by Mason, Zack
I’d wait and see if he produced some document substantiating his claim. I could be wrong, couldn't know for sure, but it’d have to be well-proven to me before I could believe it. Instinct told me this was just some desperate money grab on his part.
Once again, I found myself facing a dead end, not knowing which way to go. The sheriff would never see me, and there probably weren't many other people in town who would either. So, I turned to every man's last resort, the bartender.
I remembered Red Jenkins had pulled a shotgun on me when I'd shot Tom. I also remembered him as being a fair and decent sort, not one to choose sides in an argument. I might be able to count on him for information. If not, I'd better watch my words because I’d bet my last dollar he still had that shotgun out of sight behind the bar.
Red kept pretty much to himself, but most people held a favorable opinion of him. For some reason, I felt like he might be a person I could trust.
I walked into the saloon and approached the bar. Red seemed surprised to see me, but quickly got over his shock, and reverted back to service mode.
One look at Red, and his Irish heritage was instantly apparent. He had a bushel of bright, cardinal-red hair that resembled an untamable mop and was the source of his generic nickname. His longish sideburns ran halfway down his jaw.
He wore dark grey slacks and a matching vest, which sported a gold watch chain linking two pockets and presumably ended with the watch itself.
The bridge of his nose was crooked. I'd heard he'd broken it several times in pugilist matches. A lot of Irish were boxers, and he was no exception. No one in Cottonwood had ever seen him fight, but he was rumored to be pretty good.
I was relieved to see we were alone in the saloon.
"What'll it be pardner?"
"Whiskey, what else?" There really weren't that many choices.
I studied him a moment after he served me up a glass. "Red, did you know my brother?"
"Not really, bumped into him a couple of times on the street, but he weren't the drinking kind. Didn't exactly have the opportunity to socialize with him, if ya know what I mean. Why?" He looked at me quizzically.
"I wondered if you’d heard anything about the rustling out on the ranches, specifically on my brother's ranch."
"Never heard about no rustling on your brother's ranch, but it sure as heck was going on at the other three. The hands talked about it often enough in here. Especially Bill Hartford's foreman, Rob Murphy. Murphy’s always harping about it, bragging how he's gonna string the culprits up if he ever finds them. Last word I heard, though, was that your brother was the one behind it all." He tilted his head and let a sly grin slip onto his face.
I knew he was testing me, but my face still grew hot with irritation. Then, an idea occurred to me.
"Red, do you have any idea who the rustlers are? I mean, have you heard anyone talking in here about it?"
"Well, you might say I did and I had." He kept his eyes glued to the counter he was wiping down.
"For goodness sake, man, who?"
"Can't tell you that. People have kind of an understanding with me. They talk freely in my saloon, and it don't get repeated. Know what I mean. If I break that confidence, who knows what would happen. Might even find myself facing the wrong end of a Smith & Wesson."
"So, you know my brother was no rustler then?"
"I’ll say I'm pretty sure of that, but I never like to rule anything out."
"Red, you've got to tell me what you know! Ben’s been missing for months and so has his wife, Jessica. I've got to find them. I have to know who the rustlers are ‘cause they're probably the only ones who can lead me to them."
"Sorry, can't help ya."
Frustrated anger ran through my arm, tensing it, moving my hand toward my gun. If pleading didn't convince him, there were other ways.
His smile froze my hand in place.
"Uh-uh.” He shook his head slowly. “You pull that gun, and I'll pull the trigger of the shotgun I've got pointed at your stomach." I hadn't noticed, but his right hand was resting out of view. He obviously had the shotgun sitting in a sling under the bar in a way that he could swivel it and fire easily. I had no chance. Forcefully calming myself, I slowly returned both my hands to the bar counter.
"No problem, Red. I know when I'm outmaneuvered."
"Listen, Talbot, I'm not insensitive to family ties. I know you gotta do what you gotta do. I promise to dwell on it for a spell, and if I decide to tell you what I know, I will. But don't push me, all right. You ain't gonna force it out of me."
I nodded once in understanding. There was nothing more to discuss.
“Name’s Halfbreed, not Talbot.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t like Talbot. Never did.”
I finished my whiskey and left, hoping he would make up his mind quick.
***
I stuck around town that afternoon and had dinner in the hotel restaurant. After dark, I found myself back in the saloon, which was the only place in town active that late.
I thought maybe I'd pick up a poker game later. In the meantime, I sat at the bar nursing a whiskey. Red was pointedly avoiding all small talk with me. I could tell he was thinking hard about what I'd asked him, but he wasn't going to hurry his decision.
Next to me was Pick Johnson, the old miner who would lose himself up in the hills for days at a time. I found out his real name was Zachariah. He said nobody anywhere else called him Pick, just here in Cottonwood.
The only other patron of the bar at the moment was Doc Jason Whitley. I knew Whitley by reputation only. He was at one time supposedly one of the best doctors around. He'd been one of Cottonwood’s first settlers, coming in right after the Big Three. As a town founder, he was also on the town council.
Whitley's main reputation these days didn't stem from his medical abilities or leadership on the council, but from the amount of alcohol he consumed. Slowly and quietly, he’d become the town drunk. No one could quite pin down the time people first started noticing it, but there was no doubt about it now.
At the moment, he sat slumped over on his stool, resting his head on top of his forearm, apparently asleep. I watched him for a while, amazed that he could hold such a precarious position while unconscious and not fall off the stool.
Pick saw me watching him.
"Sure’s a pity, ain’t it? Man like that studies half his life to be a doc and throws it all to the hogs for a few drinks. Did ya know people still go to him? He’s still sober enough of the time to work. An’ even if he's half-sloshed, where else ya gonna go? He's the only doc for miles. Sure’s a pity, though. Why, Cappy an' me, the other night..."
"Why don't we ever see Cappy 'round here, Pick?" Red joined the conversation.
"He don't take to being ‘round a lot of people. Not much for city folk, if’n ya know what I mean."
"Sure like to meet him sometime. Some people say he don't exist."
"Bunch of durned liars, is what they are! How could he not exist? I see him every dad-blamed day." Pick rolled his eyes in disbelief.
"I dunno. Just sayin' is all."
Polishing a glass, Red moved to the other end of the bar and picked up Doc's empties. The soused physician was roused from his stupor by the activity and stumbled to a standing position. It was a miracle he could stay afoot with the way he was swaying.
He staggered and barely avoided a collision with a table on his way out the door, only to bump into some of Dunagan's hands coming into the saloon. Pick was right. It was a pity to see a fine man like that go to waste. Couldn't see the why of it, but then I'd never walked in his shoes.
I decided to see if any of the newcomers were up for a game of poker.
***
Marlby O'Connell was an Irish immigrant who'd come west in search of fortune, but right now he was staring into the business end of a colt .45 and his feet were frozen to the floor. His hand rested impotently on the butt of his own gun, which was still in its holster.
"Marlby, I don't know what got into you, but I don't want to have to shoot you. There's been enough killing in this town."
Jake Halfbreed's eyes were blue steel and his hand was steady. His gun was centered right on Marlby's belly button. Gutshot was a painful way to go.
He’d accused Jake of cheating during the last hand of poker, though everyone at the table knew it was just pretense. He’d gone for his own iron, but Talbot’s draw had been like quicksilver. Talbot had him dead to rights, but Marlby couldn't control his rage.
Marlby had worked on Logan's ranch for years. Tom Logan had been a good, decent family man who’d always treated him well. He didn’t deserve to be gunned down, unarmed, by this cattle-rustling cur. Bile rose in his throat. Anger had pushed caution and common sense aside.
"Yeah, and you're the one who's done all of it. What's the matter, afraid to murder someone else? Go ahead. Shoot, ya yeller-belly!"
He watched as Jake's jaws clenched and unclenched, trying to control his own temper.
"Get outta here, Marlby. I'm not going to shoot you. I don't want this! Just let it go and leave me alone."
O'Connell snorted in derision and turned to walk out the door.
"This ain't the end of it, you hear me, Talbot? I'm not the only one who wants to see you dead, ya know!" The batwing doors swung shut behind him.
Jake stared into space for a moment.
Finally, he holstered his gun. Would things always be like this?
Jake's poker partners stood from the table and moved to the bar. They'd lost their appetite for the game. That tended to happen when you'd almost been a bystander to a possible killing. It was best to stay away from men like Halfbreed who attracted trouble. Still, it didn't go unnoticed that Jake had not shot Marlby when he'd had the chance.
O'Connell had provoked the argument and reached for his gun first. Halfbreed’s draw had been lightning quick, and he would have been well within his rights to shoot Marlby where he sat. But he hadn't.
***
I'd seen the hatred and irrationality boiling in O'Connell's eyes. It should have aroused indignant anger in me to see it, but it didn't. I just felt depressed. He was right, of course. I'd taken the life of a good man, unjustly, and I couldn't forget that.
I didn't want to kill Marlby. I didn't want to kill anybody ever again. It was a horrible thing to take a man's life. How could I have been so stupid? How many more people must hate me for the same reason? What about Sarah Logan and her children? What about Jinny?
My hand brushed my whiskey glass absent-mindedly. It felt cold against my skin. In frustration, I swept it crashing to the floor, evoking stares from everyone. That cursed whiskey was what had caused all my troubles. I never would have shot Logan if I'd been sober. At least, I hoped I wouldn't have. I swore to myself I’d never touch a drop of the stuff again.
So, why hadn't I just let Marlby O’Connell shoot me and be done with it? In spite of my self-loathing, deep down, I really didn't want to die. Call it survival instinct if you will, but I would defend myself. I wouldn't just roll over.
When the glass hit the floor, Red didn't move, nor did he speak.
He's scared of me.
That realization provoked a deeper desperation within me, to the point I wanted to squeeze my skull until it cracked. I didn't want to evoke fear in other men.
Nothing I could do about it though. I'd become a bad man, someone to be feared.
Shaking, I stood and left the suffocating confines of the saloon.
Outside, bright moonlight washed the street in a cool blue. The crisp night air filled my lungs. I was feeling a little better already.
"I'm calling you out, Talbot! Let's have a fair fight this time!"
My face and heart fell simultaneously. Marlby O'Connell hadn't had enough. He was determined to force me to kill him. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Why did it have to be this way?
I turned to face him in the street and saw he was squared off about fifty feet away. He glanced back and forth nervously between the boardwalks lining either side. He was waiting for the townspeople to come out and watch. He wanted everyone to see him kill me.
The town obliged his wish, for within a few moments, people were lined up everywhere. They'd heard him call out his challenge. Once he was satisfied with the number of witnesses, he centered and steadied himself, focusing his eyes on me, the source of his hatred.
His hands dropped for his guns.
Why not let him kill me? It would be a lot easier to let him finish me off. I wouldn't have to face these people any more. Lord knew I deserved it anyway. Truth be told, I’d lost my right to live that fateful night when I’d covered the saloon floor with Logan’s blood. Why not just let him win, and peacefully drift away?
I knew I never could as I watched the scarlet red splotch spreading across the front of Marlby’s shirt.
Well, at least I’d let the guy clear leather that time.
Gossip.
Some people go out of their way to avoid it and even the semblance of participating in it. Fortunately for Michael Byers, that was not true of most people because gossip was his livelihood.
Byers was the owner and editor-in-chief of the Cottonwood Gazette. There weren't any other employees, so he really ran the whole shebang himself, but he still enjoyed the title. It was a tough living running a small-town newspaper like his. Not a lot of money in it at two pennies a paper, but he made it work.
He got most of his news off the telegraph wires. Each week he filled the paper with happenings in Washington and elsewhere to keep the local citizenry connected with the world outside. It helped that there weren't any other papers in the neighboring counties, so he got customers from all around.
The space not taken by national news he filled with local town gossip. This guaranteed at least one person would be mad at him at any given moment and that few in Cottonwood liked or trusted him. Yet, he was convinced the gossip sold more papers for him than anything else, so he wasn’t about to stop. While people seemed to condemn publicly what he wrote, those same people kept buying the paper. And he was never short on concerned citizens providing him with the juicy tidbits either.
Still, Mike Byers was ambitious. He'd come west with a dream to build something big. So far, all he'd managed to do was spend his savings on a printing press and build himself a cramped little office to house it. Since he'd come to Cottonwood several years ago, his dreams seemed to have stagnated.
The twenty or thirty dollars he managed to eke out of the business in profit every month wasn't enough to satisfy his desires. It wasn’t much better than a ranch hand's salary, and for it, he had to watch every penny too.
He'd tried bringing in some advertising revenue, but news passed by word of mouth so quickly, not many businesses felt the need for it. Everyone knew everyone else’s business for the most part.
But they didn’t. When he realized that little truth, he'd found his niche. That's why his gossip columns were so popular. They wanted to ooh and ah over the little secrets their neighbors were keeping.
Blackmail had been the next natural step. Nothing big at first, of course. Maybe weaseling out of the hotel clerk a free breakfast, or an invitation to lunch from one of the town's esteemed ladies. All in exchange for not revealing people's skeletons.
People came to him with rumors and half-truths, and even the whole truth sometimes, and he turned that into profit, whether it be through his paper publicly, or behind the scenes privately. He slowly raised the amounts he would get for keeping a secret, but one had to be careful to balance how much you asked with the size of the secret. If it wasn't embarrassing enough, people wouldn't pay. He had to be especially careful not to overstep his limits. The first time he did, it might go to the sheriff, and he'd be finished.
Then, his new partner had come along. Boy, had he been a ripe source of information. His partner brought him the juiciest gossip of all and only asked for a part of the profit in return. It was the best deal going, even if he didn't
know where the information came from — and it definitely beat two cents a paper.
***
Carlton Andrews squinted in the candlelight as he slowly and deliberately signed the document. He had to concentrate to force his hand to follow the unnatural scrawl. Forgery, contrary to public opinion, was not easy.
He didn't even know what Ben Talbot's signature looked like, but he had to make it different enough from his own so as to not arouse suspicion. He finally finished and began to randomly crimp and crinkle the edges of the paper. Next, he held it at a safe distance over the candle’s flame, moving it just enough to get a little bit of smoke residue evenly distributed across its face. The document needed to have a slightly aged look.
The ink wasn't even dry on the Talbot mortgage, and Andrews was already dreaming of how he was going to spend the profits. Not from mortgage payments of course, that was chump change, but from what he knew was located on the property.
Andrews was not one to take undue risks, however, not when it had to do with money. If, for some reason, the falsified mortgage didn't pass muster, or if Talbot was somehow able to make the payments, he had a back-up plan. He hoped to never need it, because that type of thing was always so much messier, but if he did, he was ready for that too.
***
Henry Tadd twirled the white daisy between his fingers and gently nestled it behind the smiling girl’s ear. Jinny Logan looked genuinely happy to be out on a picnic with him, which had shocked the socks off him.
The other day, she’d playfully asked him when he was going to take her on a picnic, and she’d caught him so off guard that he’d actually invited her on one. He’d flushed and before he could take back the startled invitation, she’d surprisingly accepted.
He’d driven her out to one of the nearby fields for lunch (which she’d thoughtfully packed), and it had been a great time. He’d never felt so happy, nor so unnerved. She actually seemed to be having a good time.