The Trailsman

by Jon Sharpe

  Irish had sent a runner to tell the marshal that a suspicious-looking man was sitting in the back of the place playing poker and bullying the other four men sitting in.

  A long bar of crude pine ran along the west wall. A small stage ran the length of the back wall. The tables filled up the eastern part of the place. A low fog of tobacco smoke hovered over everything.

  Davis didn’t have any trouble figuring out who the probable gunny was. At the moment the man was slamming his wide fist down against the table, making it dance, toppling poker chips. His harsh voice was made even harsher by his drunkenness and anger. ‘‘You think I don’t know when a bunch of rubes are cheatin’ me?’’ he said.

  The other players watched in shock and fear as the gunny suddenly produced a shiny Colt .45 and pointed it at the face of a bald man.

  ‘‘You been cheatin’ me all along,’’ the gunny said, ‘‘and now you’re gonna pay.’’

  ‘‘This is an honest game, Kelly,’’ the bald man said. He managed to sound calm. ‘‘You’re havin’ a run of bad luck is all. And to be honest, it don’t help that you managed to put away all them drinks while we’ve been playin’. Now my advice to you—’’

  ‘‘I don’t want no advice from you!’’

  The few drinkers who hadn’t been watching the card game now swung their attention to the man holding the gun on the cardplayers. They also paid attention to Davis. He now stood no more than six feet in back of the gunny, his own Colt drawn.

  ‘‘I don’t want trouble, mister. I’m the marshal here and as anybody’ll tell you, I don’t enjoy shootin’ people. Now I just want you to turn around slow and easy and hand me your gun without me having to kill you to get it.’’

  The gunny’s shoulders and head jerked at Davis’ words. His broad back, covered in an expensive white shirt—getting a better grade of gunnies in town, the lawman noted wryly—hunched some and his elbow rose. He was getting ready to turn on Davis and fire.

  But the marshal, despite rheumatism, arthritis, and advancing age, moved with surprising speed. In four quick steps he was standing within inches of the gunny. Just as the man started to turn, Davis slammed his Colt into the back of the gunny’s head. He was still a powerful man. The gunny stayed conscious long enough to spin half around. But by then the lawman’s fist had exploded on the side of the man’s face. The gun dropped to the floor and the man followed seconds later.

  ‘‘We sure do appreciate it, Marshal,’’ the bald card-player said. Even though he’d sounded calm when the gun was on him, his voice now sounded shaky. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. Sometimes a man didn’t get scared until afterward.

  ‘‘Just doin’ my job, boys. But you could do me a favor by cartin’ this one over to the jail and throwin’ him into a cell. There’ll be a deputy there to help you.’’

  ‘‘Hell, yes, we will,’’ the bald one said. He glanced down at the unconscious gunny. ‘‘Be our pleasure, matter of fact.’’

  The other players voiced agreement.

  Davis went back to the bar. Irish shoved a glass of beer at him.

  ‘‘Thanks for letting me know about him,’’ Davis said. ‘‘At least that’s one less I have to worry about.’’

  Irish scanned the place, making sure that business was getting back to normal. Didn’t want to lose any money just because a gunny raised a little hell. Then his eyes returned to Davis. ‘‘It’s the damned gold shipments. No easier way to make money than to hire some gunnies to hijack the gold.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, and no easier way to take over somebody else’s mine than by stealing all their profits.’’ He took a deep swig of beer. Irish knew who he was talking about. Nothing more needed to be said.

  ‘‘I’m your first stop?’’

  ‘‘Yep. Now I check out the other saloons and hotels. They’re not all as cooperative as you. Easiest way to deal with gunnies is to get to them before they can do anything. But to do that I need people to keep an eye out. Most folks just don’t want to be bothered.’’

  ‘‘Or they’re afraid.’’

  Davis sighed. ‘‘Yeah, I guess I forgot about poor old Millard.’’

  Ab Millard had run a saloon a block down Main Street. He’d sent a runner telling the lawman that a drifter who looked a lot like a gunny was doing some drinking and bragging in his saloon. Davis showed up and arrested the man without incident. He held him for five days, then sent him packing without any guns or weapons. Unfortunately, this particular gunny held a grudge. Three days after his release, now armed, he snuck back into town and killed poor Ab for cooperating with Davis.

  ‘‘Glad you killed that little bastard when you caught him, Marshal,’’ Irish said bitterly. ‘‘If you hadn’t, I would’ve.’’

  And Davis reckoned he would have at that.