Slip Gun

by J. T. Edson

  Nor, if he knew anything about their kind, would the Free Land Society’s organizers hesitate to use violence to achieve their ends. If they planned agitation and incidents to disrupt the county fair and gain publicity for their schemes, they would not hesitate about trying to kill anybody who stood in their way.

  Having crossed the centre bridge, the peace officers made their way along Shivers Street. The main business section south of the river, the street had two saloons on its length. Near the river was the Brand Book, haunt of the cowhands. Closer to the edge of town and on the opposite side, stood the farmers’ gathering place, the Busted Plough. Several horses which looked more suitable for light haulage than full-time saddle-work stood at the hitching rail of the Busted Plough.

  A cowhand was riding towards the Busted Plough, instead of making to where half-a-dozen cow ponies awaited their masters’ pleasure outside the Brand Book. Dismounting, he fastened his reins to the hitching rail. Then, with Smith and the deputies increasing their pace, he strolled into the farmers’ saloon. The batwing doors had barely swung outwards behind him when a rifle cracked and he reeled out again clutching at his chest.

  ‘Hit the side doors, Ric, Ottaway!’ Smith barked, sprinting towards the building. ‘Stan. See to the cowhand.’

  Breaking away from his companions, Frith ran along the alley towards the nearer side’s door. Ottaway dashed on, turning at the other end of the saloon. Following Smith, Jeffreys dropped to one knee beside the wounded cowhand and rested his shotgun against the end support of the hitching rail. The Texan went on to the sidewalk with a bound, crossed it and thrust open the doors. Landing on spread-apart feet, rifle held ready for instant use, Smith swung a quick gaze around the room. The rear door swung closed. At the bar stood two men who were enough alike to be twins. Behind the counter and scattered about the room, the bar-tender and several customers stood in strained, worried postures. Smith’s eyes went back to the possible twins. They had the appearance of farmers, yet wore gunbelts and carried revolvers in fast-draw holsters. Neither of them had a rifle, but the one on the right held a revolver which he slanted in Smith’s direction.

  Not for long. Flying open, the left side door admitted C. B. Frith behind a shotgun. Across the room, Ottaway came in equally ready for trouble.

  ‘Drop the gun, pronto !’ Smith commanded.

  Cold, suspicious eyes glared at Smith. As always when carrying out the duties of a peace officer, he looked clean and tidy. Smith had never heard of psychology, but practical experience had taught him that an appearance of cleanliness and neatness impressed people more than a slovenly aspect. However, the brothers did not like what they saw. Apart from his boots, Smith might have been a cowhand or a reasonably prosperous rancher. He was certainly a Texan, hailing from a State with its very roots buried in the cattle business.

  No matter how they might regard Smith personally, the brothers knew better than refuse to obey. So the one holding his revolver twirled it flashily and returned it to his holster.

  ‘Round the back, Mr. Ottaway,’ Smith requested. The one with the rifle’s gone that way.’

  ‘Yo!’ Ottaway replied and left the room.

  ‘Who’re you?’ asked the second of the brothers sullenly.

  ‘Name’s Smith. I took over marshal yesterday.’

  ‘Marshal!’ spat out the first brother. ‘They didn’t say not—’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ barked the second, then swung his gaze around at the other customers. ‘Are you going to let these cattlemen’s John Laws take us?’

  ‘They are,’ Smith stated. ‘You don’t figure they’re going up against shot-guns to save your hides. Even without the other.’

  ‘What other?’ demanded the second brother.

  ‘Article Eleven, Section Twenty-Three, Item Sixty-One of the Wyoming Criminal Justice Code,’ Smith elaborated, watching the farmers rather than the brothers. ‘It says, any man who offers succor and assistance to a wanted person where-by the said person escapes arrest, will be taken into custody and held until said person is captured. So you gents just carry on with whatever you was doing while I arrest the Joneses for slow-elking.’

  ‘Slow-elking?’ gulped the first brother, seeing no sign of support amongst the other customers. ‘So that’s why you’re here!’

  ‘Neither of you’s got a rifle,’ Smith drawled. ‘So it couldn’t’ve been you who shot the cowhand. I’ll get round to that when my deputy comes back.’

  The left side door opened and Ottaway returned on his own.

  ‘He got away, marshal. They’d got three hosses out back and he took off with all three of them. Was too close to houses or people for me to cut loose with a scatter or handgun.’

  ‘All right, you pair,’ Smith said. ‘Shed those gunbelts, pronto.’

  ‘We didn’t shoot him,’ Morgan Jones said, looking uneasy.

  ‘Like I said,’ Smith answered. ‘I’m arresting you on that slow-elking warrant you run out from.’

  ‘Marshal!’ Jeffreys called, standing up on the sidewalk and speaking over his shoulder without taking his attention from the street. ‘I think you’d best come out here.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Smith replied, guessing why the request had been made. ‘Take over here, Ric.’

  ‘Yo!’ Frith answered. ‘Get them gunbelts shed and fast!’

  There was a quiet, deliberate menace in the burly man’s voice which caused the brothers to obey. Unbuckling their gun-belts, they let the weapons slip to the floor and stood glowering after Smith as he headed towards the door.

  As he crossed the room, Smith could see what was going on outside. Two cowhands had arrived and Jeffreys stood facing them. Before Smith reached the door, the young deputy turned away from the pair and started to point along the street. Like a flash, the taller of the pair lifted up a Colt revolver and slammed its barrel against the back of Jeffreys’ skull. Although the Stetson took some of the impact, Jeffreys stumbled to his knees. Ignoring his companion, who had dropped to kneel by the shot man, the cowhand charged through the batwing doors.

  Down swung Smith’s Colt rifle, its foregrip slide flashing to the rear and staying there. The cowhand skidded to a halt, eyes flaring widely as they looked into the muzzle of the rifle. Then he swung his gaze by Smith and halted it on the Jones brothers at the bar.

  ‘Get off of my trail, marshal!’ the cowhand ordered.

  ‘That’s not what I’m hired and paid to do, friend,’ Smith replied gently.

  ‘I don’t want to kill you, marshal,’ the young cowhand warned. ‘But I’ll do it to get at them pair of bastards for what they done to Alvin.’

  ‘Thing for you to figure on,’ Smith said in the same even tone, ‘is if you want to kill them enough to die for doing it.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You can only do it after I’m dead. And you can’t kill me without taking lead yourself.’

  The cowhand’s Colt lined just as squarely at Smith’s chest as the rifle’s barrel pointed his way, its trigger depressed and the hammer retained at full cock by his thumb. Nobody else in the room made a move. Although Frith threw a quick look at Smith, he kept his shotgun lined on the brothers. Ottaway turned and his ten gauge’s twin tubes circled the farmers in an all-embracing, menacing gesture. For his part, Smith stood as if made of stone and his eyes stayed on the cowhand’s face, forcing the other to meet his gaze.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked the cowhand.

  ‘Look at this rifle I’m pointing at you,’ Smith advised. ‘It’s not like any you’ve seen, likely. As soon as my left hand loosens on the foregrip, it’ll go forward and fire. So, even if you shoot me, you’ll die right after.’

  ‘I don’t want to shoot you!’ the cowhand protested. ‘It’s them Joneses—’

  ‘Neither of them shot your amigo.’ Smith interrupted. ‘Take my word on it. Now put up your gun and leave me find out who did.’

  ‘Leather it, Robbie!’ ordered Poona Woodstole’s voice from outside the saloon. ‘Go on. Pu
t it away. It won’t solve anything.’

  ‘That’s real sound advice, cowboy,’ Smith confirmed, having been giving so much of his attention to Robbie that he had not noticed the rancher’s arrival. ‘You don’t want to kill me, or them.’

  ‘Alvin’s dead!’ Robbie groaned, lowering the revolver.

  ‘We’ll get the man who killed him,’ Smith promised, taking his rifle out of alignment. ‘And when we do, it’ll be the right one.’

  Then the Texan walked by Robbie. Rubbing his head, Jeffreys came into the room after Woodstole. The young deputy looked anxious and miserable as he met Smith’s questioning gaze.

  ‘It was my own fault, Wax,’ Jeffreys declared. ‘I looked away when Robbie said Poona was coming.’

  ‘You’ll know better next time,’ Smith guessed. ‘Take him to the jail-house and put him in a cell.’

  “‘Jail!’ Robbie yelped. He had turned as Smith went by and started to holster his revolver.

  ‘You pistol-whipped my deputy,’ Smith replied. ‘That can’t be overlooked. And, happen you reckon I was kidding about my rifle-’

  With that, Smith released the foregrip. It rode forward, feeding a bullet from the tubular magazine into the chamber. With the trigger portion of the action removed, there was nothing to hold back the hammer and it slammed home to ignite the primer. Flame belched from the barrel, which he had angled upwards above the batwing doors and the bullet winged off over the opposite building. Almost before the sound of the shot had died away, Smith pivoted to face the cowhand.

  ‘Trouble being,’ the Texan drawled. ‘I have to fire it every time I pull back the slide.’

  ‘Go with Deputy Jeffreys, Robbie,’ Woodstole ordered, knowing that Smith could not do other than arrest the cowhand. ‘I’ll help you get things straightened out with the marshal.’

  ‘Sure, boss,’ Robbie answered. ‘How about Alvin?’

  ‘I’ll see to him,’ the rancher promised.

  ‘Ric,’ Smith called. ‘Take the Joneses down to the jail. Put them in a cell away from the cowhand. If they want a law-wrangler, see that they get one.’

  ‘Yo!’ replied the burly man. ‘What’ll you be doing?’

  ‘Finding out just what did happen here,’ Smith said grimly. ‘See my deputies by the cowhands, Mr. Woodstole. Then I don’t reckon any of these gents will object if you come back and hear what they have to say.’

  ‘Just remember, us Joneses are farmers like you!’ Morgan yelled. ‘We’re on your side—’

  ‘But I’m not on yours when it comes to murder!’ barked a dour-faced old man in a tone that suggested Scottish birth. ‘And that’s what’s been done this day.’

  Giving the brothers no time to continue their arguments, Frith and Ottaway forced them to leave the saloon. Woodstole followed them, speaking to the small knot of cowhands who had gathered on the street. It said much for the respect earned by the Englishman that the cowboys accepted his order to let the Joneses pass. Arranging for the body to be taken to the undertaker’s shop, Woodstole returned to the bar-room. Smith was placing his rifle on the counter and looking around.

  ‘What happened?’ the Texan asked the bartender, picking up the Jones brothers’ discarded gunbelts.

  Being part owner of the Busted Plough, the bartender drew most of his trade from the farmers. So he hesitated and looked around his customers as if seeking guidance. The dour-featured Scot rose and approached the bar.

  ‘It was deliberate, cold-blooded murder, marshal. The Jones boys must’ve seen Alvin ride up, they were stood with their backs to the bar. I saw Evan say something to the other two. Then, as soon as Alvin walked in, Evan whipped up his rifle and shot him.’

  ‘Why’d a cowhand come in here?’ Smith asked.

  ‘He’s going with Joe Gladwin’s daughter,’ another farmer answered.

  ‘Evan had no reason to shoot him,’ the bartender went on. ‘Alvin’s been in here plenty of times and never caused any trouble. He didn’t make a move towards his gun, but Evan upped with his Ballard and shot him.’

  ‘I reckoned what he did surprised his brothers,’ the Scot continued. ‘But Morgan threw down on us and Virgil told Evan to get out the back way and leave town as fast as he could.’

  ‘I don’t think they was expecting the law to arrive so soon,’ the bartender remarked. ‘It all happened so fast, there wasn’t a thing I could do, marshal.’

  ‘Where’s Evan now?’ Woodstole asked and his normally languid air had left him.

  ‘He got away,’ Smith replied. ‘But I’ll find him and fetch him back.’

  ‘You’d better, Wax,’ the Englishman warned quietly. ‘Charlie’s at Wil’s office with Cousin Basil and he’s going to take a whole heap of calming down when he hears what’s happened to young Alvin.’

  ‘Likely,’ Smith answered. ‘But you’d best do it, Poona. If you don’t, I’ll have to. And I’ll do it any way I need.’

  Chapter Fifteen – An Ultimatum for Smith

  To say that Charlie Hopkirk was angry when he heard of Robbie’s death could almost be called the understatement of the decade. On learning that the killer had escaped, the old rancher had sworn that he would gather every cowhand in Wyoming Territory and search every farm-house until he found Evan Jones. Backed by Wil Jeffreys, Poona Woodstole had finally succeeded in quietening Hopkirk down. Not only that, but Zoltan Bilak had arrived to offer all the help the Grange could arrange in running down and apprehending the killer. So Hopkirk had agreed to take no action, provided Evan Jones was brought in for trial.

  For almost an hour, Smith had expected a range war to blow up. Diplomatically he and his deputies had taken no part in the calming of the old rancher. With that matter settled, at least for the time being, the peace officers had been faced by the problem of guarding Sir Basil Houghton-Rand’s collection of jewelry. Fortunately, most of that work had been taken off Smith’s hands. The insurance company had insisted on employing the Pinkerton Agency to guard the collection. One of their precautions had been to throw a cloud of secrecy over the affair. Even the date of their arrival had not been announced and the telegraph message received by Woodstole had deliberately been wrong. Except when on display, the collection would be kept in the bank’s safe and one of the four agents was to be constantly on guard. Due to the urgency of the situation, Smith had not gone further into the matter of added protection. The jewelry would remain in the safe until after the fair had been declared open on Monday. So he had promised to hold a conference with the Pinkerton men during the weekend and make the necessary arrangements.

  The meeting had been held in Wil’s office at the bank. On returning to the jail, Smith had found Yorck waiting. Apparently the Jones brothers were the lawyer’s clients and he had insisted on being present when Smith interviewed them. After asking if Jeffreys felt fit to work, and being assured that he did, the Texan had sent him and Ottaway on to the streets. Then he and Frith accompanied Yorck to the basement cells.

  On being questioned, the brothers had insisted that Alvin had started to draw on them as soon as he entered the Busted Plough. Virgil did most of the talking and had declared that he did not know where Evan might be. When asked why Evan had fled, Virgil had claimed that his brother doubted if he would get a fair trial in Widow’s Creek, but was willing to give himself up to the authorities at Cheyenne or Laramie. Knowing that he would learn no more with the lawyer standing by, Smith had ended the interview. The Texan had told Yorck that he was holding the brothers on the old slow-elking warrant and also as material witnesses to the killing, so he would oppose the granting of bail. Although the lawyer had blustered, he knew that the local justice of the peace would back Smith on the matter. So Yorck had contented himself with promising to return at regular intervals and ‘protect his clients from abuses’.

  There had only been one reasonably bright spot in the whole afternoon and evening for Smith. By the time his various duties had been completed, sun-down was so close that he could do little more than find the gener
al direction by which Evan Jones had left the town. However, a telegraph message had reached Frith from his two companions. The wounded man had died without speaking, but the Big Indian and Jed Trotter would reach Widow’s Creek by Monday. So Smith would have the extra help he needed during the fair. That piece of news had been greeted with relief by Jeffreys and Ottaway when they had heard it.

  The night had passed without incident. Cowhands and farmers stayed away from each other while Smith and his deputies had patrolled until the town showed signs of having gone to sleep. Leaving Ottaway and Frith at the office, Smith had spent the rest of the night in his room at the Simple Hotel. Next morning, clean-shaven and tidy, he had arrived at the office to find Wil Jeffreys and Lily’s head bartender there with his two men.

  ‘Something’s happened to Lily, Wax,’ Frith announced. ‘She didn’t go back to the house last night.’

  ‘She left me just after midnight,’ Wil went on. ‘I hoped that Stanley would be home in time to escort her, but he stayed here—’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Frith interrupted. ‘He didn’t stay here.’

  ‘That’s right, Miss Jeffreys,’ Smith confirmed. ‘He came off with me around midnight and said he was headed for home.’

  Before any more could be said, Counselor Yorck walked into the office with a sheet of paper in his hand.

  ‘This was pinned to the front door, of my host’s house, marshal. I thought that I had better bring it along.’

  Taking it, Smith opened it and started to read aloud.

  ‘Warning. If the Jones brothers, falsely imprisoned at the instigation of the ranchers, are not released by sun-down today, Lily Shivers and Stanley Jeffreys will be killed. The Friends of Justice.’

  ‘Well?’Yorck asked.

  ‘I didn’t know Lily and young Stan were missing,’ Smith drawled. ‘Somebody’s running a bluff.’

  ‘Is your brother at home, Miss Jeffreys?’ Yorck asked. ‘I say this because I have heard about this despicable organization called the Friends of Justice. They took hostages in another town. When their demands weren’t met, they killed the hostages and took another two the next night.’