by Bill Dugan
Atwater thought he’d heard of worse deals, and he nodded. “When can I start?”
Henessey reached under the counter and tossed him an apron. “You just did,” he said.
Chapter 9
MORGAN PUT IN A QUIET few days at the store. The work wasn’t hard, but he had never been easy around people. To break him in slowly, Henessey had him take inventory. “Get familiar with what we got,” he told him. “Better to say we ain’t got something than to have somebody wait around, then have to tell him you was wrong. People don’t like that. They think you made fools of ’em.”
“This is the only general store in town, Mr. Henessey,” Morgan told him.
“I know it. And that’s the way I want it. Keep ’em satisfied, they won’t need another one. You go on now, count up everything and write it down. Then we can look it over together and see what we got to order.”
So he did. He spent hours poking into the corners of every shelf in the place, including the storage room in back. He saw more spiders than he knew existed in Wyoming territory, found three different nests full of baby mice, and one dead squirrel, probably brought in and hidden by Henessey’s moth-eaten cat. The same cat that was supposed to be catching the mice. He also found a bat hanging upside down in the storeroom, up in a corner behind some bolts of dusty cloth.
But he didn’t catch a single glimpse of Brett Kinkaid.
When he was out front, he’d try to get near the window every few minutes, to see if maybe Kinkaid was watching the place. On the morning of his fifth full day, he took a scrub pail and a sponge full of lye soap and vinegar and cleaned the front window inside and out. When he was finished, the window sparkled in the sun and he could see better than ever. But there was still no sign of Kinkaid.
It was Friday, he noticed a trickle of cowhands riding in, ones mostly, sometimes twos. They’d tie off in front of one of the half-dozen saloons, shamble inside, their bowed legs slowly adjusting to walking again, hitching up their pants and, one or two of them, adjusting their gunbelts.
He knew what was going through their heads. They were looking forward to something wet and something soft, in that order. And they weren’t too particular about either. Four weeks’ worth of dust took a lot of washing down, and turpentine would have done if there was nothing else available.
In the back of his mind was the thought, more like a hope, really, that Tom would come in for supplies. He wanted another chance to talk to the boy. Maybe if he saw his father in an apron he wouldn’t be so standoffish, so resentful. Hell, looking at himself reflected in the clean glass of the window, he looked absolutely ordinary, just a man with an honest job, a little dirt on his hands, a little dust in his mustache. Certainly no one to be mad at or scared of.
That’s what he thought.
Whether Tom would agree was something he’d have to wait to find out.
When Morgan came back inside after finishing the window, Lyle Henessey was taking off his apron. He smiled and asked, “Think you can handle the place alone for an hour?”
“I guess so,” Morgan said, none too sure and hoping it didn’t show.
Henessey shrugged into a suit coat and smoothed the lapels with his thick-knuckled hands. “We got a meeting. The merchant’s association. Figger I ought to be there since I’m the vice president.”
“Something going on?”
“What could be going on, Morgan?”
“I don’t know. Just seemed like the middle of the day, a work day especially, is an odd time for a meeting.”
“These boys are skittish, Morgan. They get fussy, like old maids, is all. See, most of ’em ain’t done anything but wear aprons all their lives. Me, I done time in the war, and before I got here, I was a prospector for four years. Was in the Black Hills when Custer came through. That was a sight. That man knew what was what, Morgan.”
“Didn’t help him none at Little Big Horn.”
“Wasn’t his fault. But I don’t have time to argue about it, now. Maybe tonight, after we close up shop. I’ll buy you a beer and tell you what’s what on that score. You get something you can’t handle and what can’t wait, we’ll be in the back of the Methodist church, the east end of town. But I don’t think that’ll happen. In the meantime, you want, you can repaint that sign over the front. I got the paint three months ago. Never got around to it.”
“Not much with a paintbrush, Mr. Henessey.”
“Me neither, Morgan. But as long as folks can tell the name of the place, it’ll be alright. Just follow what’s already there. Only make it a little neater, if you can.” Henessey laughed and pulled a fat cigar from his jacket pocket. He bit the end off it, lit it with a wooden match, and filled the store with a thick cloud of acrid smoke. “Leona don’t let me smoke at home, and they stink up the store,” he said, gesturing with the cigar. “Got to grab a smoke when I can. Be back in about a hour.”
Henessey left trailing a wreath of the thick gray smoke. Morgan watched him until he was out of sight, then went in the back to find the paint.
He grabbed a ladder, tucked a brush into his back pocket, and hooked the paint pail by its handle. As he started toward the front, he heard the bell announce a customer, and struggled through the door, turning sideways to squeeze through with the ladder.
It was Brett Kinkaid.
“Marshal,” Atwater said, setting the ladder down and bending to set the paint on the floor. He slipped behind the counter, wiping imaginary dust on his apron. “What can I do for you?”
Kinkaid reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. He smoothed it against his chest. It was a piece of newspaper that had been folded several times. Morgan could see the other side. It was some sort of advertisement for farm implements. When Kinkaid was satisfied with the smoothness, he set it down on the counter.
Morgan waited while Kinkaid sucked his lower lip, then stabbed the center of the creased paper with a finger. “A good likeness,” he said. “You’ve held up pretty well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at it.” He pivoted his finger on its tip, and the paper rotated a hundred and eighty degrees. “Go on, pick it up and look at it.”
Morgan took the paper. On the front side was a grainy photograph of a younger Morgan Atwater. He knew the picture. Matthew Brady had taken it sixteen years before, in Texas. The great Civil War photographer had happened through Quiet Springs when he had been sheriff. The visit coincided with an attempted bank robbery in the aftermath of which Morgan had shot and killed three of the four would-be robbers.
The presence of Brady, who memorialized the events on a dozen plates, had turned an ordinary occurrence into one of those artificial moments of history. It was the beginning of Atwater’s notoriety, and the end of his normal life. Sixteen years was a long time. But the past just wouldn’t go away.
Kinkaid was watching him closely. “That is you, ain’t it?”
“What if I say it is?”
“Whether you do or don’t say don’t make any difference. It’s you, and we both know it. I knew you looked familiar. I just couldn’t place it. So I passed the word. A friend down in Denver dug this up and sent it to me.”
That explained why Kinkaid hadn’t been around, Morgan thought. He had been waiting for the picture to arrive. He looked at Kinkaid, trying to read the man’s mind. But he hadn’t a clue. He said, “What about it?”
“Oh, come on, Atwater. It ain’t every day a man gets to look a legend in the eye. And you’re that, alright, a bonafide legend of the frontier. Least, that’s what the story that comes with this here picture says. Now, ain’t that something?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I’ll bet you wouldn’t.”
“Marshal, I have some work to do, so if you don’t mind . . .”
“Work, is it? What kind of work is this for a bonafidee legend? Storekeeper.” Kinkaid shook his head as if he couldn’t imagine a more precipitous descent from the heights of glory. “Well, since that’s the line
of work you’re in now, you mind sellin’ me something?”
“If we have it, of course.”
“Oh, you have it, alright.”
“What is it?”
“A box of Remington Arms .45 caliber cartridges. I know you got ’em, ’cause I buy ’em here all the time. One dollar and fifteen cents. Know it by heart.” He tossed a handful of coins on the table and laughed when two skidded off the edge and clunked down behind it. “It’s Friday, you know? Gonna need them shells. I can just tell. Always use a lot of ammunition on the weekend. But then, you already know about that, don’t you? Bet you used to go through a box or two ever’ weekend. Before you was a storekeeper, I mean.”
Morgan ignored the baiting, turned to the shelves behind him, and found the ammunition. He hefted the dead weight in his hand, so much heavier than one would expect a small pasteboard box to be, then took a deep breath.
He turned back and set it on the counter with a heavy thump. “Anything else?”
“Seems like you pretty anxious to get rid of me, Morgan. You mind if I call you Morgan. I mean, I never been on a first name basis with a legend before. It’d make my mama proud.”
“I’ll bet she’s already proud, Mr. Kinkaid.”
The marshal didn’t much like the tone, but he didn’t know how to object, so he let it slide. “You do much shooting anymore, Morgan? You still lightning quick? Says in the paper you could hit a silver dollar at thirty yards. That right? Can you still do that?”
Morgan didn’t say anything. Kinkaid tapped the box of bullets. “Be back next Monday for another box. You ain’t got ’em in stock, you tell Lyle I said to get some more in.”
“I’ll do that, Marshal.”
Kinkaid started for the door, then stopped. He turned back a half step. “Listen, maybe you and me could have a contest. See who’s the better shot. What do you say? Could be fun.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I do. I surely do.” He flipped a casual salute, touching the brim of his hat with extended fingers, and left.
Morgan ran a hand over his chin. He knew it might come to this, but not so soon. He cursed the past that followed him like a foal followed a mare. Then, knowing there wasn’t anything much he could do that he hadn’t already done, he looked back at the shelf. Six boxes of .45 shells were still there.
Morgan walked to the window after Kinkaid left. He tried to stay out of sight. Part of him wanted to rip through the door and call Kinkaid out right then, but he knew it was the wrong thing to do. If he was going to change his life, he would have to learn to control himself. Kinkaids were two bits a gross, and he couldn’t kill them all. No matter how much he wanted to.
Then, as if he’d known all along that Morgan was watching him, the marshal turned and flipped another salute toward the store window. Even in the bright sunlight washing out his features, the broad grin was unmistakable. Morgan clenched his fist and slammed it into the window frame. He didn’t even feel it.
He fished in his pocket, put a dollar fifteen in the till, and grabbed a box. He had a feeling he was going to need them.
Chapter 10
WITH THE BOX OF BULLETS in his hand, Morgan walked back to the window. Kinkaid was no longer in sight, but Morgan stared after the marshal for a long time. Finally, realizing he wasn’t going to see him again, he moved to the back of the store.
He leaned back against the shelves behind the counter, wondering whether Kinkaid had just threatened him, or not. The mind-set of a man who lived with a gun in his hand was a peculiar one. Used to offense, he had a tendency to find one where none was intended. But Kinkaid was not a subtle man. And there had been nothing subtle about the exchange. Or had there been?
To get his mind off it, Morgan grabbed the ladder and the paint can. He walked out into the heat and unfolded the heavy wooden ladder. It was old, covered with drips of a dozen colors of paint, scarred and nicked on every rung. “It’s seen almost as much wear and tear as I have,” Morgan mumbled, as he knelt to open the paint. He took the can in both hands and shook it rapidly, like an angry parent trying to shake some sense into a wayward child.
When he was satisfied the paint would be mixed, he fished a pocket knife out of his jeans and pried the lid off. The paint was bright red. There were still a few swirls of oil on the surface, and he took the long-handled brush and stirred the top inch or two with the handle, wiped it off on a rag, and started up the ladder.
As he climbed, he found himself out in the bright sunlight. It felt warm on his back and the back of his neck. The sign was desperately in need of repainting, and Morgan scraped the last few flakes of the old blue lettering away with one callused palm.
Concentrating on the delicate demands of the job, he realized he’d be better off to take the sign down. He could control the brush better, and the paint wouldn’t run. Shaking his head in annoyance, he climbed back down, set the paint on the boardwalk alongside the door, and stepped back into the welcome shade of the store. It felt ten degrees cooler, at least, and he wiped beads of sweat off his forehead with one rolled-up shirtsleeve.
Henessey kept tools in the back. Morgan had seen them during his inventory. He found a hammer and a pair of pliers. They should do the trick. He was back outside and halfway up the ladder when the next cowhand rode past. Morgan watched him tie up and head into the Whistle Wetter Tavern.
The sign was down in fifteen minutes. He used an old canvas for a drop cloth, and got down on his hands and knees with a pencil to block out the letters. He was almost done when he saw Henessey up the street. The shop owner was talking to three men he didn’t recognize. A little beyond the men, he saw a bright white steeple and realized the meeting must have just finished, spilling the men out into the street where a few of them continued talking.
As Morgan watched, Henessey lit another cigar and wreathed the four men in thick smoke. Morgan went back to his work and etched the last three letters in place. As he backed up to eyeball his handiwork, Henessey approached.
“Well, well, well. Knocked the darn thing right off the roof, did you, Morgan?” He laughed. “I didn’t expect you to put so much work into that old sign. But now that I get a good look at it, I guess you got the right idea.”
“I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Henessey. But it was in pretty bad shape.”
“Mind, course I don’t mind. Lot of gumption you got, Morgan. You just might have been tailor made for the mercantile profession.”
“I doubt that.”
“Don’t be so sure. Listen, I got some white paint in the back room. You might as well do the whole shebang, since you got off to such a good start. I can cover the store for the rest of the afternoon. If you don’t mind, that is. I can even pay you a little on the side. Seems to me you didn’t hire on as a handy man and sign painter, too. Not for the wages I offered.”
“No need. I just thought I might as well do it right if I was gonna do it at all.”
“You thought right. Let me get you that paint.” He stepped up on the boardwalk, looked down at the sign for a moment. “You got a right sharp eye. Those letters are neat as a pin. You must have a steady hand, Morgan.”
Morgan smiled to himself. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“What line of work were you in before you come to Cross Creek?”
“Oh, this and that.”
Henessey smiled. “You don’t want to say, that’s fine by me. I always judge a man by what he does next, not by what he done last. Seems to work out, too.”
Morgan nodded. He wasn’t about to let himself get drawn into some confessional autobiography. He knelt by the signboard and darkened a couple of the pencil lines as Henessey disappeared inside. The shopkeeper was back in two minutes, his apron on but untied, and a can of white paint in hand.
“This ought to spruce her up just fine,” he said, handing the paint down to Morgan. “I’ll be inside, you need me. Got some old calico you can use for rags, if you need ’em.”
“I’m all set, Mr. Hene
ssey.”
Henessey stopped in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. “Listen here, Morgan. You’re gonna work for me, you might as well call me Lyle, like ever’body else.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t sir me. Just because I own this place, that don’t mean I expect a grown man to bow down like some wet-behind-the-ears schoolboy.”
“Whatever you say, Lyle.”
“That’s more like it, Morgan. When you done there, let me know. I’ll give you a hand puttin’ ’er back up, once the paint dries. Shouldn’t take long in this dang heat.” He mopped his brow and neck with a colorful handkerchief, then vanished again.
As Morgan worked, he could hear Lyle inside, humming in a big, off-key baritone. Every so often, another hand or two would drift in, find his favorite watering hole, and start on a long weekend. Some of the saloons were already getting loud as Morgan finished the white background. Lyle had been right, too, about the drying time. One end was already dry by the time he got to the other. He figured he’d take a fifteen-minute break and get some cold tea. By then, he should be able to do the lettering without worrying about the red paint running into the white.
The meticulous work was making him edgy. Everytime he finished a letter, he’d back away from the board. His hands would be stiff with tension, and the muscles in the back of his neck and in his jaw would be hard as buckshot.
It was near six o’clock when Henessey appeared in the doorway for the eighth time. “Are you still not done, Morgan? Jaysus, you’re takin’ the devil’s own sweet time with that sign. Is it Leonardo I should be calling you, now? Will you be after jabberin’ to me in Eyetalian now?”
“One more, Lyle. Just one more. It would have helped matters if your name was Ryan or Kelly.”
Henessey laughed. “Well, if I stay here any longer, my name might not be any shorter, but the Missus will shorten something else of mine, something I treasure more than me name, if you know what I mean. Have you ever been married, Morgan?”
Atwater hesitated. Henessey noticed, but didn’t press the issue. “I don’t blame you. Many’s the time I thought about skippin’ out meself. I may one day yet.”