The Wild Turkey Tango (Jackrabbit Junction Humorous Mystery)
Page 9
“Take care of it.”
“You mean you want that I should go collect? I’m supposed to be your office help.”
“Well, now you’re a tax collector.”
“Do I get a raise?”
“Let’s put it this way—you won’t get fired.”
* * *
Come Friday, I had all the money collected except for Wakum’s Gunshop. “The mayor said if you don’t pay, he’ll slap a lien on your business.”
Wakum glanced at the holey tent walls. “Hell, it’s leanin’ now.”
“Ought I send the mayor in to explain things?”
He cocked the pistol he was cleaning. “He can talk to the end of the barrel, for all I care.”
Now, it didn’t seem right that all the other business owners had paid up, and naturally the marshal was nowhere to be found, so collecting the taxes from Wakum would take a little different tactic. My brown calico dress and bonnet didn’t fit my plans.
One thing he didn’t know was my papa had learned me a thing or two, more than most women, or men for that matter, ever knew about shooting. So I went back to my room at the Tasty Chicken and changed to my practice clothes—buckskin britches, flannel shirt, a vest with pockets for cartridges, and my gunbelt.
Papa had given me his old Peacemakers but they were still in fine condition, oiled up plumb nice, and worked slick as a daisy. I slipped them into their holsters at my hip, tied down, and set off for Wakum’s place. We was gonna have us a set-to and it would end with me collecting the tax money he owed. That’s the way it was gonna be.
Twenty minutes later, I walked back into Wakum’s tent and stood at the ready. He never paid a bit of mind to me and continued polishing a pistol. All right, then—I’d wait.
After a spell he said, “State your business.” He still hadn’t looked up yet, and I couldn’t see his face for the brim of his beat-up old Stetson.
“I come to collect the taxes.”
“Ain’t paying.”
“Then I’m taking you in.”
Finally he looked at me, a flash of surprise giving him away. Papa always told me every man had a tell. Some hid theirs better than others, but they all had one, and your life could depend on whether you could read it right.
“I came here for three dollars and fifty cents.”
“Little miss, I told you I’m not paying.”
Well now that pissed me off—not just the “not paying” part, but especially the “little miss” part. I’m scrawny, but I’m tall as the average man. Tall as Wakum, maybe taller. I take after Papa in that regard.
“Then come with me, Mr. Wakum. You’re going to jail.”
“I’m staying right here. Now go on with you.”
“When I leave here, either you’ll be headed to jail, or I’ll have your three dollars and fifty cents. Your choice.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, little miss.” He pointed the pistol he’d been working so hard on and cocked it.
I didn’t waste no more breath. In a flash, my gun hand pulled and fired. His beat-up hat now had a nice round hole in it.
“Shit criminy, girl!” Then he smirked. “You missed.”
“I didn’t miss.” I held my Colt on him. “Dead men can’t pay taxes, and you needed a new hat anyway.”
Copyright 2016 Jacquie Rogers—All Rights Reserved
For more info on Jacquie Roger’s HOT WORK IN FRY PAN GULCH and her other fun books, check out her website: www.jacquierogers.com