The Blacksmith

by Bryan A. Salisbury

  “You never found paper on him?” asked Blake.

  “Naw, I don’t think the judge will hang him, probably just get prison, seeing as he didn’t kill nobody.”

  “Too bad, I got a feeling if anybody needed killing, it’s him,” Blake said.

  “That’s a fact. By the way, all the bounty money cleared for them others. You want Weatherby to put your share in your account at the bank?”

  “That’ll work,” Blake said. “Anything else, because I need to finish these brackets up.”

  “Just one more thing. Big Man is in the jail, he broke some cowpoke’s leg in the saloon for getting too friendly with that dove he’s sweet on. He won’t pay his fine ‘cause he says he’s saving to marry her. It was one of MacIntyre’s men and the mayor made Johansson give him a fifty dollar fine.”

  “Damn fool,” Blake said. “How long does he have to stay locked up?”

  “Old fat Weatherby insisted on thirty days,” said Ventosa.

  “Shit,” exclaimed Blake. “If he loses that job at the lumberyard he’ll never save enough.”

  “Yup,” Mike said. “Just thought you’d like to know. I’ll be seeing you, Blake.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” Blake called after him.

  Blake finished his work and shut down the forge. He cleaned up and headed over to the Trail’s End. Being the middle of the afternoon it was practically empty. He stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. When the barkeep set it down for him, Blake asked, “Is Michelle around?”

  “She ain’t come down yet, but if you’re lookin’ for a poke, I can see if she’s ready,” he said.

  “No, I just want to talk.”

  “Let me go get her,” the bartender said. “She ain’t been too crazy about her work lately.” He stepped around the bar and went upstairs. A moment later he appeared with Michelle following. Her eyes were red from crying and forced a smile when she saw Blake.

  She was wearing a provocative blue dress and swayed her voluptuous hips as she came closer. “What can I do for you, handsome?”

  “I came to talk about Percival.”

  Her eyes welled up with tears and she brushed them away. “That big lummox has gone and got himself jailed. I know why he did it but he knows what I do and a girl’s got to make a living.”

  “Would some brandy help your nerves?” asked Blake.

  “Normally I don’t, but it wouldn’t hurt today,” she said.

  Blake ordered the drink and she took a sip. Suddenly she looked at Blake and said, “Are you the damn fool that told him to clean himself up and try to court me?”

  “Courting you was his idea, I just gave him a few ideas how,” Blake said staring at his beer.

  “Why? So we could both get our hearts broke?” she cried. “In case you haven’t noticed I’m a whore, not some prim and proper lady.”

  “I think you deserve the same chance at happiness as any other woman.”

  “Fancy talk,” she said.

  “Do you love him?” Blake asked.

  She considered the question carefully. “Yes, I do, God help me. He dotes on me something fierce and is one of the gentlest people I know. You know he even talked about having a passel of kids someday? Imagine me a mother,” she laughed.

  “Yes, I can,” Blake replied. “Is there anything else you’re good at?”

  “Besides the obvious?” she asked. “I guess I’ve always been handy with a needle and thread. I make my own dresses when I can.”

  “What about working for the dressmaker in town?”

  “Psst, that old biddy hasn’t got a clue what catches a man’s eye. A dress can be for working, but that doesn’t mean you have to look like a school marm. Now I’m not sayin’ you have to show off the twins like this,” she said pushing up on her ample breasts. “But a man likes to know that you got them,” she giggled.

  Blake smiled and sipped his beer. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

  “Oh hell, it’s all a dream thinkin’ about that anyway,” she said finishing her brandy.

  “What about your own shop?”

  “Oh sure,” she laughed. “I’ll just bat my eyes and the banker will give me a shop with pretty lace curtains. Whose gonna buy a dress made by a whore anyway?”

  “Ever hear the phrase, build it and they will come?” Blake asked.

  “Yeah, but I think they were talkin’ about a cathouse,” she laughed her bawdy laugh and Blake joined her.

  ******

  Blake left the saloon and strolled into the bank. He arranged with Mr. Weatherby to open an account in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Percival Feathers and had him place the thousand dollars from the bounty he earned along with five hundred more as a wedding gift. Weatherby objected because there was technically no Mrs. Feathers, but agreed when a marriage license was produced. Blake asked if it was going to be necessary for him to come in and broker the deal for the new dress shop and Weatherby grumbled that it would not.

  Blake met Caleb coming out of the café and told him he could go straight home and get to his studies. He then walked over to the jail and went in. Johansson was doing paperwork at his desk and Ventosa was sweeping the floor. “Howdy, gents,” he said smiling.

  “Didn’t my deputy tell you your money would be in your account at the bank?” the sheriff asked gruffly.

  “I thought you southern boys were supposed to be gentlemen,” Blake said still grinning.

  “We are to other southern boys,” Johansson replied. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to Big Man, if I may.”

  “About?”

  “The jailbreak we’re going to do,” the still-grinning Blake said. The room went deathly silent and Johansson shot him a hard look. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, sheriff, loosen the saber a little,” Blake laughed, “I just have a proposition for him.”

  “Leave your gun on my desk, smartass,” the sheriff grumbled.

  Blake took off his gun belt and placed it on his desk while Ventosa opened the steel door to the back where the cells were. Wilson stood up and sneered at Blake, “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking to see the pretty job the doc did on your ear,” Blake said flatly.

  “Well, get a good look peckerwood, so’s you know it’s me when I shoot you,” Wilson growled.

  Mike Ventosa smacked the bars in front of Wilson’s face. “Sit down and shut up, stupid.”

  “You, too, asshole,” he grumbled, waving a finger at Mike.

  There were four cells in the jail and Big Man was across and down from Wilson. When he saw Blake he hoisted his enormous frame off the cot and came up to the bars. “Guess I done a bad thing, huh?”

  “Well it wasn’t the smartest thing,” Blake said. “Hear me out. I have an idea if you’re agreeable.” Blake told him of the money he deposited in the bank under his name and the wedding gift. He explained that he could only get to the money if he showed Weatherby a marriage license. Percival was so shocked he found it hard to speak. Blake told him there should be enough money to get a dress shop started for Michelle and he could keep his job at the lumberyard. Also, being a married man, he had to act respectable and couldn’t go around breaking legs whenever he got the urge. He made him promise to behave and to always treat Michelle right.

  “What about the fine?” Percival asked.

  “I’ll take care of that. It’s the least I can do for helping with those bank robbers.” Blake told him.

  “You just made my list, ya big elephant!” Wilson called out.

  Big Man looked through the bars toward Wilson, “You say no more broken legs?” he asked Blake quietly.

  Blake smiled and said, “There are always exceptions.”

  Chapter 13

  The next morning Blake and Caleb were busy at work in the church tower. The bracing was finished and all that was left was mounting the brackets for the bell. Suddenly, they heard gunfire coming from the direction of the jail. Blake had a pretty good view of t
he whole town from up in the steeple and caught a glimpse of Sheriff Johansson working his way around the back of the jail, his colt drawn and his left arm seemed to be bleeding. The Padre came running into the main part of the church to see what the shooting was all about. Blake saw him and called down, “Get back, Padre; there’s trouble at the jail.” Blake started to climb down and suddenly had a thought. “Hey, Padre, you wouldn’t have a rifle would you?”

  The priest looked around the corner and yelled up, “I have an old Spencer rifle we had when we made the trip out here. I have never fired it, though.”

  “Can you fetch it and tie it on the rope?”

  “Good heavens,” he said, “I’ll try.” He scurried away toward his house in the back.

  “Caleb, go down and help him and be quick, we don’t have much time,” Blake said earnestly. Caleb made his way down the ladder and ran through the church as fast as his legs would carry him. More shots rang out from the jail. Just as Blake was getting ready to get down again, a breathless Caleb grabbed the rope and tied the rifle to it. Blake hoisted it up and took a close look. It was a large bore Spencer that obviously had little use, but it seemed to be in good shape, probably been stored in the back of a closet. Unfortunately, it only had two rounds loaded in it. Blake thought, “I hope this isn’t a long fight.” Blake peered over the edge of the rail and saw Wilson cat footing around the building next to the jail trying to make his way to some horses tied out front. He was holding a revolver high, ready to shoot. Iver Johansson was now working his way across the front of the jail, his arm had been bleeding badly and he was unsteady on his feet. In a few seconds Wilson would have the drop on him. Blake lined up the sights and squeezed the trigger. His shot went high and left in back of Wilson and buried itself into the house. Wilson crouched down and tried to figure out where the shot came from. Thorton jacked the other round in the rifle and took aim again compensating this time for the sights. He let out a slow breath and squeezed the trigger once more. Wilson’s body slammed up against the house with enough force to knock the pistol from his hand, and he landed face first in the dirt. Blake called down to the sheriff, “I think I got him good, be careful, he could be playin’ possum.”

  Johansson waved his pistol in recognition and eased around the corner. Leaning against the wall he worked his way over to Wilson and used the toe of his boot to roll him over. “Deader than hell,” he yelled back.

  Caleb and the Padre ran over to Johansson to steady him. “Never mind me,” he snapped, “go check my deputy in back of the jail by the privy.”

  Mike came from inside the jail with blood running down the side of his face and a large egg forming on his head. “I’m alright, that son-of-a-bitch got the drop on me,” he said leaning against the post.

  Blake had arrived in time to catch him as he started to fall. “Easy there, Mike, you’ve got quite a knot on your head,” he said as he lowered him into the rocking chair.

  The town’s doctor, Thaddeus Baker, had arrived carrying his bag. He was a small man, graying at the temples and sporting a well-trimmed goatee. He went to the sheriff first and wrapped his bleeding arm tightly to stem the blood flow. Then he moved quickly over to the deputy and examined his head wound. “We need to get these men over to my office where I can tend to them properly. Move them with care, head injuries can be tricky,” he said, snapping his bag shut. Some more of the men from the town had arrived to help and they carried Mike over to the doctor’s office.

  Caleb helped the sheriff by letting him lean on him. Johansson looked at Blake and said, “Nice shot … although it took you two.”

  “Wasn’t my rifle, I didn’t have time to adjust the sights,” Blake replied smiling.

  “Likely excuse,” Johansson said, but this time he was smiling for the first time since Blake met him. Griswold the undertaker came trotting up the street to meet the sheriff. “Got you another customer over by the house next to the jail,” he said to the merchant of death.

  “Not another shotgun killing is it?” the thin man asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “No, but it was a big bore Spencer,” said Blake.

  “Better than a shotgun, I guess,” the thin man replied. “And who will be paying for the burial?”

  “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat,” growled the sheriff. “I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig and you’re frettin’ over money. Bury him and send the bill to the mayor.”

  “I apologize for my lack of sensitivity, sheriff,” Griswold said in a singsong voice. “I am only trying to make a living.”

  “Well go make it then,” grumbled Johansson.

  Once they had Johansson and Ventosa in the doctor’s office, Blake and Caleb went back to the church. “Y-you k-k-killed a lot of m-men h-haven’t y-you?” Caleb asked when they got to the top of the steeple.

  “I’ve never killed someone who wasn’t in desperate need of it. I’m not proud of it but sometimes a man has to step up and hold others accountable,” Blake said.

  “I-I d-don’t never w-w-want t-to k-kill n-nobody,” Caleb said.

  “I hope you never have to, son, it stays with a man his whole life.”

  ******

  They finished mounting the bell and lowered all the tools down. After they loaded the wagon Father Grimm came out and looked up in the steeple. He looked like a man who had a troubled mind. “I understand why you had to shoot that man this morning,” he began. “But it weighs heavy on me that I had a part in it.”

  Blake leaned against the doorway and said, “I pulled the trigger, not you, Padre.”

  “Yes I know, but still I supplied the instrument of destruction.”

  “Padre, that was an evil man who died today, pure and simple. He would have killed the sheriff, his deputy, and anyone else he took a notion to. You helped save some lives today; I think God will be agreeable to that.”

  “Perhaps,” Father Grimm replied. “Still it weighs heavy on me.”

  “Me, too,” Blake said. “If it didn’t, we wouldn’t be any better men than them.”

  Father Grimm considered that. “Well I guess all we can do is pray that the Lord forgives us,” he said smiling slightly. “Is the bell repaired now?”

  “We were just about to give it a try,” Blake said. “Why don’t you give the rope a tug.”

  “I think Caleb should, it was his job after all,” the Padre said, winking at Blake.

  “Give it a pull, son,” Blake grinned. “Let’s see how you did.”

  Caleb took a firm hold of the rope and pulled. The big bell swung effortlessly and rang with a clear loud tone.

  The Padre clapped his hands together and smiled broadly. “What a marvelous thing to hear on a day like today. Splendid job, gentlemen. What does the church owe your wonderful work?”

  Caleb looked at Blake for an answer, and Blake smiled and whispered in his ear. “C-c-consider it a d-donation,” Caleb said.

  The Padre put a hand on each of their shoulders. “God bless the both of you.”

  They all shook hands and Caleb and Blake got in the wagon. Blake stopped by his house to let Sadie know that she needn’t bring lunch today because he wanted to check on the sheriff and Mike. Then they would have lunch at the café. Blake changed his shirt and Caleb went to get cleaned up.

  “What was that shootin’ about?” Sadie asked.

  “That fourth bank robber tried to make a break today.”

  “Did he gets away?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  “He was shot and killed, the undertaker is preparing his dirt nap now,” Blake replied.

  “I’s hopes the Devil is proddin’ him good with his pitchfork,” she stated.

  Blake laughed, “I’m sure he is.”

  ******

  Sadie was thrilled to have a chance to go visit with her family and accepted a ride with Blake to Sam and Marie’s house. After leaving her they returned to the forge, unloaded the wagon and returned it to Joe. Blake and Caleb found the doctor’s office and w
ere met by his nurse. She showed them to the back where the doctor was leaning over Mike and a very grumpy Johansson was sitting in another bed with his arm in a sling.

  “How is he, Doc?” Blake asked quietly.

  “Hard to say,” he said concerned. “I don’t believe his skull is fractured, but there is always the danger of his brain swelling. He’s sleeping now; all we can do is wait.”

  “Lousy, no account varmint,” the sheriff growled. “Should have hung him straight away.”

  “You ever figure out what happened?” Blake asked Johansson.

  “Wilson was bitchin’ about havin’ to go to the privy because he had the runs. What we didn’t know is every time he went out there he was loosin’ up a board. When he came out the last time, he cracked Mike on the head with it and stole his pistol. Doc says Mike’s lucky to be alive.” The sheriff grimaced when he tried to get more comfortable. “Anyway, I heard the ruckus and was comin’ out to see what was going on and that bastard Wilson took a shot at me. Nicked the bone, too, damn that hurts like hell,” he groused.

  “It’s a wonder that bullet could even penetrate your ornery hide,” the doctor laughed.

  Johansson shot him a dirty look and continued. “I was tryin’ to catch him when you plugged him from the steeple. “Why’d you have a rifle up there anyway?”

  “I didn’t at first, the Preacher loaned it to me,” Blake said.

  “Who would have thought that bible thumper even owned a gun,” said Johansson.

  “Glad he did,” Blake replied. “Wilson had you dead to rights from what I saw.”

  “I owe you my life, sure enough. I hope you ain’t expectin’ a big kiss from me.”

  “I’ll settle for a drink when you’re able,” Blake said holding up his hands.

  “That I will do, Yankee boy. That I will do,” laughed the sheriff.

  ******

  It took Mike Ventosa the better part of a week to wake up. Blake checked on him every day and had worried about whether he would wake up and when he did if he would be alright. Blake had seen head injuries addle a man for the rest of his life. Blake entered the doctor’s office and was greeted by his attractive nurse, Anne. “He’s awake, but he’s still pretty weak,” she said smiling.