling the customers to go ahead with whatever they had been doing before the fuss. Although slightly paler than when she had entered, Wil looked composed and tidied her appearance with steady hands. Both girls turned towards the men.
‘He got away,’ Lily remarked, stating the obvious.
‘Clean away,’ Smith agreed and searched her face for any sign of relief at the news. ‘How long had they been in here?’
‘Since just after we opened,’ Lily replied, showing no emotion and meeting his gaze without wavering. ‘You knew them?’
‘Only the two who took lead,’ Smith answered. ‘Have they been in here afore?’
‘Not that I could swear to. But I don’t recall every feller’s comes. I’ll ask around among the boys and girls for you.’
‘I’d be right obliged if you would,’ Smith drawled.
Armed with shotguns, the town marshal and two deputies arrived. Tall, burly, Marshal Caster was a different class of peace officer to Sheriff McCobb and looked poorly-dressed enough to be honest. He did not impress Smith as being an office-filler. Studying him, Smith wondered why he had agreed to stand down during the fair. It might have been an opportunity for him to impress important visitors and maybe gain employment in a larger town.
Showing some surprise at finding the mayor in the saloon, Caster did not allow it to distract him. He asked what had been the cause of the trouble and listened while Woodstole, Hopkirk and Smith told their stories. All the time, his eyes roamed over Smith.
‘Seems like they was hunting you, Mr. Smith,’ Caster commented at last.
‘Looks that way,’ Smith admitted noncommittally, watching Lily to see how she took his remark on the trio’s motives. Nothing showed and he went on, ‘The Sheppey boys’re wanted down to Prescott, There’s seven hundred and fifty dollars on each of ’em.’
‘And you aim to claim it?’ Caster said coldly.
‘That’s what rewards are put on for, marshal,’ Smith replied.
‘Can’t say I’ve ever took much to bounty hunters,’ Caster stated.
‘And I don’t take to local peace officers who pull out when the going looks like it’s getting tough,’ Smith answered.
Remembering what Wil had told him during the opening stages of their interview, Smith realized that he was doing Caster an injustice. Always a believer in fair play, the Texan was prepared to forget his annoyance at the marshal’s comment about bounty hunters.
‘That was my decision rather than Marshal Caster’s,’ Wil put in; ‘It took some argument before he agreed. The marshal’s got a lot of friends in and around town and they’ll all be here for the fair—’
‘So he doesn’t want to rile ’em by arresting them or their friends, which he might have to do, while, they’re celebrating,’ Smith drawled. ‘That’s smart thinking seeing’s how he’ll be handling the new law here long after we’re gone.’
‘Yes, Mr. Smith,’ Wil said with a smile. ‘You’re hired as whipping-boys, if you know what I mean.’
‘I’ve heard tell about them,’ Smith declared. ‘And, for what you’re paying me, folks can whip ahead.’
Caster had continued to study the Texan. In his time as a peace officer, the marshal had been brought into contact with a number of professional bounty hunters. He knew that the majority of them were cold-blooded killers little better morally than the wanted men they hunted down. While Ottaway, whom he had already met, struck Caster as being close to that kind, he sensed that Smith was different. His every instinct, combined with some knowledge of Smith’s past, told him that the Texan would be hard, but fair in the execution of the difficult work ahead. More than that, Smith accepted how he had been brought into face the objections of citizens who ran afoul of the law during the celebrations at the fair. When it was over, those same citizens would have no cause to hold grudges against their regular law enforcement officers.
‘I shouldn’t have said what I did about bounty hunters, Mr. Smith,’ Caster apologized.
‘Why not, happen you feel that way on it?’ Smith answered. ‘I don’t go much for ’em myself. But if I have to down somebody with a bounty on his head, I’ll claim it. If I don’t, somebody with no right to the money will.’
‘Likely,’ the marshal conceded. ‘Do you want to take over today?’
‘If that’ll be all right with you,’ the Texan replied. ‘There’s no rush, one way or the other.’
‘Happen it suits you, I’ll show you ’round the town afore I start my vacation,’ Caster offered.
‘I’d be right obliged if you would,’ Smith agreed, knowing it would be folly to refuse such valuable information.
‘Let me tend to things here,’ Caster suggested. ‘Then we can get to it.’
‘I’ve got to go to a meeting with Miss Jeffreys at noon,’ Smith drawled. ‘Shouldn’t last more than an hour—’
‘Not that long, happen I’ve my way,’ Hopkirk growled.
‘Happen it’s all right with you,’ Smith continued to the marshal. ‘We’ll meet up, take a meal at the Simple Hotel and talk some.’
‘That’s all right with me,’ Caster agreed. ‘Go through their pockets, boys, then have them toted to the undertaker’s.’
‘Sure, Bert,’ answered the older of the deputies.
‘Want to see what they’re carrying, friend?’ the marshal inquired.
‘Don’t reckon it’ll be anything to interest me,’ Smith replied, determined to keep Lily—if she should be involved—convinced that he suspected nothing. ‘And you can say “Wax”, happen it comes easier than “friend”.’
‘Hey, Wax,’ Lily remarked as the marshal and his deputies went to attend to their work. ‘How about coming to see the new sign?’
‘Why not,’ the Texan replied. That’s what we’re here for.’
While the others had been talking, Woodstole had collected the kukri and borrowed a rag from behind the bar to wipe off the blood. Slipping the curved blade back into its sheath, he followed the others to the backroom. Throwing open its door with a flourish, Lily waved for them to precede her. Inside the room, a slim young man wearing a paint-spattered smock stopped his work on the long board set up against the far wall.
‘Well?’ Lily asked, with a challenging, defiant grin.
Although not yet completed, the picture on the board had sufficient detail for Wil, Smith and the ranchers to know what it would depict. A very obvious bull stood proudly in the centre of a group of equally obvious cows. Every external anatomical feature had been marked in prominently.
‘Good God!’ Wil gasped. ‘You can’t mean to put that thing up?’
‘Why not?’ the blonde demanded. ‘That sure is one happy bull, don’t you reckon, Poona?’
‘Possibly,’ the Englishman answered and his voice had lost all its earlier cordiality.
‘I can’t allow it to be put up!’ Wil stated.
‘You can’t?’ Lily challenged.
‘As mayor of Widow’s Creek, I have a responsibility to the town—’
‘Just how do you reckon to stop me putting it up?’ the blonde interrupted.
‘Any way I have to,’ Wil warned.
‘Such as?’ Lily demanded.
There was a savage, brittle air of tension in the room. The two beautiful women were eyeing each other like alley-cats meeting on a fence-top. If Wil had been another saloon-worker, Smith would have expected claws to be raking at flesh. As it was, the lady-banker stood with clenched fists and bust heaving. Facing her, Lily crooked long-nailed fingers and seemed to be crouching ready to meet any kind of attack her enemy chose to launch.
‘We’ve that meeting soon, Wil,’ Woodstole remarked quietly. ‘It wouldn’t do for us to keep Mr. Bilak waiting.’
The soft-spoken words sounded loud and broke the tension. Letting out her held-back breath in a long sigh, Wil opened her
hands.
‘You’re right, Poona,’ she said, hardly louder than a whisper. ‘Shall we go, gentlemen?’
‘How about my new sign?’ Lily insisted. ‘What do you think to it, Poona?’
‘We’ll go, Wil,’ the Englishman said and turned on his heel.
Lily stared at the departing ranchers with more than a hint of consternation, as if realizing that she had gone too far.
Watching her, Smith could see the worry on her face and thought that she might relent. Instead, she braced back her shoulders and tightened her lips in lines of grim determination.
‘Don’t put it up, Shivers!’ Wil snapped, swinging away from the blonde and leaving the room.
‘Don’t hell!’ Lily hissed and lunged forward with fingers curved like talons ready to drive into flesh.
‘Hold it!’ Smith snapped, shooting out his left hand to catch the blonde by her right bicep and bringing her to a halt.
‘Take your hand off me!’ Lily spat.
‘Not until you show sense,’ the Texan replied and glared at the painter. ‘If you want to stay healthy, stand right where you are.’
Although he had been tensing as if to leap to the blonde’s rescue, the artist refrained from doing so. He could see the anger on Smith’s face and read it in the Texan’s voice. That was the man who had killed another human being across the width of the barroom and in an incredibly swift movement. There had been no hesitation in how Smith had acted then and the man sensed there would be none if he disobeyed the grim command.
‘I thought we were friends, Smith!’ Lily said bitterly, standing still.
‘So did I,’ the Texan answered. ‘Same’s I thought you were a smart woman up until we come in here.’ He released his hold. ‘Do you reckon even your friends’d stand for you jumping her over that blasted sign? They’d have you closed up afore sundown.’
‘You’d close me down,’ Lily corrected.