Knuckleball (One Eye Press Singles)
Page 8
We went inside where it was cooler, but more depressing. Business was dead, as usual. When I’d acquired the place I pictured a polished bar with a big mirror behind it, maybe a few upstairs rooms where the public girls would entertain. What I got was a one room, raw-plank building that only counted as a saloon because the previous owner had laid a board across two barrels and put up a shelf of whiskey behind it.
The back corner was blocked off by a couple of hanging sheets where Charlie and I bunked. It was one step from sleeping in the alley, and I wasn’t sure the alley wouldn’t have been more comfortable.
Charlie went behind the bar and got a couple glasses. He had to stretch to reach the bottles on the shelf. Watching him do that was something that always amused me. It was about the only time I noticed his actual size. Charlie only stood about five foot eight in his boots, but always seemed bigger. He had a way of taking up a lot of space.
Charlie poured two fingers of whiskey in each of our glasses, then came and set down at the table. Dottie had followed us inside, listening as Charlie tried to get me all the way over on the idea of manhunting. She sat down at the table like she had a stake in the matter.
“I don’t think we’re cut out to run no saloon,” Charlie said.
Looking around at the place, it wasn’t something I could argue. Everything had accumulated a blanket of dust from disuse. We only had three mismatched tables in the place. The chairs were turned up on the other two, and lately we had taken to leaving them there. It just seemed like wasted effort to take them down every morning, only to put them back every night never having been dusted by an ass.
“I’m not sure we’re cut out to hunt men either,” I said.
“Hell, I did it for the army,” Charlie said.
“I thought that was why you quit,” I said.
“I quit because the army was quick to kill Apache just for being Apache. That didn’t seem like much of a reason to me. This Arbo fella is a murderer and thief. Throw in the reward, and I believe I can get behind a killing like that.”
“Awful quick to decide on killing him. Shouldn’t we at least try to capture him?”
Charlie grinned. “Hell, Owen. We can always try.”
“But you don’t figure he’ll surrender.”
“Would you? I believe I’d rather take a bullet than swing into nowhere on the end of a rope.”
Dottie noisily supped the last of the whiskey from her glass. “I sure wouldn’t want to hang. Sounds just awful.”
Dottie held her empty glass out to Charlie. He just looked at her. Dottie sighed, got up and went behind the bar.
“Suppose we go after him,” I said. “What do we do with this place? We just close it up while we’re gone? It don’t make much, but it’s better than nothing.”
“It’s exactly nothing,” Charlie said. “Close it up. Put a match to it. I don’t care. We ain’t businessmen and we shouldn’t have tried to be.”
“I can watch the place,” Dottie said.
Charlie let out an ugly laugh. “What the hell do you know about being a bartender?”
“It ain’t that complicated,” Dottie said. She glared at him as she tipped the bottle up and filled her glass. She sat the bottle down, then slapped the cork back in, picked up her glass with a flourish and arched an eyebrow at Charlie.
“Fine,” Charlie said. “You can watch the place while we’re gone.”
“I guess we all get new jobs today,” I said.
TWO
We rode side by side, headed for the copper mine just a few miles outside of Olvidados. The mine was the only reason the town existed. When it was producing at it’s peak it had employed over a hundred men who, come payday, were eager for a drink and a poke without having to make the two day ride to Shakespeare just to get them. Now the mine was almost played out and Olvidados along with it.
“Don’t you think you brought too much gun?” Charlie asked.
He gestured to the two ten gauge coach guns I had, one in a scabbard tied to my saddle, the other in a sling on my back. They were left over from my time in the shotgun seat. I also had my Colt holstered to my hip, although I wasn’t nearly as good with mine as Charlie was with his, which was why I had the two coach guns.
“No such thing,” I said.
“Bet you also got that old Marston in your boot,” Charlie said.
“I do,” I said.
“For a man so reluctant to kill you sure come prepared for it.”
“I may be reluctant, but in the event I’d rather it be him than me.”
“Amen, brother,” Charlie said.
When we got to the mine I fell back behind Charlie and we rode single file down the haul road into the open pit. As we neared the bottom I could see there weren’t more than a dozen men working and only one ore cart waiting to be filled. Beside a weather-beaten shack not much bigger than an outhouse there sat a pile of unused shovels and picks.
Everybody stopped working to watch us as we rode by. One fella stood back from the others, leaning on a shovel. He was tall, smoking a cheroot and wearing a beat-up bowler hat that looked to be two sizes too small. I figured him for the foreman seeing as how he was doing the least work. Charlie must have figured the same because he rode right up to the man.
“Good afternoon,” Charlie said.
“Maybe up top,” the man said. “Down here it’s hotter than the inside of a buffalo’s ass. Plus I got the piles something awful. So don’t go telling me how Goddamn good your afternoon is.”
Charlie looked back over his shoulder at me. He grinned, then turned back to the man.
“I can tell you ain’t one for small talk, so I’ll get to the point. Are you the foreman?”
“I am.”
“Your name Cullins?”
The foreman’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Charlie Brittle, and this here is Owen Ashe.”
The man glanced in my direction, then back at Charlie. “What do you want?”
Charlie swung down off his horse and stepped right up to the man. The foreman was a good three inches taller and outweighed him by at least sixty pounds, but he seemed to shrink as Charlie got closer.
“What I want is for you to answer my damn question.”
The man swallowed, nodded. “I’m Cullins.”
“We’re looking for your brother Arbo. He’s wanted for murder and bank robbery, and we intend to take him back with us.”
Cullins didn’t hesitate. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the shack.
“Why the hell didn’t you just say so,” Cullins said. “Sonbitch won’t do a lick of work. Been sponging off me since he got here. Pappy always said Arbo would come to no good. One of the few times that old bastard was right.”
Right then a weathered looking fella I took to be Arbo leaned out of the door of the shack. One eye was white as snow, and he had teeth that would have made a beaver jealous. He also had a 40-44 revolver in his hand.
Arbo popped off a shot that hit Cullins in the back of the head. Cullin’s tiny bowler hat jumped up like it was on a spring, and the lit cheroot shot out of his mouth, bounced off Charlie’s shoulder and sent up a little spray of sparks.
“You back stabbin’ bastard,” Arbo yelled before retreating back inside the shack.
The foreman didn’t hear him. His dead eyes stared up at me. Blood poured steadily from the back of his head and ran down into the crevices of the ground he’d worked.
Several of the miners jumped for cover when Arbo fired, but the rest moved toward us. I didn’t know if they were coming to the aid of their foreman, or just trying to get a gander at the action. I wasn’t going to wait to find out.
I climbed down off my horse and hauled the coach gun from its scabbard. Cradling it like a baby, I took a few steps toward the approaching miners.
“That’s close enough boys,” I said. “This bitch is not choosy. If I try to shoot one of you her spread will kill three.”
That stopped
them in their tracks.
Charlie drew his Colt and faced the shack. “Arbo, you are one low down dog. You done killed your own brother.”
“We wasn’t all that close,” Arbo called back.
“You come out now,” Charlie said. “Nobody else has to get hurt. If you don’t, I’m going to kill you. That’s for certain.”
“Go kiss a mule’s ass.” Arbo still didn’t show himself.
Charlie fired twice through the wall of the shack.
“Oh, Goddamn,” Arbo said.
Arbo stumbled out of the shack clutching at his belly. He made a halfhearted attempt to raise his gun and Charlie shot him in the face. Arbo fell atop the stack of picks and shovels, and they made an awful clatter as his body rolled down to the ground.
Charlie had a canvas tarp folded up and stashed behind his saddle. I kept watch on the miners while he got the tarp and used it as a winding sheet for Arbo. He tied the sheet in place with rope, then grabbed the body by the legs and drug it toward my horse.
“I don’t want that thing riding with me,” I said. “You killed him, you haul him.”
“Fine,” Charlie said. “Next time we bring a damn pack mule.”
By the time he got Arbo situated onto the back of his horse, Charlie was breathing hard.
“Thanks for the help,” Charlie said.
“I’m handling business over here,” I said.
Charlie looked at the miners.
“Yeah, they look like a formidable bunch.”
I kept the coach gun out and resting across my lap as we started back up the haul road. I wanted to keep it out for the miners to see. I doubted any of them cared a whit about Arbo or his brother, but men can react in violent and unexpected ways when you invade their territory.
“What do we do with him?” One of the miners called out. He pointed at the foreman’s body.
“You boys are the ones with the shovels,” Charlie said. “Dig a hole and bury him.”
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Table of Contents
Praise for Knuckleball
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Game One
Game Two
Game Three
Extra Innings
About Tom Pitts
One Eye Press Extras