Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “Twenty,” someone else shouted.

  “Twenty-one,” from Andy St. John’s small group.

  “Twenty-two,” from the fat man behind them.

  So it went, the little group raising the price by ever-smaller amounts, with the chubby townsman always upping the ante just a little more.

  Rhodes hopped from his wagon to the freight wagon, and then to Flake’s. He sidled up to Flake and said quietly, “Next offer that old man makes, you stop the bidding right then and there.”

  “But...” Flake said, looking at him in surprise.

  “Just do it.”

  Flake spun and held out a hand. “Hold on a minute, folks,” he said. He looked back at Rhodes and asked, “But why?”

  “Because that fat son of a bitch behind ’em is going to outbid ’em no matter what they do.”

  “Why is that any concern of yours?” Flake was confounded.

  “That old man, the girl, and boy look like they’re up against it, Erastus. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

  “Well, of course, but...”

  “Just call it your civic duty.” Rhodes paused a moment. “I’ll pay up whatever difference between what they pay and what you would’ve gotten.”

  Flake looked intently at Rhodes for some moments. Then he nodded “There’s no need for that.” He turned to face the crowd again. “Now, folks where were we?”

  The plump man shouted out the last figure he had given.

  The old man looked into his little pouch. “Thirty-seven dollars and fifty-two cents,” he said weakly.

  As the chubby man began to open his mouth, Flake loudly, calmly and firmly said, “Sold!”

  “Now wait a goddamn minute there,” the chubby man shouted. “I was about to raise that bid.”

  “You’re too late,” Flake said flatly. He might be a businessman at heart, but he was afraid of no man. “I said at the beginning that the bidding was closed when I said it’s closed. Next up for sale,” he added, cutting off further protest.

  The man, young woman, and youth came toward the wagon. As they went to hand Hickman the money, Flake called a halt to things out front and turned to Hickman. “There was a mistake in their bid, Phineas,” he said evenly. The old man looked stricken.

  “Bidding should have stopped at twenty-five dollars.”

  “But, Erastus...”

  “No buts now, Phineas. It was a wrong bid, and I’ll not have any man calling Erastus Flake a cheat. Now if you’re bound and determined to take that man’s total of thirty dollars”—he winked at the old man—“then throw in that little sack of cornmeal we got back there and that one small side of bacon, too. I think there’s a couple cans of that condensed milk back there. Put all that little stuff in a sack for ’em while I take their money.”

  Hickman looked at Flake like his friend had gone mad. Flake simply stared at him a moment. Hickman shrugged and went about his business. Flake looked down at the old man. “That’ll be fifteen dollars, friend,” he said quietly.

  The man looked up, tears quivering in his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouthed, afraid to say it aloud.

  “Come on, get back to work,” someone shouted from the small group of people still gathered out in front of the barn.

  Flake ignored them as he took the money. “What’s your name, friend?” he asked.

  “Jim... Jim St. John.” He paused, not sure whether he should speak again. He decided to try it. “My son, Andy and my daughter, Hallie.”

  “Erastus Flake.” He shook hands with both men and nodded to Hallie. “I must get back to work. Good luck to you.”

  “We’ve already had some, sir,” the woman said. The old man took the sack of smaller items from Hickman, and then Andy St. John took the flour.

  Flake was already back to work. But he was growing tired of it all. He called for Hickman to bring him three or four items to get rid of them more quickly.

  Rhodes also was back at work, standing guard from the open wagon. He watched as the St. Johns headed off down toward the street. From his vantage point, Rhodes could follow them for quite a distance. As he turned back to the front, he saw the chubby man walk straight away from the barn, heading toward an alleyway between a bakery and a brewery. He was moving fairly quickly.

  Something about it puzzled Rhodes, and he worked on it. Then he started. He quickly jumped over to where Bonner waited, trying to keep himself awake. “You think you can keep an eye on things here, Joe?”

  “I got nothin’ else to do. What’re you up to?”

  “Ain’t sure.”

  Bonner looked at him funny, but by the time he nodded, Rhodes was on the ground and walking swiftly away. Rhodes walked toward where he had last seen the chubby man. He stalked through the alley. At the far end, he stopped and looked each way. He suddenly wished he knew more about the town—and about the St. John family, mainly where they lived.

  He didn’t know any of that, though, but he was sure the chubby man was trying to head off the St. Johns before they got home, wherever that was. He wondered why for just an instant, but the vision of the beautiful Hallie St. John made him know why.

  On a hunch, he went to his right, up the meandering mud street a little way. To his left was another alley. He glanced down it, and decided it was the right way to go.

  Partway down that alley, another one branched off, and he spotted the heavyset man at the far end of the short alley. Rhodes wasted no time in heading that way, but he slowed as he neared the end. He eased up to it, and carefully peered around the corner to his left, then his right. There they were, on the small shady side street.

  The chubby man had the three St. Johns up against the log wall of a house. Andy held both heavy sacks, looking frightened. The man had one palm on Jim’s chest and the other on Hallie’s, keeping them both hard up against the wall, and getting to feel a fair amount of Hallie in the doing.

  Rhodes stalked up silently, putting a finger to his lips for silence when Andy spotted him. The youth’s eyes were wide but he kept his mouth closed.

  Rhodes whapped the chubby man a smart shot on the side of the head with the sawed-off shotgun. The man staggered to the side but did not go down. He did, however, remove his palms from Jim and Hallie St. John.

  The chubby man whirled, face contorted with anger and pain. “What the hell’d you do that for, you goddamn fool?” he asked.

  “Wanted to get your attention. Now that I have it, I might suggest to you that if you plan to try the laying on of hands, that you do it with someone other than the defenseless.”

  The man lifted a puffy, pale hand up to the side of his head. He looked at the fingers, now coated with blood. “Son of a bitch.” He glared at Rhodes. “Do you know who the hell you’re messing with?” he asked.

  Rhodes shrugged. “Don’t know and don’t much care.”

  “I’m Hamilton Macmillan.”

  “Don’t mean anything to me, boy,” Rhodes said flatly. “All I know is you’re a putrefying pile of horse droppings trying to take advantage of folks.”

  “My father owns the mine,” Macmillan said huffily. “He owns the whole goddamn town.”

  “Watch your language around ladies, boy,” Rhodes warned.

  “I’ll talk any goddamn way I goddamn well feel like goddamn talking,” Macmillan said.

  Rhodes held the shotgun in both hands. He jerked it forward, the muzzles slamming into Macmillan’s stomach. The fat man’s breath popped out and he doubled over. “Maybe now you’ll watch your mouth.”

  “You’re just goddamn lucky you have that goddamn scattergun in your hand,” Macmillan wheezed.

  Rhodes chuckled. “And just what would you do if I didn’t have it?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I’d beat the living hell out of you.”

  Rhodes laughed. He held out the shotgun. “Mr. St. John, would you be so kind as to hold this for me for a bit.” It was not really a question.

  “Sure,” St. John said nervously. He took the weapon.

>   “Now, Mr. Hamilton Macmillan,” Rhodes said easily, “let’s see what you can do.”

  “What about those pistols in your belt?”

  “They’ll stay put. Now make your move, if you’ve got the gumption.”

  Macmillan straightened up, and grinned. He figured he had Rhodes now. They were about the same height, but Macmillan outweighed even the broad Rhodes by some pounds. He charged, swinging a meaty right hand.

  Rhodes stepped up and blocked the blow with his left forearm. With a big right fist, Rhodes hammered Macmillan twice where the arm and shoulder came together. Then he stepped back.

  Macmillan groaned and his right arm suddenly hung limply at his side. Hate glared hotly in his eyes.

  “You still want to try something?” Rhodes asked quietly.

  Macmillan did not answer. He just stood there glowering.

  Rhodes shrugged. “Now, I’m going to warn you just this one time. You bother these people again, and I’ll tear that arm off for you. You got that?”

  Macmillan remained mum.

  “I asked if you understood me, boy,” Rhodes said.

  Something in that voice gave Macmillan pause, and for the first time he realized just how close to death he was. He nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now git.”

  Macmillan shuffled off, holding his right arm tight to his body with his left hand. Rhodes watched until Macmillan was out of sight. Then he turned and smiled pleasantly at the St. Johns. “I’ll take that scattergun back now, Mr. St. John,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you,” St. John said weakly. He felt disgusted with himself for not being able to protect his family nor even to provide for them.

  “Name’s Travis Rhodes. You want, I’ll escort you folks home.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” St. John said stiffly. He might not be able to provide for Andy and Hallie, but he could at least turn down a demeaning offer of help.

  “I’d rather he did, Papa,” Hallie said.

  St. John looked at his daughter sternly, and then suddenly realized that Hallie was interested in this young man. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. In some ways, if something were to happen between Hallie and the tough, wide-shouldered stranger, it would be good. She would be out of the house and so there would be one less mouth to feed. Rhodes also looked like a man who could offer him and his family some protection. That galled at St. John, but it had to be considered. He was no longer young, and with his bad leg, he was hard pressed to accomplish much.

  On the other side of the ledger, Rhodes did not look like the kind to set down roots in one place. He would hate to see something develop between Rhodes and his daughter, he would hate to see Hallie hurt when Rhodes went riding off. He sighed. Life had become too hard, too awkward.

  “All right,” he said. “If you want, Hallie.”

  “I would, Papa.”

  Rhodes strolled along with the St. Johns. He seemed to them to be just moseying along, but he was really very alert, eyes sweeping the path, surreptitiously checking alleys as they passed, windows and doorways.

  The walk was short, and then the St. Johns stopped in front of a canted, shabby shack.

  “Thanks, Mr. Rhodes,” Andy said with a smile and a wave just before he went inside.

  “I thank you, too,” Jim St. John said. He was still embarrassed. He slipped inside to hide his shame.

  “I’d be obliged if you were to let me come calling on you, Miss St. John,” Rhodes said quietly.

  She smiled brightly. “I’d like that, Mr. Rhodes.”

  “I’ll be by tomorrow.”

  “Is ten all right?”

  He nodded, then turned and walked away. He was almost stunned by it all. He had been smitten so fast that it still made his head whirl.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You seem to be able to fool people into talking to you, Joe,” Rhodes said to Bonner as they sat at a table in a saloon.

  Bonner shrugged. “I got lots of gifts,” he said, taking a sip of beer.

  “About the only one you have is the gift of shelling out bullshit,” Rhodes said with a laugh. He waited until the laughter had died down, then he said, “You heard anything of a Hamilton Macmillan?”

  “Nope. Should I have?”

  Rhodes explained his run-in that afternoon with Macmillan. “He claims to be the son of the guy who owns the big mine up the hill there.”

  “If he is, you could be in a deep puddle of shit, boy.”

  “Whoa, now I’m really worried.” Rhodes snorted. “I can tell.” He paused for another mouthful of beer. “I suppose you want me to see what I can learn about this blubbery snot?” Bonner would prefer to stay just where he was.

  “If you’re up to it, old man.”

  “What’re you payin’ for all this work?”

  “Hell, you don’t know the meaning of ‘work.’”

  “Bah.”

  “That does raise another question, though,” Rhodes said solemnly. “As you well know, prices ain’t cheap in these parts, and I ain’t got an unlimited supply of cash.”

  “You got any supply of cash?” Bonner asked pointedly, beer mug stopped halfway to his mouth.

  “Not much.”

  “How much is not much?” Bonner set the mug down. He might act the crotchety old man—and even mean it more often than not—but when a friend was in trouble, he would help in any way he could.

  “About twenty bucks or so.”

  “Around here, that ain’t gonna last long.”

  “As if I haven’t figured that out.” He paused. “How about you, Joe? You got enough to keep you going a little?”

  “Longer’n you. But not much.” He had been broke before and it had never bothered him. But that was back in the old days, when a couple months’ worth of trapping would give him enough money for one hell of a spree. And then he could get credit on supplies for the next season. But those days were no more; not for him, not for anyone. He might still be able to pull in some cash by slaughtering buffalo for the railroads, or just for the hides, but he was a couple hundred miles west and a couple thousand feet up for that.

  He lifted his beer and stretched out his legs. He was too goddamn old, he figured, for worrying over such nonsense. Still, the talk had produced a gloom that settled over him. He could see that it had settled over Rhodes, too. Bonner drained his mug and set it down, then rose. “Be back in a spell.” Cradling his Hawken with his left arm, he strode out.

  Rhodes realized that he was sitting all scrunched up. He forced himself to sit back and relax. He sipped his beer. He decided that he would have to find a job somewhere, but he figured that shouldn’t be too hard. There was plenty of work available for a strong young man with a willingness to work hard. Then he decided that he could let that wait a few more days. Or, he thought, perhaps he should just pack it in and head elsewhere. He had nothing to keep him here, and his prospects were certain to be better almost anywhere else.

  A few hours later, too bored to sit and wait for Bonner to return, Rhodes finally got up and headed outside. He was feeling groggy from too much beer, too much gloom, too much smoke, and too much staleness. The night air helped clear his head a little. He headed off down the street, not sure where he was going, but he headed in the general direction of the livery. He figured he could stay the night there cheaper than just about anywhere.

  He stopped at an intersection and a small smile crossed his lips. He turned and headed toward the St. John’s home. He stopped a few moments, looking at the place. Maybe there was something to keep him here.

  He walked toward the livery again.

  “Hey ol’ hoss,” Bonner said with a fair amount of cheer, moving into stride alongside Rhodes.

  “What the hell’re you so good-humored over?” Rhodes said with a little irritation.

  “Hell, it ain’t good for a body to be so gloomy. Especially when I got news.”

  “Bad news, I figure.”

  “Just listen, then you te
ll me, you gripin’ ol’ son of a bitch.” He spit tobacco and wiped the splatter off his lips with the back of a hand. “First off, that Macmillan feller you tangled with is pretty much a bag of wind.”

  Rhodes stopped and spun toward Bonner, staring at him in the dull glow of a lantern. “What?”

  “Just what I said, goddammit. His of man’s one of the owners, sure enough, but a small one, and he’s back in the States. The uncle—Logan Macmillan—is the real boss in the minin’ company. His pa sent the persnickety little bastard with instructions to his uncle to work his flabby ass off. Somethin’ dear ol’ uncle ain’t been able to do as yet.”

  “So all that shit he gave me was...”

  “Just what you said. He’s a bully and his uncle ain’t got a lick of likin’ for him. Especially when it involves a young lady. From what I hear, if dear ol’ uncle hears he’s been botherin’ that purty little thing, sonny boy might lose somethin’ mighty precious to him.”

  Rhodes laughed in relief. He was not afraid of either Hamilton Macmillan or Logan Macmillan either. But at least now he wouldn’t have to be looking over his shoulder every minute.

  “That’s the kind of news I like to get,” Rhodes finally said.

  “Thought you’d be appreciative,” Bonner said smugly. “And there’s more.” He held out a pouch.

  “What’s this?”

  “Take it.”

  Rhodes did. Slowly he opened it. Even in the dimness of the night broken only by a fluttering lantern, he could see the gold coins. “Where in hell’d this come from?”

  “Your pay.”

  “My what?”

  “Goddamn, you are knob-headed, ain’t you? Jesus. You helped out them Mormon folks quite a bit. Fought with them, got ’em safely to Fort Laramie, helped out with the goods and all. They figured they was some in your debt.”

  “How much is in here?” Rhodes asked, still finding it hard to believe he had been blessed with such good fortune.

  “Two, three hundred.”

  Rhodes whistled. Then he looked sternly at Bonner. “You ain’t givin’ me a line of bullshit now, are you, old man?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe you had this stashed somewhere and are givin’ it to me to make me feel better?”