E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Half an hour afterward, when he had finished the rounds of the saloons, he went to the jailhouse, where the turnkey asked, “What you looking for?”

  “Back up, pappy! I know jest where to find what I want.”

  He walked to the door marked “Town Marshal” and kicked it open.

  Frost jumped up. His sawed off shotgun was well out of reach. In one hand, he had the confiscated bottle, and judging from the level, he had been testing it.

  “Marshal, that there’s my likker, get your hooks offen it.”

  Frost went for his belt gun; but the gesture froze before it was half completed. He was looking into the muzzle of Grimes’ .45, and it was entirely beyond his imagining how such a thing could have happened. His color changed, and he raised his hands.

  “Bub,” he stuttered, “that jest wasn’t possible.”

  Grimes replaced the gun, and with a move little slower than his draw. “Marshal,” he said softly, “what you seen don’t prove I can hit anything when I come out smoking, does it?”

  “I ain’t craving proof. Lookee here; your name’s Grimes?”

  “I ain’t denying it.”

  “I mean Simon Bolivar Grimes.”

  “I ain’t saying I am, I ain’t saying I ain’t.”

  “Help yourself to the whiskey.”

  Grimes reached for the bottle. Edging about as a guard against surprises from the doorway, he took a quick snort. The gaping turnkey, who had seen the draw, made no effort at trickery.

  “This here,” Grimes said, as he lowered the quart, “ain’t been tampered with. How you like it?”

  “It’s sorta nice.”

  “Get busy and drink.”

  The marshal took a shot.

  “When I say drink, I mean, drink deep.”

  Another hefty one.

  “Take more.”

  “Bub, Colonel Delevan told me to save him some.”

  “Drink or draw!”

  Gurgle-gurgle-gurgle. Finally Frost said, still gulping, “Uh—um—I’ll get plumb plastered, hogging it down thissaway, and I’m a lawman, it ain’t right—”

  “Come up,” Grimes commanded, “with a drink or with a gun.”

  There was still an ounce left when the marshal fell forward on his face. Grimes handed the remainder to the turnkey. “Down it!” he commanded.

  “I ain’t a drinking man, I ain’t touched a drop since—

  “Since how long?”

  “Nigh unto seven year. When I start, I jest can’t stop, I dassent, so I took a pledge.”

  “You ain’t teched a drop for seven years? Drink up!”

  Tremblingly, the turnkey obeyed. He licked his lips. He hitched his pants. He cocked his hat at a rakish angle.

  “You went and done it! Now I’m a-going on a bender, I’ll be staying drunk for three-four weeks, and gosh, it’s going to be fun!”

  “How’d it taste?”

  “Finest Bourbon I ever wrapped around my tonsils, and I been drinking, man and boy, for thirty year afore I took a pledge.”

  He headed for the door.

  “Where you going?”

  “Aiming to get dead-drunk quick as I can.”

  “You ain’t going to like it, not if you ain’t used to Red Quill,” Grimes solemnly promised.

  He went from bar to bar to size things up before he forced some group of cowpunchers to drink Old Vickery. This would be his revenge, and let the results be what they might; since Melba had turned against him, nothing mattered.

  * * * *

  Presently, he stepped into a place just as the turnkey, already roaring and stuttering, staggered to the street. Grimes could feel a difference between the guarded looks which now searched him and the open stares of only an hour previous.

  The turnkey, it seemed, had babbled between drinks. When the tin piano’s jangle stopped, and the silence caught some speaker off guard, he heard, from a far corner, the voice of a man who had an instant earlier been talking against the jangling music: “—I’m betting he kilt Pecos and Dusty.”

  Two men marched in, shoulder to shoulder. Both were hard cases. Their eyes restlessly covered the entire saloon; though in home territory, instinct kept them on guard. One said, “Mr. Grimes, we are speaking direct to you for Colonel Delevan. Being as how you’re a stranger, you ain’t got seconds to repersent you.”

  “That’s right, gents, I repersent myself.”

  The spokesman went on, “The colonel challenges you to a duel and wants to know whether you aim to fight, or get hoss-whipped outa town account of saying Red Quill ain’t fit for man or beast.”

  Grimes set his quart bottle on the bar. “My compliments to Colonel Delevan, and say that I am tickled silly to fight. And is he game to let me pick the weapins?”

  “On hoss or on foot, shooting or cutting. What style do you take?”

  The whispered debates as to whether this was or was not the original Grimes had ceased. The answer seemed very loud: “Gents, tell the colonel that it’ll be drink and shoot.”

  “What’s that? You aiming to be funny?”

  “That’s up to the colonel. What I aim is a duel like Clay Allison fit with Wild Bill Hickok. I know the old marshal can explain.”

  “Drink-and-shoot,” they muttered, still puzzled.

  “Speaking of drinking,” Grimes went on, “this here bottle is the only one in town with likker in it that’s fitten to drink. Belly-up, gents.”

  “We ain’t drinking with anyone that’s insulted the—uh—tastes of Stinking Springs.”

  “You are drinking,” Grimes asserted, “or I’ll be taking my own answer to the colonel.”

  He held his hands well away from his sides. “Take your choice, gents, grab that bottle or slap leather.”

  The two exchanged a side glance. One said, “Slim, this fool is asking for trouble, and if we give it to him, there won’t be anyone for the colonel to duel with.”

  * * * *

  Slim went stubborn. He sidestepped toward the bar. “You suit yourself, Top Rail.”

  And Top Rail crossed from his pardner’s right to get the bottle, passing in front of him. He was in no position to draw, and Slim was blocked. They had backed down, and they had covered themselves by saying that they had to save the victim for the colonel.

  Or so it seemed to the cowpunchers in the corner, until guns blazed.

  Slim, sidestepping from the bar as his pardner moved toward it, had drawn during the split second in which he was masked; but during that same shred of time, Grimes had gone for his .45s. They smoked and bucked as he advanced on the gun slicks.

  Slim stumbled, tried to level his weapon again, but a third slug knocked him down. And Top Rail, whirling when he sensed that something had gone wrong with the whipsaw play, barely reached his holster.

  His vest jerked three times from impacts before he doubled up and dropped in a heap against the brass rail.

  Grimes turned in his cloud of smoke and faced the customers. “Gents, two agin one, and they aimed to whipsaw me. Anyone here see it any other way?” There was no answer. “Being as how Colonel Delevan’s fust second and second second ain’t talkin’, I’d admire to have someone tell him we’ll fight a drink-and-shoot duel, unless he’s leaving town.”

  He picked up the bottle, took a swig, set it down. “That there is real Bourbon, it ain’t Red Quill rotgut. Help yourselves, gents.”

  Then he went to Wing Lee’s restaurant. Half-emptied plates showed how the sound of gunfire had cleared the counter. And Wing Lee’s face showed that he was not surprised to see that Grimes, while waiting for half a dozen scrambled eggs, jacked expended cartridges first from one Colt, and then the other.

  The Chinaman said, “You gettee flee glub, Missee Glime.”

  “Slim and Top Rail used to throw rocks at you?”

 
“You savvee plenty.”

  Grimes could not positively assume that the dueling colonel, unable to back down in issuing his challenge, had planned for his seconds to settle the matter, yet the whipsaw trick which the gun slicks had attempted did indicate that the turnkey’s account of Grimes’ dealing with the marshal had left its marks on the town.

  Whether Melba deserved it or not, old man Hanford deserved a break. Grimes was going to make one final attempt to pave the way for honest whiskey in general, and Old Vickery in particular. He said to Wing, “I’m giving a barbecue the day of the duel. You fix everything. Exactly like I tell you.”

  “Me savvee plenty,” the Chinaman answered, and Grimes settled down to explaining.

  CHAPTER V

  Doctored

  For the next three days, Grimes camped on the open range. Some thought he was taking precautions against being bushwhacked before the duel; others, hearing the pistol blasts, checked up with field glasses, said that he was practicing his draw and popping the heads from quail and rattlesnakes.

  But his campfire, each night, assured the curious town that he had not run out. And then Stinking Springs became interested in the Chinaman’s preparation for a barbecue out in the plaza.

  When Grimes rode back to town, Melba pushed her way through the crowd which lined one edge of the plaza, and ran to meet him as he dismounted.

  “Simon,” she cried, catching him with both arms. “I was worried to death, thinking you’d be dry-gulched.”

  “Honey,” he answered, “I was purty sure they wouldn’t, account they wanted to see a drink-and-shoot duel.”

  “But that fire!”

  He whispered, “That there was so the Chinaman could find me.”

  The marshal advanced to the center of the plaza and began, “His Honor, the Mayor, asks me to announce to all and sundry that this here drink-and-shoot duel concerns itself entirely with the aspersions Simon Bolivar Grimes has cast on the good name of Red Quill Bourbon, and that Colonel Delevan is defending the liquor he has sponsored. And anyone claiming a lady is involved is a liar and a skunk. Is that clear?”

  A shout of assent answered him.

  He went on, “Colonel Delevan, you got anything to say?”

  The colonel bowed ceremoniously, raised his hat, and answered, “Suh, I am ready to defend my honor.”

  “Mr. Grimes, you got any statements?”

  “I’m buying a keg of Red Quill for the public. Jest to show I ain’t got any hard feelings. Instead of each one drinking outen his own bottle, me and the colonel share the same keg.”

  The colonel’s handsome face tightened a little. “I cannot drink with a man I am about to meet on the field of honor.”

  Grimes grinned amiably. “Colonel, you can make that right by giving me back half of what I paid out for the keg. Thataway, we are both contributing alike to the cheer of our feller citizens. Me, I got some Old Vickery, but I’m meeting you half way, taking your brand. Or mebbe them bottles in that basket your hired man has got ain’t got Red Quill in ’em?”

  The colonel had no argument left. The marshal cut in, “If you gents are ready, get to your posts.”

  Grimes and the colonel marched toward each other, arms folded, until they were within three paces of each other, with a whitewash line separating them. Two cowpunchers rolled the little keg to the line and drove in a spigot, then gave the combatants tin cups. The marshal went on, “Ladies and gents! This here duel is a test of skill and endurance. Once I pass the sidelines, taking away the empty cups, they can draw without warning, any time till I come back with a fresh drink, and then all shooting’s cut until I get over the side line again. The idee is, who can shoot the straightest when he’s drunk the mostest.”

  The only one who paid no attention was Wing Lee. He shuffled about the barbecue pit and monkeyed with a pot of sauce.

  Grimes raised his drink, and when the marshal had backed away, he said, “Colonel Delevan, your good health, suh! Beef blood, prune juice, plug terbaccer, chemicals, and acids.”

  The colonel gulped his cup, shuddered, lowered it, glanced about him. Grimes, lips barely moving, said, “Your choice, colonel. Drink or draw?”

  “Fill them up, marshal!” Delevan demanded, loud and strong.

  * * * *

  Silence ringed the square. Then, in the dusty and deserted main street, they heard the turnkey whooping it up.

  “Gimme more likker! Put rattlesnakes and trantlers in it, I want it hot and strong! Wheeeee!”

  After seven years, he was making up for lost time.

  Grimes whispered, “Colonel, this here ain’t what you use in your juleps. You know what they’ll do if I ever tell ’em what you put in them barrels?”

  Delevan did not answer. Straight as a ramrod, he accepted his cup of Red Quill. Each eyeing the other over the rim, they downed their poison.

  “Suh, you can’t stand this here likker much longer, and if you fall on your face, I’m telling ’em why.”

  The colonel raised his voice. “That was delicious, marshal. Fill them up again.”

  Arms folded, they faced each other; once the marshal crossed the side­line, each had the option of a quick draw, or else waiting until the other had faced another jolt of forty-rod.

  Grimes’ cargo of Red Quill was raising ructions. He was beginning to wonder how long he could endure his own contest. He had no qualms about his gunnery. As long as he stayed on his feet, his trigger finger would work by instinct. But winning an exchange of lead, shooting down the widow’s sponsor would gain him and the Hanfords nothing at all, for the town would forgive the dead and coddle the Indian fighter’s daughter.

  Gun to gun, he had the colonel bluffed. It had worked just too well. Delevan would not draw, and if Grimes was the first to collapse, the duel was lost.

  Already, the plaza began to weave a little. Grimes was sweating from the effort to keep his attention focused against the instant when he could make his play.

  Finally, he caught the first sign of the colonel’s wavering, and Grimes risked letting himself go a little. He sagged, his legs went wobbly.

  Delevan’s draw, considering all, was very good. But Grimes’ was better.

  His gun blazed as it cleared the holster. The slug smashed against the cylinder of Delevan’s heavy Colt, and lead fragments tore his hand. The weapon was useless, and so were the gunner’s fingers. And then Grimes yelled through the smoke, “Knock ’er loose!”

  The Chinaman swung the axe with which he had been chopping fuel for the pot of sauce. The whiskey barrel’s hoops burst. They had been filled almost to the breaking point the night before the duel. Wing Lee had seen to that.

  Grimes pointed at the scattered staves. When the crowd saw what came out on the flood of liquor, they howled, “Putting trantlers and rattlesnakes in it!”

  The colonel saw and turned a sickly pea-green. He doubled up. Doreen Hopkins rushed from the sidelines and cried, “Oh, you scoundrel, poisoning all these people! I’d rather starve than take dividends for such filthy liquor!”

  Delevan was too sick to protest, and the shock of a bullet-torn hand did not help him. Doreen clawed and slapped him, ripped his flowing tie and his fine shirt. “I hope they lynch you—putting snakes and tarantulas into their liquor, just to make more profit!”

  There was talk of lynching, but Grimes and the marshal won Delevan a chance to get to his house to pack up for a trip. And then Grimes went to get the bottles of whiskey which Melba had concealed in her rig.

  “Drink up, gents; it’s this lady’s treat. Old Vickery, the best dang Bourbon ever come outen Kentucky, and no chemicals and acids in it. Jest repeal that ordinance, and her pappy’ll haul in a wagonload of it.”

  Outraged citizens smashed all the other barrels of Red Quill. And an hour later, when Grimes and Melba drove back toward Cold Deck to tell old man Hanford the news, the
blonde pillowed her head on his shoulder and asked, “Simon, how did you stand it, knowing Wing Lee had put rattlers and tarantulas into every barrel in the warehouse?”

  She shuddered. He drew in the reins, and his arm closed about her.

  “Honey, when I was in Arizony, I et rattlers. They ain’t bad when you get used to the idee, and the trantlers was some Wing Lee made up outen black darning cotton, they sure looked good enough to turn the colonel’s stomach more inside out than if’n I’d shot him there.”

  SHORT-CUT TO HELL

  Originally published in Six-Gun Western, April 1950.

  CHAPTER I

  “Lock him up, Sheriff!”

  Pete Barlow, sitting among the emigrants of the Red Fork Company, watched firelight play on the tanned faces of the men and on the canvas covers of wagons. Barlow, not yet discharged from the army, was conspicuous in his uniform, but no one noticed him. No one noticed anyone or anything but Kirby Swift, second in command of the emigrant wagon train.

  The sodbusters, squatting in a half circle, had the same look Barlow had noted at political meetings when a spellbinder tricked his hearers into agreement, not because he spoke sense, but because he wished them to agree. Horace Parker, with the wheat colored beard and grave face and kindly eyes was still captain of the emigrant company, but his flashy segundo, Kirby Swift, had stolen command. Tall and swarthy and good looking, he filled the eyes. He had a daredevil swagger even when standing still. The tilt of his head, the set of his shoulders, the roving glance convinced the others that they could be like him simply by agreeing with him. He had them all wishing they were Kirby Swifts, admired by all men, and eyed fondly by all women.

  Parker, trying to regain the attention he had lost, got to his feet and began, “All in favor of hauling out at dawn—”

  Kirby Swift broke in, “Well, now, gentlemen, when do you think we want to haul out?”

  The interruption was bravado, small boy showoff, and outright rudeness both to the speaker and the speaker’s office, yet the younger men and some of the older ones chuckled appreciatively as though they had heard rare wit and brilliance. But Barlow, who had a snootful, got up to speak his own piece.