Widowmaker Jones

by Brett Cogburn

  “Did you ride him to death, or is that horse some kind of contortionist?” the bartender asked.

  “He likes his siestas.”

  “I’m partial to them myself, but don’t look comfortable. Does he always do that?”

  “I’ve quit guessing about him.”

  “You ought to kick him until he gets up. I wouldn’t tolerate such out of a horse. Seems like he’s spoiled. What if you needed him in a hurry, and he was lying there sleeping like that?”

  “That horse and I have a deal. I don’t kick him and he doesn’t kick me.”

  “How’s that deal working out?”

  “It’s worked so far.”

  The bartender grunted again and went back behind his bar. He gathered Newt’s empty beer bottle and those of the others. “Another round?”

  Newt nodded and reached in his pocket for more money. The bartender shook his head.

  “Pay up when you leave.” The bartender lined up the empties at the far end of the bar. “I’ll count the bottles when it’s time to settle your account.”

  Newt took a second beer and propped one boot on the rail at the foot of the bar. He adjusted the Smith on his hip until it was at a more comfortable location, and one of the Rangers glanced down at it. He turned to the men beside him and said something so low that Newt couldn’t make it out. All of them looked at his pistol and then leveled their eyes on him.

  “That’s a fancy set of grips you’ve got,” the nearest Ranger said.

  Newt took a slug of beer instead of answering.

  “Judge, you see this man’s fancy shooting iron?” the same Ranger asked.

  The bartender tiptoed and leaned out over the bar so that he could see. “Yep, that’s Amos Redding’s gun. Know it anywhere.”

  The Ranger nodded. “And I remember Amos wearing a fancy hatband like that one.”

  Newt took careful note of the fact that the Ranger speaking had his hand resting on his pistol butt and that the other Rangers were spreading out and stepping away from the bar. He could already see what was coming.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked, stalling for time.

  The bartender smiled coolly. “The problem is, son, you ain’t Amos Redding.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “The hat and the pistol were given to me,” Newt said, straightening and taking a step back from the bar.

  “Amos Redding never gave his gun to anyone,” the same Ranger who had taken the bartender’s pistol away said.

  “He’s dead.”

  The bartender jerked a sawed-off shotgun out from under the bar as quick as a cat and laid it on the bar top with the twin barrels aimed at Newt and the muzzles not six inches from his belly. “You don’t say? How about you lift them hands high and wide and let these Rangers here pluck that shooter off you? Seems like today’s court session is going to be a busy one.”

  “I assure you that this isn’t what it seems.”

  “And I assure you that you’re a trigger pull away from a quick trip to hell. Lift those hands away from that smoke wagon. Manos arriba, pendejo.”

  Newt raised his hands slowly. “Bandits killed him north of Horsehead Crossing, and Matilda Redding gave me his gun.”

  “Save your defense for the official record.” The bartender waved his free hand to dismiss any talk. “You’ll have your case heard in time.”

  One of the Rangers lifted Newt’s pistol from its holster and stepped away.

  “When?” New asked.

  “The judge will hear your case as soon as he’s ready,” the same Ranger said.

  “What judge?”

  “Me,” the bartender said.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “Judge Roy Bean, law west of the Pecos, at your service. Thought you read the signs. It was all there in clear, bold letters if you had cared to read instead of complaining about the temperature of my beer.”

  “Thought it was only the saloon name.”

  “No, that’s on another sign, but now you know different. How about you buy another round while we wait for court to get in session? Noon train ain’t run yet, and I don’t like to hang a man with the strangers around. Upsets their trade. Makes them think we aren’t civilized in these parts.”

  Newt stepped back to the bar. “Give me another one.”

  “What about another round for the boys here?” The judge jerked his head at the Rangers.

  “Let them buy their own damned beer.”

  “No sense turning hostile,” the judge said. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  The judge gave up his shotgun, but one of the Rangers took a chair in the corner of the room and leaned back against the wall with the same scattergun laid across his thighs. The air in the saloon grew increasingly hotter, and Newt nursed another lukewarm beer and thought while he sweated and listened to a big blue blowfly buzzing around the room.

  The judge sneezed again. “Damnation!”

  “Bless you,” one of the Rangers said.

  Several people began to show up, some of them travelers apparently deciding to wait for the train in the saloon instead of the depot house, or because they had spotted the dead man on the horse out front and wanted to gawk. All of them walked wide around Newt and congregated at the end of the bar when they noticed the guard on him.

  “Did he kill that one out front?” a drummer in a suit and derby hat asked the judge behind the bar, as if Newt couldn’t hear him. “He looks like a desperate man.”

  “No, two separate cases,” the judge said. “State of Texas is going to be busy this afternoon.”

  “Wish I could stick around, but I’ve got to catch the westbound,” the drummer said. “Always like to see you at work, Judge.”

  The so-called judge sauntered down to Newt’s end of the bar. “Care for another one? Going to be a hot one today.”

  “I believe I’ll pass.”

  “Well, if you ain’t thirsty, maybe you want to buy Bruno a drink? Lots of the tenderfoots do. They pay a dollar a beer to see him drink one.”

  “Buy who a drink?”

  “My bear. Ever seen one drink a beer? Loves the stuff. Drinks it straight out of the bottle like a man,” the judge said. “Seein’s how you ain’t no tenderfoot tourist, I’ll let you have the beer at regular price.”

  “Still believe I’ll pass. Let the bear buy his own beer.”

  “Your attitude is beginning to bother me. Bears don’t have money. No need to be a smart aleck just because you committed a crime and had the misfortune or poor sense to walk into a house of the law.”

  “I didn’t murder anybody, and this court looks more like a saloon to me.”

  “Amos Redding was a well-liked man in these parts. We don’t tolerate dry-gulchers nor man killers. No, sir, we don’t.”

  Newt turned his back to the bar and leaned against it, staring at the Ranger with the shotgun who stared back at him as if standing guard was old hat to him. Newt walked slowly to the front door, wondering how far the Ranger would let him get.

  “Don’t take any notions about running,” the Ranger finally said when Newt was almost to the door. “I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

  “I’d hate for you to have to shoot me. I was only checking on my horse.”

  “Sergeant Pridgen, why don’t one of your men take this man’s horse and throw him in the lot out back?” the judge asked the Ranger standing guard.

  “Want we should bring that Chinaman’s body inside so that it don’t scare the train folks?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, I’ve had second thoughts. Might be good for business, in fact,” the judge said. “Nothing gets folks in more trouble than their curiosity. Man I knew used to have a two-headed calf stuffed and mounted in his bar. People would come in his place to look at it. Maybe that Chinaman carcass will drum up a little business.”

  Two of the Rangers went outside to take care of Newt’s horse, and then the lot of them played poker for the next hour until the westbound train pulled into t
he station. The conductor’s voice could be plainly heard inside the saloon, and the drummer grabbed up his valise and reached in his vest pocket for the money to pay his bar bill. He gave the judge a ten-dollar silver piece.

  “That all you got? I’m about out of change, and I’ll have to go in back and dig out some money,” the judge said.

  “Hurry. I’ve got a train to catch.”

  “No hurry. They’ll be topping off with water, so you’ve got a bit.”

  The judge went through a back door into a room that must have been his sleeping quarters. Newt could hear him rummaging around in there while the drummer tapped one foot impatiently and stared out the front door.

  “That conductor just gave his last call,” one of the Rangers said. “You better get gone if you want to catch that train.”

  The judge came out of the back room shaking his head. “Can’t find my money bag. Will you wait here while I go down to the street and get this coin changed?”

  “How about I pay you next time through?”

  “No, you might come on hard times by then and not be able to pay your bill.”

  “I only owe you for three beers.”

  “Thirty cents might not seem like much, but if I let everyone stiff me like that I’d be a pauper in short order.”

  “I want my change.”

  “Okay, wait for me or go down to the store and get Pete to make change out of his register.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “You had time to drink three beers. You shouldn’t begin a purchase if you don’t have time to follow it through. I waited for you to drink your beer. Didn’t rush you at all.”

  The drummer hefted his valise and started for the door in a trot. “You owe me. Don’t you forget the next time I’m come back through.”

  The judge waved at the drummer and shoved the coin in his vest pocket. “See ya next time.”

  “Hey, Judge,” a big man in bib overalls and a leather shop apron said. “Let me pay out. My woman is going to throw a fit if I’m in here all day and not working.”

  The judge reached under the bar and brought out a small metal money box. He counted out the man’s change, grinning while he did it.

  “How many times are you going to pull that change bit on the train folks?” the man asked. “I can’t believe that drummer went for that. I would have had my change or bent a shop hammer over your head.”

  “You tend to your blacksmithing and I’ll tend to my bar business,” the judge said. “And you be ready in case I need you for jury duty. And don’t be pounding on that damned anvil of yours when court gets in session. It disturbs my thinking.”

  The judge caught Newt looking at him, and the smirk on his face faded.

  “Doesn’t seem like a judge thing to do,” Newt said.

  “I’ll pay that drummer if he comes back. And speaking of bills, what say you pay your tab? I’ve been generous with credit, even though I had my doubts about you the moment you walked in.” The judge pointed to the line of beer bottles at the end of the bar.

  Newt made a quick count. There were fifteen empties, but he had only drunk three himself, plus two rounds of four for the Rangers. The bartender claiming to be some kind of judge had obviously slipped a few extras into the group to increase the bill.

  “I think you stuck someone else’s beer in on my tab by mistake,” Newt said.

  “No, I’m careful that way,” the judge said. “You owe me a dollar fifty.”

  “I already paid for the first five. Gave you a fifty-cent piece.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Another dollar ought to square us.”

  “I don’t owe you but sixty cents.”

  “Sergeant, are you hearing this? Man here can’t pay his bill.”

  “Tend to your saloon business yourself,” the Ranger with the shotgun said. “The state ain’t paying me to settle beer squabbles.”

  Newt slapped sixty cents on the bar and turned to watch the noon train huff and puff and clank out of the station, visible and framed through the open door as it passed before the saloon. A cinder from the smokestack caught a clump of dry grass on fire, and one of the Rangers ran out of the saloon and stomped it out.

  “Should have let it burn,” one of the customers at the end of the bar said. “A good fire would be fitting. What was it old General Sheridan said? If he owned Texas and Hell he would rent out Texas and live in Hell.”

  “Shut up, Rex, and order another drink, or get out if all you’re going to do is disparage my town,” the judge said. “Little Phil Sheridan was a damned Yankee who didn’t know anything.”

  “Sorry, Judge. I forgot you wore the gray,” the man mumbled into his empty whiskey glass, and avoided looking the judge in the eye.

  “That’s right. Rode with Colonel Baylor at Mesilla, until that damned fool Sibley come and took over.” The judge pointed to an old Confederate cavalry saber hanging beside the bar mirror. “Best you bite your tongue and remember the Stars and Bars before you go quoting Yankees in my saloon.”

  The judge watched the last of the train cars pass and then took off his derby hat and exchanged it for a black John Bull felt. Next, he lifted a brown frock coat from a peg on the wall and shrugged into it. Either the coat once belonged to another man or he had grown in girth since he purchased it, for he quickly gave up buttoning it across his middle. He tucked a pencil behind one ear and came out from behind his bar carrying a thick book under one arm and a bottle of tequila in his other hand.

  “Time for legal business,” he called out as he went out the front door. “What say we hold court out on the porch where we can have a little breeze.”

  The Rangers and the few leftover customers filed out behind him. The Ranger with the shotgun gestured with it in the direction of the door, and Newt marched out in front of him.

  The judge was sitting in a wicker-bottomed chair at a little round card table, pouring tequila in a clay cup. The Rangers took the last of the remaining chairs or leaned against the porch posts, some of them still nursing bottles of beer. The rest of the crowd leaned against the wall or sat on the edges of the porch. Several chickens clucked and scratched at the dusty street and peered for grasshoppers in the weeds growing against the walls of the saloon.

  “Sergeant, bring this court to order,” the judge said.

  The Ranger with the shotgun turned it up and pounded the judge’s table with the butt of it. As soon as he did, one barrel went off, punching a ragged hole in the low porch roof and raining down bits of wood and dust. Two white hens were so startled that they cackled and fluttered their wings and took brief flight.

  “Damn it, Sergeant!” the judge yelled, rubbing one ear. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

  “You usually whack your pistol butt on the table to start the proceedings.” The Ranger was looking rather sheepishly at the hole in the roof.

  “I don’t do it with a hair-triggered street howitzer,” the judge said. “Watch where you point that thing. I don’t want to take the second barrel the next time you decide to let it go off.”

  Newt walked to the porch steps while the judge cussed and rubbed at his ringing ear.

  “Hold on there,” the Ranger sergeant with the shotgun said. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  Newt turned and leaned against a vacant porch post. He tried not to notice the same hair-triggered shotgun pointing casually his way. “Can I say my piece now, Judge?”

  “Huh?” The judge twisted one finger in his ear and leaned closer.

  “I said, will you listen to what I have to say now that court is going?”

  “You’ll talk when I say you can talk.” The judge nodded at the Ranger sergeant.

  The sergeant made sure the shotgun was pointed in a safe direction and cleared his throat. “Hear ye, hear ye. Order in the court. We’re now in session. Justice of the peace, the Honorable Roy Bean presiding.”

  “First order of business, we’re going to have an inquest over the body you boys brought in.” The ju
dge looked to the Rangers scattered around him. “Where did you find him?”

  “We didn’t find him,” a short, scrawny Ranger in a pair of suspenders and a floppy-brimmed hat said. “That boy of yours told us where he was at, and we went and fetched him.”

  “Sam? How did he happen across him?”

  The Ranger looked at his fellow officers before answering. “We were talking to Sam when somebody rode up and said they had found a Chinaman dead right outside of town. Our horses were worn out, and we asked Sam if he would go look and see if there was really someone dead.”

  “Sam’s a good boy like that.”

  The Ranger cleared his throat. “Funny thing was, Sam didn’t even wait to ask where the body was. He rode out lickety-split and come right back with the body.”

  The judge leaned back in his chair and turned his clay cup up. He knocked down the tequila in one swallow and smacked his lips and set the cup upside down on the table, all the while staring hard at the Ranger.

  “What are you implying?”

  “Everyone knows that your Sam don’t like a Chinaman. Takes after you in that regard,” the sergeant with the shotgun threw in. He looked away as soon as he said it, his eyes finding something down the street of more interest and less uncomfortable than the return look the judge gave him.

  “Sam is a good boy,” the judge repeated.

  “That he is,” the first Ranger to give his account said. “But he’s wild, too. If he was drunk and that Chinaman said something that he took wrong, he might have taken a shot at him.”

  “Sam never shot anybody in the back. Bring that body up on the porch, and one of you go get Sam.”

  “Too late, Judge,” the sergeant said. “We already looked for Sam after it dawned on us that he knew where the body was without us telling him. He’s already run off, and that looks even worse on him.”

  “I sent Sam to check on my hog farm. That Italian I partnered with has been claiming small litters, and I think he’s cheating me.”

  A red rooster walked across the porch boards cockily, almost strutting, and the bold bird leapt onto the judge’s table. It was a scrawny, long-legged rooster, with curled spurs on its legs, the comb on its head pecked and scarred and fallen over from many fights, but with an impressive plume of glossy red tail feathers arched out behind it. Newt watched the bird and surmised it was the tail that gave the bird such a vain and bold posture.