by John Legg
“Joe Coffin. And I understand. Just makin’ a little joke.” He dropped his cigarette butt into the mug of beer and stood. Schmidt was just approaching with his saddlebags. Coffin took them with a nod, then looked at Blue Gladys. “Ma’am,” he said, holding out his left arm for her to take.
They headed up the stairway against the back wall of the saloon and into one of the rooms. Coffin dropped his saddlebags on a chair after Blue Gladys had lit a lantern, throwing a smelly yellowish light around the room. Then Coffin peeled off his slicker and self-consciously removed the shoulder rigs and dropped them on the chair, too.
Blue Gladys watched as Coffin removed the gunbelt with the two holstered Remingtons and the hard leather case with two extra loaded cylinders for the Remingtons and two for the Colts, as well as a couple handfuls of paper cartridges for the revolvers. Then he sat on the bed, shoulders slumping.
“You look tired,” Blue Gladys said quietly.
Coffin nodded. “Been on the trail long hours the past couple of days,” he said, rubbing his face.
“Well you just set there, sweetheart, old Blue Gladys’ll take care of ya.”
“Where in hell’d you get the name ‘Blue’ anyway?” he asked.
Blue Gladys had gotten off the bed and stood back toward him, bent over and grabbed his right boot. She looked back over her shoulder—a position Coffin found considerably enjoyable—to see if he was making fun of her. She decided he wasn’t. With Coffin’s left foot on her rump pushing, Blue Gladys tugged on his right boot. It popped off.
She straightened and looked back again. “My folks was well-off when I was a kid,” she said quietly. She didn’t seem to be downcast, just stating facts that she had gotten accustomed to over the years. She bent again and grabbed Coffin’s other boot. A moment later, that one was off, too.
Blue Gladys turned and smiled. “In fact, they was better than well-off. Lots of old-time money from what I gather. Some of the girls I work with got wind of it one time and started calling me ‘Blue’—short for ‘Blue Blood.’”
Coffin was surprised. “How’d you ever come to be in this business, then, if your folks was rich?” he asked, curious.
“They come on hard times when I was thirteen or fourteen. Pa killed himself soon after. Ma couldn’t care very well for me, my brother and my sister. I found out soon after that men’d pay for what I wasn’t supposed to be doin’. Ma looked the other way during such times, but I know it hurt her. Still, it kept a roof over our heads for a while.”
Blue Gladys sighed. “By the time Ma up and married again, I was too far gone to the devil’s ways as far as she figured. Everybody else, too, I guess. I joined up with a man headin’ out this way. We got as far as here, and he was shot down one night for cheatin’ at cards. But there’s always a spot for someone like me in a busy town.”
Blue Gladys had looked sad, but she brightened now that the tale was told. It used to make her sad to think of the way her life had been, but she wouldn’t have it any other way now. She was pretty well treated by her customers, many of them regulars. The bartenders—who also acted as bouncers when the need arose—took good care of her and the other girls. Sure, she was snubbed by the respectable ladies of Crooked Creek, but not by the men. She had her own money to do with as she pleased, and she had come to enjoy some of her liaisons. Not all, by a long shot, but enough that she knew she would’ve been terribly disappointed at being married and so faithful to one man. Of course, now that she was getting a little older, she might have to set her sights on getting married. A girl couldn’t last forever in such a profession. But there was time yet for that. Right now she wanted to explore the possibilities of this short, tough-looking young man.
Coffin looked at her and saw only a flicker of sadness. He grinned lopsidedly. Blue Gladys slid up to him and stood in front of him. Gently she placed her hands behind his head and pulled his face toward her until it stopped in the small valley between her breasts. She stroked his hair for a few moments.
She finally stepped back and shucked her shoes and her only garment. Then she helped Coffin get undressed. Naked, the two tumbled onto the bed, lips locked. Moments later the bed was creaking and squeaking under their excited thrashing.
Even Coffin’s youthful strength and vigor could not keep him going after the second time. Cuddled in Blue Gladys’s warm embrace, he fell asleep, feeling better than he had in a long time.
He awoke much later than he had wanted, and as he lay there looking at Blue Gladys’s plain-pretty, soft face, he felt like he should be up and moving. The Laidlaws were getting farther away with each minute.
Then he pushed those thoughts aside as Blue Gladys awoke and pulled him to her one more time.
Half an hour later, Coffin was dressed—having done so under Blue Gladys’s alert gray eyes. He wrapped the shoulder holsters in his slicker and stuffed the wad into one of his saddlebags. He still felt too self-conscious to wear the shoulder guns out in public much. He placed another double eagle on the small nightstand, then winked at Blue Gladys. She blew him a kiss as he grabbed his saddlebags and headed out.
There was a different bartender on duty, so Coffin did not bother to stop. He just headed outside into the sunshine. It seemed that the storms had finally blown away and let some of spring’s warmth poke through, and it felt good.
As he walked toward the livery, he came on a general merchandise store and swung in. He was low on some items and figured he might as well replenish here. He poked around the store as the clerk waited on a young woman. At one point, he got a good look at her, and he nearly stopped in his tracks.
She was, Coffin figured, sixteen or maybe seventeen. She had a small, heart-shaped face with a nose that was a tad too long and a chin a tad too pointed. They did not detract from her beauty; rather, he thought, they added to it. She had hair the color of spun gold, a high, smooth forehead, soft, golden eyebrows and a pouty lower lip. He could not see her eyes in the dimness of the store, but he wagered himself that they were soft, pale blue. Her figure under the plain wool dress was lithe and supple, and curvaceous enough for even the most exacting man.
For a few moments, Coffin stood there looking at the young woman’s profile, stunned by her beauty and the desires she raised in him. Never had he been so struck by a woman.
The vision stayed with him a long time. It even took him some moments to push it out of his mind in order to get what supplies he needed. He stuffed the supplies into his saddlebags and moseyed over to the livery stable.
While a boy saddled and bridled his chestnut horse, Coffin talked with the stable’s owner, asking about the Laidlaws.
“Yeah, I remember them boys,” the livery man said. “They were in some hurry.”
“They have any work done on their horses?” Coffin asked.
“I think so. Let me check.” He turned and bellowed, “Johnny!”
A moment later, a short, burly man wearing a blacksmith’s leather apron came out of the shop. He was sweating from the heat of the forge. In one hand he carried a blacksmith’s small hammer. Coffin judged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but the man was going bald already. He had a cherubic face made red by the heat. And, despite his ready smile, Coffin figured the man would not be one anybody would want to tangle with.
“You remember them two fellas was in here yesterday? One had a sorrel mare, the other that ugly skewbald.”
“Yeah,” the blacksmith said. “Why?”
“Didn’t you do some work for ’em?”
“Yeah. The skewbald had a bad shoe on the right foreleg. I put a new one on for him. Cleaned out the others, too, but didn’t find no more problems except a couple loose nails I replaced.”
“The other shoes worn some?” Coffin asked.
“Yep. Why?” The blacksmith impaled Coffin with a stony glare.
“Need to track ’em,” Coffin responded flatly.
“Why?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
The
blacksmith glared a moment, then grinned, face bright. He nodded. “Anything else you need to know?”
“Reckon not. Obliged.”
The blacksmith turned and walked off.
Coffin paid the stable owner, mounted his horse and then rode out of town. Half a mile out, he stopped and got down. He had never been much of a tracker, had never needed to learn such a skill. So he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Finally he spotted what he thought was the print from a new shoe surrounded by old ones. He was far from certain that it was the horse he was looking for, but he had to assume it was. He pulled up into the saddle and rode off.
He rode at a good pace, not paying much attention to the ground. Around here, the road was fairly well marked, and got a lot of use. About the only thing he might be able to tell by going slowly was if the men he was chasing had gone off the road.
Coffin had closed some of the time gap that had separated him from the Laidlaws, but he seemed to not be able to pick up any more time. He began to think, as he made himself a small camp that night, that they had gone off some way that he had missed. That bothered him, and kept him from getting as restful a night’s sleep as he had wanted.
In the morning, he was in poor humor, but he forced himself to do what needed to be done—cooking bacon and beans, drinking coffee, breaking camp. But before he rode off, he scouted the area in the sharp bend of the Gasconade, up and down as well as on both sides of the road. He was about ready to give up when he suddenly spotted a print that looked familiar.
On foot, he followed it a little bit, until he came to a campsite. He felt a rush of excitement as he hurried back to his own campsite and mounted up. He was sure he would find the Laidlaws by nightfall.
He didn’t, though. Nor did he find them the next day or the next after that. He finally came to a town and asked around. No one had seen such men, nor heard anything about the Laidlaws’ quarry—Elwood Fox.
Disgusted with himself, Coffin swung back on the trail, covering ground he had just come over. He forced himself to stop every ten or fifteen minutes and check the ground, looking desperately for the track of the new horseshoe.
Just as he was about to give up, he found it. The track led east, away from the creek.
Chapter Seven
Coffin was moving slowly, trying to sense what—or who—was out there. He didn’t know what had tipped him off that there was something out there. He just knew it was time to take it easy. It had been like that in the war, too. He seemed to have a sense, something unconscious, that alerted him to unexpected danger before it happened-the first few scouts of the advancing Confederate Army; traps that had been set; ambushes lurking ahead. Because of that, Coffin suspected he was close to the Laidlaws.
Dark was approaching fast, and Coffin decided that it was time to call it quits for this day. He pulled into a patch of trees along Bourbeaus Creek, whose knotty, twisty length ran roughly parallel to the Gasconade a day’s ride or so east. Coffin had followed the Laidlaws’ track to the Bourbeaus, and then sort of followed it southward for almost two days.
As much as he wanted coffee and hot food, he knew he could not risk a fire, so he once more settled for hardtack, jerky and water. As darkness spread over his small, cold camp, Coffin walked to the water’s edge and looked upstream and down. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then he moved through the trees to the path out beyond the stand of trees. In the quiet, soft night, he looked and listened.
A sudden sound off to his left made him freeze. Now that the trees blocked off the rushing sound of the swift flowing creek, he could hear other things. Like voices. He was sure that was what he had heard. He waited, not moving. After an unknown time, he heard it again. It was laughter.
He knelt and pulled off his spurs and went back to drop them with his supplies. Back at the trail, he stopped and checked his pistols in the light of the half moon. Then he turned left and walked swiftly, surely, until he spotted the flicker of flames.
Coffin melted into the trees and edged close to the camp. It was tough going because of the dark. The half moon threw little light here under the canopy of the tall cottonwoods and thick willows. He moved inch by inch, testing each footstep so that he would not snap a twig or grunt out a curse brought by a turned ankle.
Finally stopping behind a good-sized cottonwood, he eased out a Remington and peered toward the fire, ready to plug the Laidlaws. But only one man sat at the fire. That stayed his hand. He waited, absolutely calm and still, until he could sort it out. He finally concluded that he was not all that sure it was one of the Laidlaws sitting at the fire. He couldn’t see the man very clearly.
He headed back toward his own camp, keeping his pistol out until he was almost there. He moved silently, the small sounds that were impossible to stop masked by the creek’s bubbling nearby. Coffin was alert; if that was one of the Laidlaw brothers back there, the other might be roaming around.
At his camp, Coffin sat on the ground, leaning his back against a fallen log. He puffed a cigarette, as he waited to hear if anyone was coming for him. He cupped the burning cigarette in his hands so the glowing tip would not be seen even from a few feet away. Finally he spread out his bedroll. With a Remington in hand, he dozed off.
He jerked awake just as dawn was edging into his camp in the trees. He lay frozen, trying to place the sound that had woken him. He couldn’t so he pulled his head up a little and looked around. He smiled when he saw a deer drinking skittishly at the creek.
Still making no sudden moves, Coffin eased himself up. He went to make water, but walked around the area before he did. He had seen no one. He splashed water from the creek on his face and then patiently gnawed down a few strips of jerky and two pieces of hardtack. With a sigh, he pulled on his rigged-up shoulder holsters, just in case, he told himself.
Finally he saddled his horse, wondering just how he should approach that other camp. He was at a disadvantage since the Laidlaws had seen him back in St. Louis, though he was not sure what they looked like other than the descriptions Stapely had given him.
He decided that worrying about it would get him nowhere. He would just go along and see what happened. He rode toward the other camp, and then, just before getting there, pulled into the trees and dismounted. He went forward on foot, still without his spurs. He stopped behind the same tree he had used last night, and he looked into camp. Again there was only one man at the fire. He was not sure it was the same one as last night, but he was sure now it was one of the Laidlaws.
He swore silently, worried about Laidlaw’s brother. He stayed there a while, until he picked out where the brother was, nodding to himself when he had the man placed. Pulling both Remingtons, he stepped into the little clearing.
Laidlaw—it was Dewey, Coffin figured—looked up, startled, but he covered it well. “I know you from somewhere, boy?” Laidlaw asked harshly.
“Where’s your brother?” Coffin countered. He aimed the Remington in his right hand at Laidlaw.
“Around.” He paused as he rose slowly, not wanting to spook the gunman.
Coffin cocked his pistol. “Where is he?” His tone was harder. He also caught snatches of sounds as Daryl Laidlaw circled around the camp to get behind him.
“Hey, you’re that little feller gunned down them boys there in St. Louie, ain’t you?” Laidlaw said, as if he was celebrating the fact. “Whoo-ee, boy, that was some shootin’.” He grinned, as if greeting a long-lost friend.
“Yes, it was,” Coffin said flatly. “And then you went and walloped me on the back of the head and threw me out into the storm. Even worse,” Coffin spit, “was that you went and took, all them bounties. Three thousand worth.”
Laidlaw looked sharply at Coffin. “You followed us all this way and all this time just ’cause we made off with some cash you thought you was gonna get?” he asked. He was incredulous.
Coffin nodded. “I don’t take kindly to peckerwoods like you pullin’ such stunts.”
Laidlaw shrugged. “We coulda just kilt y
ou straight off, boy, and been done with it.”
“That was your mistake, Laidlaw.” He paused a heartbeat. “Now I ain’t gonna ask you this but once more: Where’s your asshole brother?”
Coffin heard the soft click of a pistol being cocked. He whirled half a turn and thrust out the Remington in his left hand. He fired once without seeing where Laidlaw was, just to protect himself. It took him less than a blink to see Daryl Laidlaw. He fired twice more, knowing instinctively that both lead balls had found a home.
Without waiting to see the effect of his shots, he cranked his head around. Dewey Laidlaw had dived to the side and rolled as he tried to yank out his pistol. He had just gotten his pistol in hand when two shots from the Remington in Coffin’s right hand hit him in the head.
Coffin rose slowly, turning toward Daryl Laidlaw. Coffin knew Dewey was dead; he wasn’t sure about Daryl, though. A few steps brought him to Daryl, and he knelt.
“Son of a bitch bastard,” Daryl Laidlaw gasped, and then he died.
Coffin got his horse, brought it up and put it with the Laidlaws’ animals. He pulled his tin cup from his supplies and poured himself some coffee. He sat and drank the thick liquid slowly, puffing a cigarette as he did.
When he was done with that, Coffin moved to Daryl’s body and went through all his pockets. He pulled out a little over two hundred dollars plus some worthless personal items. He did the same with Dewey, and found just about the same. With a growing sense of annoyance and urgency, he went through all the Laidlaws’ supplies. When he was done, he had the grand total of five hundred sixty-three dollars and eighty-two cents. It was more money than he had ever seen at one time, but it was a far cry from the three thousand dollars the Laidlaws had gotten in bounties for the Toomey gang.
He plopped himself down at the fire again and poured some more coffee—the last in the pot. He sipped it as he thought. He had been almost obsessed with finding, and killing, Dewey and Daryl Laidlaw. Part of that obsession was in the pot of gold he expected to get when the deed was done. But now there was almost nothing, he found.