The E.R. Slade Western Omnibus No.1

by E. R. Slade

  “I s’pose you wouldn’t.”

  “Tell me about Ike Clauson and his kid brother. I’ve been hearing some stories.”

  The barber told him much the same tale the blacksmith had, only he seemed a lot more favorably disposed toward Ike Clauson than the blacksmith was. “Yes, it’s true he killed the marshal and deputy we had, but they were crooked and about worthless as lawmen anyway. Some people think—and I’m one of them—that those two Ike got rid of topped up their wages by getting a cut from road agents they never seemed to catch. Ike strung up the road agents from the water tower inside of three weeks of taking over this town.”

  “You say he strung them up. Was there a trial?”

  “No need. Caught ’em in the act and collared ’em and hustled ’em right into town to the water tower. Folks that had been robbed that saw ’em hanging there said they were the ones all right.”

  Ben decided not to ask right then whether any of the robbed had admitted to recognizing the men before the self-appointed marshal hanged them since the barber was paring away at three-week-old whiskers on his throat with a very sharp razor and it seemed an inopportune time to annoy him with an adverse opinion.

  “So what’s your idea about Kid Clauson, then?” Ben asked mildly. “Talk is he’s just killed Otis Bailey. Since I know none of these people I’m certainly in no position to make any judgments, but perhaps you are.”

  The barber stopped shaving and looked at his customer in the mirror.

  “The trouble with Otis Bailey was that he could never leave well enough alone.”

  “I’ve heard tell everybody liked Bailey,” Ben said, noncommittally.

  “Sure, most people liked him,” the barber said impatiently, leaning over to go back to work with the razor. “But the man had no sense. He had no call to be going around badmouthing the Clausons, telling everybody they weren’t legitimate, trying to stir up trouble against them. They’d never done anything to him, you understand. Except make sure there ain’t any of the low element around to make our town unattractive to decent people, which helped his business, as much as it did everybody else’s. And he even admitted it. I tell you, I don’t know what was the matter with him. He just never could be happy to go along with a good thing when it came along.”

  “Do you think the Kid killed him on purpose?”

  “That I don’t know. But I doubt it. Though in a way it would be hard to blame him if he had. Bailey had been agitating awful bad to get rid of the Clausons.”

  “Sounds like some of his friends are bent on a lynching. They say a fellow name of Buddy Winston’s got a noose all made.”

  “Buddy Winston,” the barber scoffed. “He ain’t nothing but a bum that got fined a couple of times for loitering. They don’t none of them amount to a mouthful of ashes. The fools. They don’t have courage enough amongst them to shoot a rabid dog. They’ll just puff and talk big about it half the night and go home and go to bed and you won’t hear a thing about it, come morning.”

  The shaving and haircutting finished, Ben paid up. As he picked up his hat he looked at it ruefully. “Who’s got hats for sale?” he asked. “And I need some supplies.”

  “Bailey’s is the place you want.” The barber’s mouth went up at one corner. “If you can find anybody there willing to talk business instead of foolishness.”

  Ben left the barber’s thinking that once he had a new hat and supplies and his pony’s shoes were on he’d be very glad to leave this place behind. Under the circumstances, he didn’t mind passing up a night in a real bed in favor of the hard ground.

  Quite a powwow was going on in Bailey’ store. A big, florid-faced man with a half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand and a hangman’s noose in the other was ranting about Kid Clauson and how richly he deserved to dangle from the water tower. He stood on a chair in front of a table where the dead man lay inert, hat still resting on his chest. The store was full of men working on their whiskey courage and egging on the florid-faced man. The atmosphere was thick with alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke.

  Ben couldn’t tell if any of these men happened to work in the store, but he did see some hats on a rack off to one side and thought if he started trying them on somebody might notice and wait on him.

  It was while he was making his way to the hats that he noticed the girl sitting alone in the dimmest corner of the store, hands tightly clasped in her lap, leaning forward anxiously as she watched the would-be lynching party proceedings. Something in her attitude so caught his attention that he found his eye kept going back to her while he tried on hats. Even though a lot of emotion appeared to struggle in her, she still had control of herself.

  Now she saw him and immediately stood up and came toward him, all dignity and grace. And beauty, he noticed.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice clear and strong. This had to be the dead man’s daughter, yet here she was ready to deal with a customer.

  Ben suddenly felt embarrassed and wished he hadn’t come in. It seemed wrong to intrude on her for such an insignificant purpose with her dead father still warm on the table yonder.

  “This here fits all right,” he mumbled, hardly knowing which hat he’d picked off the rack.

  “Would you like me to wrap it up for you?” she asked. Her voice had thickened and she cleared her throat. Then cleared it again.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  “Is there anything else you need, sir?” she asked, and did some more throat clearing. She was nearly losing control. Tears were starting to well in her eyes.

  He had intended to get beans, coffee, flour, and other supplies, but there was no way he was going to make his intrusion on this girl last any longer than he had to.

  “Not a thing, ma’am,” he said as gently as he knew how. “Not a thing. You look as though you could use a chance to sit down. Let me pay you and then I’ll be out of your way.”

  “I think there’s a price posted ...” she said, and then had to turn away and put her face in her hands.

  Fumbling out the coins, Ben felt like he had twice as many thumbs as usual. By then she had regained some of her composure and turned back to him to take the money.

  Their eyes met. He couldn’t read her expression at all. He wished he knew what to say that would be comforting or helpful, but thought of nothing.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll be going. You take care now.” It seemed to him he couldn’t have said anything lamer if he’d had all day to try.

  “I hope you enjoy your purchase,” she got out, probably automatically.

  He said that he was sure he would, nodded respectfully to her and turned away.

  At that moment the front door burst open and in came a hard-faced man wearing a polished silver star and an ebony-handled gun in a polished black holster. From beaver hat to riding boots he was dressed all in black—and his rage looked just as black as the rest of him.

  Chapter Two

  The place went silent. The florid-faced man dropped the noose as though he’d suddenly realized it was burning his fingers. An avenue wide enough to drive a team through opened up as the man in black strode forward.

  “Give it here,” he demanded in a voice like a heavy iron tire crunching over broken glass. And when the florid-faced man started to back away, shaking his head slightly, wide-eyed, the intruder on the proceedings roared, “Pick it up and give it to me, Buddy. Now.”

  Ben noticed a couple of boys peering furtively through the street door, which was open. They, too, were wide-eyed.

  “Marshal ...” Buddy started in a voice suddenly quavery and weak and pleading, all the booming bombast gone. “It was only ...”

  Clauson cut him off. “Pick it up.”

  Buddy did as he was told and Clauson yanked it out of his hand. Then he looked around at all the rest, none of whom would meet his gaze, and afterward his eye fell speculatively on Ben, and he frowned.

  “What’s your angle, kid?” he demanded, moving a step or two closer
to take a better look at him.

  Ben returned Clauson’s gaze unwaveringly. He’d seen eyes like Clauson’s a few times before, and every time they’d belonged to merciless killers.

  “I came in here to buy a hat,” Ben told him, and carefully set the new hat on his head.

  Clauson eyed the Big Four Stetson thoughtfully a few seconds, licked his lips; then his eye went to the girl. A look passed across his face that Ben didn’t care for, though the girl was no concern of his.

  “Kid, I want you out of town inside of ten minutes.”

  “I’ll likely be out in five,” Ben said, still looking Clauson in the eye. “I’ve never found towns run by killers attractive places.”

  A muscle in Clauson’s neck tightened, and he took another step toward Ben as though he might have collaring him in mind.

  But Ben took a step himself, straight at Clauson. “Excuse me,” he said mildly, and kept going.

  At the last moment, Clauson got out of the way.

  “Kid, I’d better never see you in my town again,” Clauson said as Ben walked by him.

  “You won’t,” Ben said, and stopped to raise an eyebrow at Clauson. “Not while it’s your town.”

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?” Clauson demanded.

  Ben said no more and as he stepped out into the sunshine and felt the wind on his cheek he thought he was probably more anxious to leave than Clauson was anxious to see him go.

  He collected his pony, paid his bill, and rode away. He didn’t look back.

  That night he camped on the mountainside above the town near a spring under some stately fir trees. He had not gone too far from town since he was uncertain still what to do about the problem of the supplies he had not acquired. He could go a couple of days, and then he’d have to come up with some grub somewhere. He didn’t know this country very well, but he’d been told there wasn’t another town for more than four or five days’ ride, and the nearest place was up over a pass that might still be blocked with snow.

  He thought now he should not have allowed himself to be spooked out of town without having accomplished all that he’d come for. Yet, imposing on the grieving girl had been out of the question. It still would be, yet Bailey’s was the place that had the supplies he needed.

  As he sat looking into the fire and drinking coffee, images of the girl kept crowding in. Did she have any other relatives in town besides her murdered father? What would become of her?

  Not that it was really any of his business.

  Yet somehow he felt uncomfortable just riding off without knowing that things would work out all right for her.

  She must at least have friends.

  But if so, where were they? Why was she left alone to mourn at a time like that?

  And then there was that proprietary sneer on Clauson’s face when he looked at her. Just the thought of it made him want to get up and ride straight back to town and wipe it off.

  Now that would be a fool thing to do ...

  From somewhere down the slope came a sound out of place, and his hand went automatically to his rifle, which lay beside him.

  There was nothing for a few minutes, and he tried to decide what exactly he’d heard. He thought it had sounded like a hoof on rock, but maybe he was just jumpy and imagining things.

  His pony was hobbled in a small grassy area a short distance to his left, and now from over there came a nicker. From down below came another nicker.

  Why didn’t the rider give a hail and ride up to the fire? Or was it a loose horse? Why didn’t a loose horse come up where the pony was—and the grass?

  Now he heard hoof falls retreating below, not loud, mostly not audible on the needle-strewn ground under the firs.

  Ben debated with himself only about a minute, and then set down his coffee, picked up his rifle and slid as silently as possible away from the circle of firelight. He unhobbled his pony, quickly saddled up and set off after the retreating visitor, stopping frequently to listen and get the direction.

  Whoever was riding away did not seem to make any effort to elude him, nor to outpace him. Could be an innocent visitor who hadn’t felt sociable.

  Or it could be a trap.

  But why a trap? What for? He couldn’t have made Clauson that mad. Could he?

  He gained steadily on the other rider, but then, stopping once more to listen, he heard nothing.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He stayed very still and held his breath, unsure what to make of the situation.

  The other horse nickered again, just a few steps ahead in the dark. Ben couldn’t make out anything down here under the thick trees.

  He aimed the rifle where he believed the other rider was, and listened, hard, for additional possible riders or men on the ground.

  All was quiet. Nothing happened. The cold air moving down the mountainside was chilling.

  It could be that somebody was waiting for him to speak to get a better fix on his exact position, but it didn’t feel like that to him somehow, and anyway they couldn’t spend the night like this.

  “Light a match to show me who you are,” he said.

  “I ... I don’t have any matches with me.” A woman’s voice.

  And not just any woman’s voice, either. He knew it instantly as belonging to the girl in the store.

  “Miss Bailey?” he said, incredulous, quickly lowering the rifle.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice slightly wavery, but dignified and clear. “I’m at a disadvantage, sir, since we were never introduced.”

  “No, I guess we weren’t,” he said. “I’m Ben Gordon. What in the world are you doing out here wandering around at night? Is anybody with you?”

  “No,” she said hesitantly. “Nobody’s with me.” A brief pause, then, “How do you do, Mr. Gordon. My name is Nancy. I’m very sorry to bother you. I didn’t know you had heard me.”

  The more Ben tried to make sense of the thing, the more questions he had. But this didn’t seem the moment to start asking them.

  “Miss Bailey,” he said, “if you are out here alone, I think I should accompany you back to town.”

  “You are very kind, but I have lived most of my life here and I know the way very well. I have disturbed you long enough.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “I ... well, no, I’m not. But I can’t put you to any more trouble. I’ll be all right.” But the way her voice wavered as she said it belied the confidence she wanted him to think she had.

  “If you are not armed, I’m not letting you travel out here alone. There’re just too many things that might happen.”

  “If you go back, Mr. Clauson may kill you,” she said tensely. “I don’t want you to risk your life. Oh, Mr. Gordon, I should never have come. I realized that as soon as I got within sight of you there by your fire. I saw how unfair and selfish it would be to involve you in any way in my troubles. It’s just that ... Anyway, I guess you can see now that I’m not dangerous, and so I’ll go on back home. But you really should stay away from Taylorville after what you said to Mr. Clauson.”

  “Now, hold on. You risked coming out here alone just to talk to me? What troubles did you think I could help you with?”

  “Really, Mr. Gordon, I think I should not involve you. My father being murdered was a big shock to me, so I wasn’t thinking very clearly when I set out hoping to find you. But I’m clearer now.”

  Ben imagined how she must look, the way she would have her chin up and all her dignity gathered around her. And inside she was scared and desperate.

  “You don’t have any relatives or friends in town?” he asked gently.

  “My father was my last living relative. Of course, I have friends. In fact I’ll go visit some of them when I get back to town.”

  “I see,” he said, unconvinced she believed she’d get any help from her friends.

  “Tell you what,” Ben said. “It’s a chilly night. Why don’t we go back to my campfire and get warmed up, and we can try to sort out wh
at needs to be done. It’ll be easier traveling in the morning, anyway.”

  “But that would be imposing on you. I ...”

  “Not a bit. Your horse will need something to eat and a rest, and after what’s happened I’ll bet you could use some rest yourself.”

  She was silent. Then he thought he heard a sob. A moment later she cleared her throat.

  “I think you are a very kind gentleman,” she said in her most formal voice. “I have made a complete fool of myself coming here and inflicting my troubles on you. I hope you don’t think I normally do this. I can’t abide women who think it’s up to everyone around them to solve their problems for them.”

  “Pretty near everybody needs a hand one time or another,” Ben said. “There’s no shame in asking for help when you have no real alternative.”

  It wasn’t until they had returned to his camp, and hobbled the horses, and had built up the fire—which she insisted on helping him gather wood for—that he got a real look at her. He had stirred the fire and gotten more wood alight; the circle of warmth grew and the dancing shadows retreated further away. And he happened to glance up and see her face in the firelight. Something came crowding unexpectedly up his throat and had to be swallowed down.

  He quickly put his attention back on the fire and tried to get his bearings. People died every day and the world was full of women left alone and bereaved. But all he could think of was the limp, awkward, unnatural way the dead man’s dangling arms swayed as they carried him out of the building where he’d been shot. And this had been her father. Her only living relative. And now she had nobody, and it was plain in her face how frightening that was for her.

  “I don’t want you to feel obliged to tell me things you’d rather keep to yourself,” he said, recharging the coffeepot. “But I’m awful curious what made you want to talk to me, a complete stranger.” He set to rummaging in a saddlebag for an extra tin cup he thought he had.

  “You were so respectful. I had the feeling I could trust you. And because you’re not from around here I thought you would see things more clearly than anyone from town might.”