Gun Play at Cross Creek

by Bill Dugan

  “Yes, you did. But it’s alright. You’re entitled. You don’t owe me any apologies.”

  She laughed again. “Is that what I was doing? Apologizing? God knows, I didn’t mean to.”

  “How’s the boy?”

  “You remember what this place looked like but you don’t remember his name? Is that it?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Of course not. It’s just that I . . . well, it seemed too personal. I don’t have . . .” He let his hands flutter helplessly.

  “Too personal? He’s your son, for God’s sake. Too personal? You don’t remember his name, do you?”

  It was a challenge, and something welled up inside of him. He wasn’t going to knuckle under. Not this time. “Yes, I do.”

  “Then what is it? Tell me. Use it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I don’t remember you cussing like that.”

  “You don’t know me at all, Morgan Atwater. Don’t you be telling me what I am or what I was or what you think I should be. Just don’t you dare.”

  “I wouldn’t. I don’t have the right. I know that.”

  “The right? Is that what this is all about? Do you have the right to show up here after fifteen years? Do you have that right? Do you? Answer me, dammit!” She turned away from him.

  “Sit down, Katie. Please.”

  Instead, she took the coffeepot and lugged it to the table. She used a thick handmade potholder in either hand. When she poured the coffee, he noticed that her hands were trembling. A small spot of coffee splashed on the tablecloth, quickly spread out, and she slammed the pot down.

  Katie covered her face with her hands. The hot pot scorched the tablecloth, filling the room with the smell of burnt cotton. Morgan pushed his chair back, got up, and retrieved the pot. He hung it back over the fire. She still hadn’t said anything, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. But he knew she was watching him now. He shifted the mugs and the small sugar bowl, rolled the scorched cloth into a neat cylinder, and turned to her.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Take it and get out. That’s what I want you to do. But you won’t.” She glared at him. “Will you?”

  “Not till I’ve done what I came for.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I got a lot to make up to you and the boy.”

  “Stop calling him that. He has a name. Why don’t you use it?”

  Atwater took a sip of his coffee. It was hot, but he didn’t react. He set the mug down again. And got to his feet. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Morgan, wait. You’re here now, stay.”

  Atwater turned. Kate was moving toward the table. She sat down, never taking her eyes off him. “You sure?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It’s just . . . it’s been . . .”

  “I know,” he said.

  He sat down again. “Where’s Tommy?”

  “It’s Tom,” she said. “He outgrew Tommy a long time ago.”

  Chapter 6

  DEAK SLAYTON WOKE UP with a bad headache. He didn’t remember much about the night before, but he knew he had been angry about something. It kept pricking at the back of his skull, and he lay there in the hotel room trying to get it in focus. He glanced over at the woman next to him. He didn’t remember meeting her, and wasn’t sure of her name. He remembered it was French, or sounded French, anyway. Fifi, Lola, something like that, he thought it was.

  He sat up slowly, lowered his feet to the floor, and tensed his shoulders. His head felt like it was about to fall off, or as if it had already fallen off and someone had done him the dubious favor of nailing it back on.

  He walked to the window, aware that his longjohns smelled worse than usual. He glanced at Fifi, but she was still sound asleep. He knew she wasn’t faking because she was snoring like a mad bull. He pulled the curtain aside and the sudden explosion of harsh sunlight melted his eyeballs. In the brilliant wash of illumination, Lola looked about as good as she sounded.

  Deak pulled on his jeans and his boots, slipped into his spare shirt, and strapped on his gunbelt, trying to make as little noise as possible. He didn’t remember whether he had paid for the room, but the clerk would let him know on the way out. He didn’t have any doubt about that.

  He was halfway down the hall when he remembered he hadn’t left anything for the woman. He started back, then shrugged. He could always pay her later, if she remembered what he owed. What he needed was a little hair of the dog. Hell, it was Saturday, and he had the whole damn day to feel good. Why did his head have to hurt so much?

  Deak clapped his hat on as he stepped into the lobby. He glanced at the clerk, who paid no attention to him, and he assumed he had paid. As he pushed open the double glass doors, he winced as the sunlight slammed him in the face. It was already past ten o’clock, and his mouth felt like the underside of a saddle. The sooner he got something to kill his thirst, the sooner he’d start feeling better. At least that’s what he told himself as he squinted across the street.

  Largo’s Saloon was already open. It wouldn’t be long. He remembered being mad at Riley Grand, too, but he couldn’t remember why. Hell, he was always getting mad at Riley. The bastard talked too much and said too little. It was getting to be a bit too boring around Cross Creek. It just might be time to move on. He could head on up to Montana, even thought he might, once or twice.

  Another month, and he’d have enough money, if he left as soon as he got paid. That had always been the hard part. But hell, he was a grown man. He didn’t have to spend his money if he didn’t want to. He could just pocket his pay, maybe even a week early, to avoid the temptation, and head on up to Butte, or someplace. His cousin was up there somewhere. Deak had had a card from him, if he could just remember where . . .

  Largo’s was quiet when he walked in. Pete Largo was behind the bar, mopping up lamplight with a wet rag. The owner glanced at him once, wrinkled his face in something that was either a frown or a smile, and took a couple more swipes with the rag.

  “Morning, Pete,” Slayton said. His voice was too loud, and it made his temples throb. He tried again, this time softer. “How you doin’?”

  “Deak.”

  “Can I get a beer?”

  “Can you pay for it, or did you drop it all on Monique?”

  “Monique, is that her name?”

  “It is this week.”

  Slayton laughed. Largo didn’t. The barman turned away and walked down the bar, swiping at a full-length mirror with his cloth. It left swirls of sparkling moisture on the glass, but he didn’t seem to mind. Grabbing a heavy-bottomed mug, he moved to the tap at the far end of the bar, jerked it open, and filled the mug.

  He set the glass on the bar and gave it a shove. It slid along the damp wood, until it hit a sticky spot. It lost some momentum, and a small tidal wave of beer and foam sloshed on ahead. When the mug pulled out of the sticky place, it hit the beer-slickened wood and picked up speed again.

  Deak grabbed for it, but missed. The mug slid on to the curve at the end of the bar, made it half-way around, then ran out of steam. Slayton laughed. “You losing your touch, Pete, or am I?”

  “I ain’t losing nothing but money, Deak.”

  “I know how that is.”

  “You know how it is around here, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know damn well what I mean, Deak. I mean the marshal. He’s got it in for you. Hell, he’s got it in for half the town, seems like.”

  “He’s a hard case. So what? I’ve seen guys like him before. They blow into some little town, throw their weight around, then blow on out a couple months later. It’s no big deal. Besides, I’m thinking of going to Montana.” He drank half the beer in one long swallow.

  “Maybe you ought to stop thinking about it, and just do it.”

  “You think I’m scared of him?” He sipped more slowly now.

  “I think you should be. Deak, I’m telling you, the man is
pure poison. You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I know enough. But what the hell, Pete. It just adds a little spice, you know? Like some damn leathery stew a mess cook’ll throw together when he’s running out of everything but flour and beans. What’s he do? He throws some spices in, covers up a lot of sins that way. Life’s like that. A little spice never hurt nothing. Not me, anyhow.”

  “This could do more than hurt you. This guy’s got a mean streak in him a yard wide, Deak. I don’t know you very well, but you’ve always been straight with me. You pay your tab, and you don’t make no more trouble than you have to, I guess. I don’t want to see nothing happen to you. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I appreciate it, Pete. Truly. But I let this guy run me out of town, I can’t never shave again, because I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror. Can you imagine me with whiskers? Well, can you?”

  “That would sure enough be an awful sight, Deak.”

  “There you go. See, I got to stay.” He downed the last of his drink and slid the mug across the bar. “Give me another beer, would you?”

  In silence, Slayton finished his second beer and started on a third while Largo went into the back to check his stock. He tried to keep up a running conversation, but Deak couldn’t hear him very well, and it hurt his head to shout, so he said good-bye and drifted on out of the saloon.

  The sun was full out, and it was getting hot, hotter than it should be, almost, for the time of year. Wyoming wasn’t supposed to feel like Texas, even in late July. But it did. Deak was working up a half decent sweat as he walked up the street.

  When he got to The Hangin’ Tree, he debated going in, decided not, until he spotted Kinkaid through the open door of the marshal’s office. He shrugged and changed course. Climbing onto the boardwalk, he dropped into a chair and leaned back against the wall. He could hear the piano tinkling inside and pulled his pocket watch out. It was almost noon, kind of early for the buzzing in his ears. He wondered if he had managed to sleep off the night’s drinking after all. Three beers shouldn’t have been enough to make his ears ring like that.

  After a couple of minutes, Kinkaid appeared in the door of his office. He leaned against the door frame. He wasn’t wearing a jacket today, and Deak noticed how Kinkaid’s gun sat easy on his hip, just out of reach of his fingertips. There was something about the marshal made him feel just a bit uncomfortable.

  In the back of his mind, the truth kept gnawing at him. What it was, was Pete Largo was right. Kinkaid did have it in for him, and he knew it. He didn’t know why, but that scarcely mattered. No man worth his salt would let himself be cowed, even by a man with a badge. Maybe this was the time to let Kinkaid know it. He thought about it for a long time, the marshal just leaning there in the doorway, staring at him.

  It was unnerving, and Deak didn’t have the stomach for that kind of thing so early. He didn’t mind a good brawl, but bare knuckles was one thing and going toe to toe with a trigger-happy badge was something else again.

  Rather than withstand the pressure of those flat, black, and unblinking eyes, Deak got up and went inside. He didn’t look back over his shoulder, even after the door closed behind him, but he knew the marshal was grinning. And that just made him mad.

  He ordered a whiskey from the bartender, then sat at a vacant table in the corner, nursing his drink and his anger. Part of him wanted to storm across the street and tell Kinkaid to leave him alone, and part of him wanted to climb on his horse and light out for Montana with nothing in his pocket.

  Instead, he had another whiskey, then a third. The bartender was reluctant to serve him the last one. It was too early for somebody to have such red eyes and such slurred speech. But Deak Slayton had a bad temper, and everybody knew it. It was better just to let him have his own way, and stand back.

  On the fourth whiskey, the bartender drew the line, bad temper or no. “You had enough, Deak,” he said.

  “You don’t be telling me that, Johnny. I know when I had enough, not you.”

  “But Mr. Carlson told me not to even serve you. I give you three. You get in a ruckus, and it’ll cost me my job.”

  “There won’t be no ruckus if you bring me my whiskey.”

  “Can’t do it, Mr. Slayton.”

  “The hell you can’t.” Deak grabbed the kid by the suspenders and jerked him over the bar. That was his first mistake. Johnny got up scared and broke for the door. He flew through it with his head down and tumbled into the street. The marshal saw him and was halfway across the street by the time Johnny was on his feet again.

  “What’s the trouble, son?” he asked.

  “No trouble. I, unh, I just lost my balance, Marshal, that’s all. Honest.”

  “Sure. Deak Slayton wouldn’t happen to be the reason you lost your balance, now, would he?”

  “No, sir. Just careless, I guess. That’s all.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “No place. I just . . .”

  A gunshot drowned out the next couple of words, and breaking glass the rest of his answer. The marshal patted him on the shoulder. “You just wait here, son. I’ll handle this.”

  “I can get Mr. Carlson. He’ll take care of it.”

  “No he won’t, son. I will.”

  Kinkaid was already on the boardwalk. He stepped into the bar to find Deak Slayton drinking from a broken bottle of bourbon. He had cut his lip on the sharp edge, but didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Better put that bottle down, Deak.”

  “Nah. It ain’t empty.” Slayton took another pull, this time spilling whiskey all down the front of his shirt.

  “I said you better put it down.”

  Slayton set the bottle on the bar. He tried to be careful, but it tipped over anyway and spilled onto the floor with a loud splat. He gave a long sigh of exasperation. “I guess we might as well get to it,” he said.

  “Doesn’t have to be like this, Deak.”

  “Sure it does, Marshal. You been wanting to pull down on me since I come to town. What’s the use of waiting any longer.”

  “Just put up your gun, real easy. Lay it on the bar, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “You know that ain’t so, Marshal.”

  “Have it your way.”

  Slayton shook his head. “No, sir. We’ll have it your way. That’ll be just fine.”

  He wiggled his fingers to loosen them, then went for it. Kinkaid was a lot faster. He put one in Deak Slayton’s chest, just above the third shirt button. Deak slid down the front of the bar, leaving a long, dark, shiny smear on the wood. In the dim lamplight, it looked almost like creosote.

  Deak swallowed once, then a small bubble of blood ballooned between his lips. He groaned, the rush of air bursting the bubble. Then it got quiet.

  Chapter 7

  “SO,” MORGAN SAID. “The boy—Tommy—he’s not here, then?”

  “He’ll be back. And it’s Tom. I already told you that.”

  “Go easy on me, Katie. It’s been a long time.”

  She laughed, a harsh, explosive sound that seemed to die as soon as it left her lips. “Oh, Morgan. You have a funny sense of time, you do. It’s not been a long time, it’s been a lifetime, Tom’s lifetime. My lifetime, dammit. And in some ways it seems like yesterday. I can still see you on that black horse, riding away like you’d be back in an hour. Why, Morgan? Was I so bad? Was it so bad having a family, is that why you left?”

  Atwater stared down at his hands crawling restlessly across the bare wood of the table. When he spoke, he didn’t look up. “No, Katie, it wasn’t so bad.”

  Kate barely heard him. He knew it, but he wasn’t going to say it again unless she asked. As he knew she would. “I didn’t hear that,” she said.

  “I said no. It wasn’t that.”

  He looked up at her now, fearful of what he might see. He knew she hated him, and believed she was right to hate him. But he wanted her to understand. He had only just come to understand it himself, and he wasn’t
yet comfortable with the knowledge. Never very good at explaining things, he knew he had to try, because this was his one chance.

  “I want to understand, you know. I think I have that right.”

  “You do. I don’t know if I can . . . hell . . .”

  “Talk to me, Morgan. I’m the mother of your son.”

  He took another sip of the coffee, already growing cold where it sat in the big mug. “Maybe that’s why, Katie. Maybe I . . .”

  She blew up then. “That’s not why and you know it.”

  “Give me a chance. You want to know, and I want to tell you.”

  “You had fifteen years to rehearse, Morgan. I should think you’d have it all set by now.”

  He smashed a big fist on the table. “Damn it!” The mugs jumped an inch or so, and hers, untouched, sloshed coffee over its lip. The warm coffee lay there in a small dark pool, still steaming a little. They both watched the tiny coils of mist. “I never liked myself much, didn’t like what I was turning into. I wanted to be something different, something you and the boy could be proud of. But that wasn’t possible. Not then.”

  “You could have changed. You just didn’t want to.”

  “They wouldn’t let me.”

  “They. Who’s they, Morgan? Who do you want to blame it on?”

  “I blame myself, no one else. But it wasn’t just me. You don’t wake up one morning and say, ‘It’s a beautiful day. I think I’ll pretend I never owned a gun.’ You can’t do that, Katie. I couldn’t, anyway. Because there’s always someone out there who won’t let you forget. Sure, I could have stayed here. But one day, maybe in a week, maybe a month, somebody would have ridden up to the front door with one thing on his mind.”

  “Oh, you’re a mind reader now, too, are you? You can read the minds of people you never even met. Read them before they even got here. Is that how it is?”

  “I . . .”

  He stopped when he heard a footstep on the porch. His hand was on his gun before he realized what he was doing. Kate saw it, and he saw that she did. She shook her head. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”