by John Legg
He wondered what had happened to the rest of the money. The Laidlaws had not been in any one place long enough to have spent twenty-five hundred dollars, an amount that would be a fortune to any working man. The only thing he could think of that would account for it is that they had stopped somewhere, maybe even when they cashed in the voucher at the bank in St. Louis, and made arrangements to send the money home.
Coffin had not realized until now just how important that money was to him. He had braved a gunfight with five armed men, tracked and killed two experienced bounty hunters, and all for a paltry five hundred dollars.
Suddenly he laughed, something he hadn’t done in a while. Here he was, a young man who had never had more than fifty dollars in his hand at one time grousing when he had “only” ten times that. It was ridiculous. Five hundred-plus dollars could take him a long way. Trouble with that, though, is he didn’t know where to go. He was sure he would find a way to use the money.
With a sigh, he got up. He grabbed a shovel from the Laidlaws’ supplies and found a spot that looked like it would not offer too hard a time digging. Three hours later, the Laidlaws were laid to rest. Coffin considered giving them a little service, but he did not think they deserved it.
Sweating from the work, he stripped down and jumped in the creek, enjoying the feel of the cool water flowing over him. Naked, he sat on the bank, letting the air dry him. Afterward, he dressed and then set about cleaning and reloading his Remingtons.
When he was done with that, he decided he no longer needed his shoulder holster rigs. Besides, he still felt foolish wearing the contraptions. So he wrapped them up in his slicker again and stuffed them into his saddlebags.
With a shrug, he cooked up some biscuits and beans and made another pot of coffee. He ate slowly. When he was done, he decided he was in no hurry to be anywhere, so he unsaddled his horse. He made himself comfortable. The two nearby graves did not bother him; not after the slaughter of men he had seen during the war.
He tried not to think of what to do now. There would be no easy answers anyway, but he wanted at least a little time to just relax. Still, the thoughts of what the future held for him would not stay completely away.
He could, he knew now, turn into a bounty hunter himself. The risks were high, of course, but so were the rewards. That had been shown in St. Louis.
He had no delusions about himself. He had no training in anything but surviving and killing. With his innate sense of justice and right, bounty hunting would be an ideal profession for him. Especially when one considered that he had no grand plan for life. It removed the necessity of roots and family.
In the morning, he took his time about breakfast and in striking camp. There was no hurry, but there was no reason to linger here either. He finally mounted his chestnut and gathered up the Laidlaws’ two horses. Then he sat, wondering just where he could go.
It did not come as a flash, but as a gradual awareness. He held a vision of a young woman with honey-gold hair and a perfect heart-shaped face. With a smile, he said softly, “Crooked Creek’s as good a place as any.”
He might not be able to court that pretty young woman he had seen in the general store. If not, well, Crooked Creek had seemed a nice enough town. Besides, there was always Blue Gladys to turn to for occasional comfort. He rode off with a lighter heart.
Chapter Eight
Coffin stopped at Harry Carstairs’s livery stable in Crooked Creek four days later. He had taken time on the ride back, having no cause to hurry. With the Laidlaws’ supplies he had more than enough food, coffee and cigarette fixings. He even had some whiskey. About all he didn’t have was a woman.
He dismounted at the livery in mid-afternoon and acknowledged Carstairs’s greeting. The livery man and his twelve-year-old son, Randy, walked up. Carstairs pointed to the two extra horses. “You found them fellers?” he asked.
Coffin nodded. “You interested in buyin’ ’em?”
Carstairs looked the two horses over closely, checking them swiftly but thoroughly. He patted the sorrel one on the neck when he had finished and nodded. “Don’t see why not,” he said. Then he fixed Coffin with a stare. “Unless I’m gonna get stuck with two angry bastards come lookin’ for their horses.” His eyes turned the statement into a question.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Coffin said flatly.
Carstairs stared at him a few moments more, then nodded. “I’ll give you thirty each.”
“Seventy-five.”
Carstairs shook his head. “Forty.”
“Fifty and I’ll throw in the tack.”
“Done,” Carstairs said with a firm nod. They shook hands on the deal. Then Carstairs took the reins to his two new horses and handed them to his son. The boy began leading the horses into the stable. “I ain’t got that kind of cash on me...” Carstairs said. He stopped. “You know, I never did get your name, mister.”
“Joe. Joe Coffin. I take it you’re the Harry Carstairs whose name is on the building?”
“That’s me. As I was sayin’, Mr. Coffin, I ain’t got that much cash on me. You want to come back a little later today, or in the mornin’, I can have it for you then. Or I could give you a bank draft, if you’d rather.”
“Will the bank cash it if I bring it in? I’m a stranger in these parts.”
“Tell you what, I’ll send Randy over to the bank with you. That way if Warren Yarnell—he owns the bank—gives you a hard time, Randy can vouch for you.”
“Sounds fine. I’ll just leave my gear here and pick it up later.”
Carstairs nodded and called his son. He explained to Randy, and then the boy and Coffin left.
As the two walked, Randy, who was only a few inches shorter than Coffin, asked shyly, “You use them guns of yours much, Mr. Coffin?”
Coffin looked at the boy in surprise. “When needed,” he finally said. “Why?”
“Well, you’re a pretty short feller for a full-growed man, and I figure I ain’t gonna get much bigger’n you, though I still got a little ways to go yet. I was just wonderin’…well…”
“Go on and say it, boy,” Coffin said more heatedly than he had meant to. He was annoyed at Randy’s impertinence, but he figured he should give the youngster the courtesy of saying whatever it was he wanted to say.
“Well,” Randy said slowly, “I’d...well, dang it all, since I’m not gonna be much bigger’n you, I figure, I want to know if them guns...if they...if you need ’em to stop from bein’... bein’…”
“Bullied?” Coffin finished for the boy.
“Yeah, that’s what,” Randy said firmly. “Well, do ya?”
“I use ’em when I need to.” He paused, mulling the question some more. “I expect just wearin’ ’em helps some to keep folks from botherin’ you, especially if they can see that you’ll use ’em.”
“Then I’m gonna tell Pa to get me a gun,” Randy said firmly.
“I wouldn’t do that was I you, Randy.” When he saw the confusion on the boy’s face, he added, “At your age, that’ll bring a hell of a lot more trouble than it’d avoid.” He paused. “You been bothered by a bully?”
Randy nodded and looked glum.
Coffin stopped and looked at his young companion. “Your Pa might be awful angry at me for this, but I’ll tell you a few things. For one thing, you can’t show fear. Don’t mean you can’t feel scared, you just can’t show it. Another thing you got to do is not to let anybody make fun of you ’cause you ain’t tall. Not serious makin’ fun of you. It’s all right if it’s somebody you know, and he’s only joshin’ you. But somebody makes light of your size, you got to do somethin’ about it.”
“You get in a fight every time somebody makes fun of you ’cause you’re short?” Randy asked, surprised but interested.
“I try to give ’em a chance to back off. Trouble is, most bullies, who’re generally real chickenshits to begin with, take that as a sign that you ain’t much of a man. That happens, you best be ready to go after ’em ful
l and hard. Don’t matter too much if you get the tar whaled out of you. Most folks’ll respect that.”
“So what should I do?” a perplexed Randy asked. “Give yourself some time. Along the way, though, work hard. Hard as you can. That’ll build up your strength and stamina.” He paused, thinking. “There ain’t anything anyone can teach about fightin’, except to say that you do anything you can. Kick, bite, scratch, poke ’em in the eye. Do whatever you need to do.”
They began walking slowly again. “You get a little older’s time enough to learn how to use a gun. But whether a gunfight or a brawl, you got to know when to fight and when to swallow whatever insults’re heaped on you. For that, you need to use your judgment, and that’s somethin’ else you can work on. Not the judgment exactly, but stayin’ calm enough to make a sensible judgment.”
“Seems like a lot to learn—and to know,” Randy said thoughtfully.
“It is.”
They walked a few moments in silence, then Coffin asked, “Why didn’t you ask Johnny, the blacksmith, this? He ain’t no bigger’n I am.”
“I did, sorta.” Randy grinned a little. “He didn’t take me serious. Besides, nobody ever picks on him. Not with all those muscles.”
“That’s what I told you,” Coffin said with a chuckle. “I figure he also keeps his nose out of situations that might lead to trouble.” He grimaced. “Some of us ain’t that smart.”
More silence. Then, “Did you fight in the war?”
“Yes,” Coffin said quietly.
“What side was you on?”
“Doesn’t much matter now, does it?” Coffin countered. Randy thought about that for a moment. “I guess not. But I figure it’d be better to be on the winnin’ side.”
“There is somethin’ to be said about that.”
“That where you learned to shoot?”
“Yes.”
“You ever get shot?”
Coffin nodded. “A couple times.” He sighed. “Last one was the worst. It happened just a couple weeks before peace was called.”
“You kill many men?”
“You ask a heap of goddamn questions, son,” Coffin said. He was more annoyed than angry, but he did not want to think about those times, either the ones during the war, or the ones after.
They entered the bank, and Coffin had to wait a few minutes for one of the two tellers. Then he stepped up and handed the thin, pale young man the draft. The teller looked at it carefully.
“It’s okay, Mr. Carter,” Randy said. “My dad give it to him.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Randy,” Carter said officiously. “But I’ll still have to clear it with Mr. Yarnell.” He looked at Coffin. “I’ll only be a moment, Mr. Coffin.”
Coffin nodded. He rolled a smoke while he waited. Then Carter returned with a distinguished-looking man, who said, “You’re Mr. Coffin?”
Coffin nodded. “And you’re Mr. Yarnell, I suppose?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Yarnell was medium height and slim except for a small paunch. His clothes were well-cut and expensive. Despite the lateness of the working day, Yarnell’s red-cheeked face looked fresh. “Why do you have Mr. Carstairs’s draft?” His voice was ever so polite. “Sold him a couple horses,” Coffin said flatly.
“That right, son?” Yarnell asked, looking at Randy. “Yessir,” the boy answered respectfully. “Pa says I was to come here with Mr. Coffin to vouch for him that the draft was all right.”
“Thank you, son.” Yarnell looked at Carter. “Pay the man, Mr. Carter.” Looking back to Coffin, he asked, “Anything else, sir?”
“I’m figurin’ to stay around Crooked Creek a spell, so I thought I might open an account here with you.”
“By all means.” He still held the draft, and he waved it a little. “Are you planning to use this to open your account?”
“That and some other cash I have.”
Yarnell nodded, as if giving benediction. “Come, then. I’ll help you. Mr. Carter, you have customers waiting.”
“I’ll wait outside for ya, Mr. Coffin,” Randy said. Coffin nodded. Once Yarnell was behind his desk, and Coffin sitting in front, Yarnell asked, “How much will you be depositing?”
“Six hundred dollars,” Coffin said flatly.
Yarnell whistled softly. “A goodly sum of money, Mr. Coffin.” Yarnell very much wanted to know where Coffin had gotten it, but he knew he could not ask. “You’ve been traveling far with this much cash on you?”
Coffin shrugged. He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and squashed it out. “Far enough.”
“You were not afraid you’d be robbed?” Yarnell probed.
“Ain’t nobody knows I had that much on me. Besides,” he added boastingly, “someone tried to rob me, he might just get a bit more than he bargained for.”
Yarnell nodded again, thinking. He tapped a pen on the top of the desk. “Do you have a job here, Mr. Coffin?” he finally asked.
“Nope. I expect I’ll find something soon enough. I have the money to wait a spell.”
“Indeed you do. Have you any trade?”
Coffin flinched inwardly at the question. “Not much I’m afraid. Or at least not much that doesn’t include blood.” He gazed evenly at Yarnell. He thought he saw the banker’s thin mustache wriggle in something that might’ve been a small attempt at a smile.
Yarnell finished the paperwork, took Coffin’s money and gave him a receipt. As the two men stood and shook hands, Yarnell said, “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Coffin. I hope we can do more.”
“We’ll see,” Coffin said noncommittally. He headed out.
True to his word, Randy was sitting on a bench just outside the bank. He hopped up, and the two fell into step together. At the livery, Coffin grabbed his saddlebags and his two bags of supplies. “I can help you with those, Mr. Coffin,” Randy said eagerly.
Coffin looked at Carstairs. “That okay with you, Mr. Carstairs?”
The livery man nodded. “Unless you think he’ll bother you.”
“Nope. Come on, Randy.” Coffin handed the boy one of the two canvas bags of supplies. Just outside, Coffin asked, “You know of a decent place for a man to stay? One that’s quiet, maybe has meals?”
“Hotel or boardinghouse?”
“Either. A hotel’ll be more expensive but most likely more comfortable and secure.”
“Well, there Eagan’s and Sutter’s. They’re both hotels. Mr. Eagan’s place ain’t near as fancy as Sutter’s, but Mr. and Mrs. Eagan’ve always been nice to me.”
“That your recommendation then, boy?” Coffin asked with a small smile.
“Yessir,” Randy said firmly.
“Then lead on, my young friend.”
Eagan’s Hotel was off the main street by a block. It was a two story clapboard place with a sitting porch out front. A restaurant, also named Eagan’s, was attached. The street was lined with trees, mostly cottonwoods, and seemed quiet and peaceful.
Grady Eagan greeted him warmly, once Randy had announced to Eagan that he was bringing a customer and introduced the men to each other.
“You givin’ this boy a tip every time he drags in some poor, unsuspectin’ soul?” Coffin asked with a laugh.
Eagan grinned a little. “He’s a good kid, as far as kids go. Now, Mr. Coffin, what can I do for you?”
“A room. Second floor, if possible.”
“We got one. How long?”
“Ain’t sure. What’re you askin’ for a night?”
“Fifty cents. Three dollars a week.”
“How about a month?”
Eagan’s eyebrows raised. “Don’t know as if I ever had anyone stayin’—or payin’—for a month.” He scratched on a small pad with a pencil. “Twelve dollars. What the hell, make it eleven, if you pay me up front.”
“Meals included?”
“That’s extra. Let’s see here.” He did some more figuring “Again, if you pay me up front, I can give you room and two meals a day for twenty dollars.”
“Sounds fair enough to me,” Coffin said agreeably. “Where do I sign?”
He scribbled his name in the ledger book and took a key from Eagan.
“That’s the room in the southwest corner upstairs. You got a good view of the river on one side, and a good view of the street from another.”
Coffin nodded. “Any rules or anything I should know?”
Eagan shook his head. “Just keep it peaceable. We don’t mind you having whiskey up there, long’s you don’t get drunk and rowdy. Go on outside, Randy,” he suddenly ordered.
Randy made a face but did as he was told. Once the boy was gone, Eagan said, “You can have women up there, if you’re of a mind, but don’t advertise it and keep the noise under control. Mrs. Eagan’s willin’ to look the other way, but she—and I—can only be taken so far.”
Coffin nodded. “Hey, Randy,” he shouted. “Come give me a hand with these here bags.”
Chapter Nine
The first thing Coffin did—after unpacking his few personal items and cleaning himself up some—was to pay a visit to the Twisted Water Saloon.
Rudy Schmidt was tending bar again, and he grinned as Coffin stopped at the bar. “Couldn’t stay away?” he asked.
“Hell no,” Coffin said with a small laugh. “You got the best rotgut and the best grub I’ve had in a dog’s age.”
“No other reason?” Schmidt asked.
“Well, there is one other reason.”
Schmidt laughed again. “She’s upstairs right now, but I expect she’ll not be busy too much longer. How’s about a beer…and a snort of bourbon while you wait?”
“Sounds good to me.” Coffin pulled his hat off and dropped it on the bar. A moment later Schmidt slapped two glasses down in front of Coffin. “You plannin’ to linger a while this time?”
Coffin nodded. “Might even make my home here, things work out.”
“Then this one’s on me,” Schmidt said. “And help yourself to the vittles down there at the end of the bar.”