Pete Inghram and his wife, Martha, were listening to Mrs. Hinshaw, a woman of bulk who was trying to decide between three bolts of material, one of which would become curtains for her parlor. Evidently she had been busy at deciding for quite some time while the Inghrams stood by feigning interest in the matter.
“. . . Mr. Inghram,” Mrs. Hinshaw went on, “if I do decide on the green, will you promise that you won’t sell anybody else the green for their curtains? Will you?”
“Well, Mrs. Hinshaw, I don’t know if I . . .”
“I don’t want everybody in Gilead, specially Margie Lou Reynolds, coming in here buying the same curtains for their parlor just because . . .”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hinshaw. Martha, you finish up with Mrs. Hinshaw while I take care of Mr. Parker.”
Shad had entered the store and walked up to the counter past a decorated Christmas tree that stood in the center of the floor.
“Well, it’s good to see you again, Mr. Parker. What can I do you for this Christmas season?”
For answer, Shad pulled out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and put it on the counter.
Inghram was in his late forties, pale and somewhat stooped. He and his wife looked more like brother and sister, rather than husband and wife. Same color hair, brown. Same color eyes, brown. Same lips, thin. Same nose, parrot. Same complexion, pallid.
Pete Inghram picked up the paper, studied the list for a moment, then winked at Shad.
“Uh-huh. Not too many of us around these parts can read nor write.” Inghram nodded in the direction of Mrs. Hinshaw toward the rear of the store and waited for a reaction from Shad. There was none.
Inghram pushed a box of cigars toward his customer and opened the lid.
“Care for a fine ceegar while you wait, Mr. Parker?”
“I’ll be back.” Shad turned away from the counter.
“Have it all loaded on your wagon in just a few minutes. Yes, sir.”
Shad was halfway to the door.
“Say, I was wondering, Mr. Parker.”
Shad stopped. The boy outside had left the stoop and was peering through the window. Shad looked at him for a second then turned back toward Inghram.
“Since you’re settled here now, would you like me to start carrying you on my books? Carrying most everybody else around Gilead.”
“I’ll pay cash.” Shad turned again and walked out of Inghram’s General Store.
“Mister . . .” said the boy as Shad walked past, but Shad Parker kept on walking toward the saloon on the corner across the street.
The two men at the stable took note, but kept on working.
On the other side of the street Sheriff Elwood Hinge kept on carving.
“Mr. Parker. Oh, Mr. Parker!” The man’s voice came from behind Shad, who stopped and glanced back.
A tall, thin, elderly man who somewhat resembled Abraham Lincoln and dressed somewhat like him in a black frock coat, but with a flat-crowned hat instead of a stovepipe, and without Abe’s beard, approached. Close behind him, a brittle woman about the same age.
“Mr. Parker, I thought that was you,” the man said in a voice that seemed too deep for his lung capacity. “I’m Reverend Groves. This is Mrs. Groves. Merry Christmas.”
Shad said nothing.
“We’ve been meaning to come out and see you.”
“’Bout what?”
“Oh.” Reverend Groves looked at Mrs. Groves. “Just to welcome you. See if there’s anything we can do.”
“There isn’t.”
“We understand that you’re going to be a part of our little community. I, uh, don’t know your religious persuasion—we’re mostly Methodists here—have a nice little church—fine organist, that’s Mrs. Groves. And we’ll have a mighty fine Christmas service—if you care to join us.”
“I don’t.”
Shad walked toward the saloon. When Shad was out of earshot, Reverend Groves addressed Mrs. Groves.
“Doesn’t appear to be a Methodist.”
“Or even a Christian,” said Mrs. Groves.
Just before he entered the Appaloosa Saloon, Shad noticed three familiar mounts tied to the hitching post. The three horses had been ridden by the men who had offered to help him with the fallen wagon wheel.
Shad went inside.
A curling haze of smoke from cigarettes, pipes, cigars, and the potbellied stove sought to escape from the room, but there being no exit except for the brief times the door opened and closed, the smoke curled and settled against anything it could find, the bar, the tables, the posts and beams that held the room together, and the people, all men, who stood at the counter and sat at the tables playing cards.
The floor had not been swept from the night before nor the week before. However, the proprietor or someone else had chalked a MERRY CHRISTMAS on the mirror behind the bar. There was a crude painting of what passed for an Appaloosa horse on one of the dirty walls.
Some of the players looked from their cards as Shad entered, but most of them studied their hands and smoked.
Among the patrons who glanced up, noticing Shad Parker as he entered, were the Keeshaw brothers. Directly upon arriving in Gilead, Deek, Tom, and Bart had made for the town’s only saloon. They did their best to avoid appearing to be too interested in the bank across the street, but took note of the man with the shotgun in front of the sheriff’s office who sat in a chair with a catbird look in his eyes. They had seen that look before, usually on a lawman or a killer. Sometimes both.
They would address the lawman and the bank in due course, but first they had to reconnoiter adroitly and then plan their strategy.
The two places to find out anything in any town were the bar and the barbershop. The Keeshaws preferred the bar. Bedsides, Deek hadn’t had a drink since his incarceration. There was something else he had done without and he didn’t waste much time before inquiring of the bartender, a man who went by the name of “Hooter,” where the saloon women were. Hooter said there were only three in town and they mostly worked at night, and this being December and the Christmas season, they’d been putting in some long hours.
Deek then proceeded to buy Hooter a drink and make friendly. That’s when Shad Parker walked in.
“Why, there he be!” Deek smiled at Hooter and waved his pipe toward Shad. “The fella I was telling you about! Lifted that wagon like it was a crate of mushrooms. Never saw anything like it in Louisiana.” He nodded toward Shad. “Howdy, friend.”
“Whiskey,” Shad said to the bartender.
“That’s on me,” Deek instructed the man behind the counter.
“No,” said Shad.
“Well, I’d admire to buy you a drink.”
“Why?”
Hooter put a bottle and a glass on the bar. Shad poured and drank before Deek came up with an answer.
“Just to be friendly.”
“Be friendly with somebody else.” Shad poured again. He drank again.
There was a heavy moment. All the card players and other customers had heard. Deek looked at Tom and Bart, then smiled, shrugged, and puffed on his pipe. It was over. The players went back to their cards, the other customers to their drinks. And most all of them went back to smoking.
“Say, Hooter,” Deek called out. “Come on down here a minute, will you?”
Hooter moved a couple of steps closer to the Keeshaws. Deek pointed toward the window and across the street.
“That the best hotel in town?”
“That’s the only hotel in town.”
“Then that’s our home away from home till we find what we come looking for.”
“What’s that?” Hooter asked, not really caring much.
“My brothers and me are looking for a spread to buy.”
“That so?”
“You bet. Know of anybody wanting to sell?”
“Was I you, I’d talk to Amos Bush.”
“Who’s Amos Bush?”
“Banker. Amos’ud know of anybody looking to sell.”
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“That sounds like a good notion. Thanks, friend.”
Shad Parker had helped himself to a couple more shots. He wiped his mouth and motioned to the bartender. Hooter made the trip back.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“I’ll want to take along some whiskey.”
“Bottle?”
“Case.”
“A case?”
“Yeah. Can’t you sell whiskey by the case?”
“Why, sure I can.”
“Then bring up a case.”
“That’ud be thirty dollars.”
Shad reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Just about everybody in the Appaloosa, including the Keeshaw brothers, reacted. Many of the patrons hadn’t seen that much money since the War for the Confederacy. Some since before, or ever.
“Bring it up.”
Shad laid three bills on the bar then pointed to the bottle he’d drunk from.
“How much for this?”
“Oh, that’s on the h . . .” The bartender started to say “on the house,” but looked at Shad and changed his mind. “Six bits.”
Shad Parker reached into another pocket and brought out a handful of coins.
Bart Keeshaw took the gold watch out of his vest pocket and sprang the lid open to see what time it was.
Sheriff Elwood Hinge glanced up as Shad came out of the Appaloosa carrying a case of whiskey under one arm with about as much effort as if it were a loaf of bread.
Since Shad bought his spread he had made more than a half-dozen trips to Gilead, but never a word had passed between him and the lawman. Neither went out of his way to avoid the other, but neither went out of his way to make the other’s acquaintance. Sooner or later they’d meet up and as long as Shad Parker didn’t violate any law, Elwood Hinge was in no hurry. If either man would give it much thought, he’d conclude that they had many of the same characteristics, but neither man gave it any thought.
Shad proceeded across the street toward his wagon in front of the store, where Pete Inghram was just finishing the loading. The ten- or twelve-year-old boy was helping. The boy spotted Shad, jumped down from the wagon, and ran over to him.
“Can I hep ya with that, mister?”
Shad ignored the boy and proceeded to the wagon. He placed the case of whiskey in the bed with the other provisions that already had been loaded. Pete Inghram handed the piece of paper to Shad.
“Here’s your list back, Mr. Parker. You’ll see everything’s checked off. Oh, I was all out of dry peas—gave you lentils instead. Hope that’s all right.”
“Yeah. How much?”
“It’s right there on the paper. Totals to thirteen dollars and forty cent.”
Shad reached into his pocket, took out the roll of bills, and handed a couple to the storekeeper.
“I’ll get your change and be right out, Mr. Parker. Won’t take but a minute.”
Inghram went into the store. Shad walked to the wagon, reached in, drew out a whiskey bottle. He uncorked the bottle and took a long pull. The boy stood by, watching.
As Shad swallowed a second mouthful of whiskey Pete Inghram came out of the door with some money in hand and a grin pasted across his pallid face.
“Here you go, Mr. Parker, and if I don’t see you before Christmas . . . Merry Christmas.”
Shad took the money with one hand and stuffed it into his pocket. The boy’s eyes were still fixed on Shad.
“What you looking at?”
“Oh. Some of the customers,” Inghram said through the pasted smile, “give the boy a penny or two . . . sometimes.”
“Not this time.” Then Shad snapped at the boy. “Get away from me.”
“Just a minute!” came a hard voice from the direction of the livery. The two workmen, Dutch and Bub, were looking toward Shad. Dutch had called out. First he, then Bub, moved toward Shad.
“No cause to talk to the young ’un that way,” Dutch said as he came closer. He was bigger and heavier than Shad. So was Bub.
“Boys,” Inghram interceded, “Mr. Parker didn’t mean no harm.”
“What did Mister Parker mean?” Dutch growled.
“Now, fellas,” Inghram continued to play the part of peacemaker, “there’s no need to take offense.”
“There’s no need for the likes of him to be talking that way to my boy.”
“Yeah,” Bub added. “That’s right.”
Shad took another drink then addressed Bub.
“He your boy, too?”
“Nephew,” said Bub.
Shad Parker turned toward the wagon, but Dutch grabbed Shad’s shoulder, or tried to.
“Don’t you turn away . . .” Dutch never finished.
Shad crashed the whiskey bottle across Dutch’s head. Blood, broken glass, and whiskey dripped from Dutch’s face as he fell against the wagon. Bub rushed at Shad, swinging. Shad backhanded him with a brick fist, then picked Bub up and threw him through Pete Inghram’s Christmas-decorated store window.
From inside Mrs. Inghram screamed.
Dutch had regained his equilibrium, most of it. He wiped the blood and broken glass and whiskey, most of it, from his face and lunged at Shad. But Shad gripped him by the shoulders and smashed him against the wall—once—twice—three times. It seemed that every bone in Dutch was, or would be, broken. By then the boy was pounding at Shad and screaming.
“You’re killin’ him! You’re killin’ my daddy! Let him go! Let go’a my daddy!!”
But again and again Shad smashed Dutch against the wall—until the stock of a shotgun slammed across Shad’s skull, stunning him.
As Shad spun around, Dutch dropped to the ground. Shad was dazed but ready to fight. But he was looking directly into the barrel of a shotgun in the experienced hand of a man with a sheriff’s badge. And beside the sheriff stood a deputy—young, tall, also leveling a shotgun, this one also double-barreled, but sawed-off.
And by now there were dozens of spectators gaping at the proceedings, but at a far enough distance until the show was played out.
“That’s all, fella,” the sheriff said.
Shad Parker wiped at the blood leaking from behind his ear. For an instant, it looked as if he might spring at the sheriff.
“Don’t give it any more thought, brother,” said Hinge.
The curious citizens clustered closer to get a better look, now that it appeared the danger had passed. Among the interested were the Keeshaw brothers and most everyone else from the Appaloosa, including Hooter. They whispered in puddles and appraised the damage, human and property.
Shad walked toward his wagon and the onlookers allowed him a wide swath.
On the porch Mrs. Inghram pulled the crying boy away from his unconscious father and put her arms around him.
“For heaven’s sake,” she pleaded. “Someone get the doctor.”
By then Shad had climbed onto the wagon. Pete Inghram came closer to him.
“Mr. Parker, I’m sorry this happened. But the boy didn’t mean to bother you.”
Shad reached into his pocket, brought out some money, crumpled it into a wad, and threw it on the ground near the storekeeper.
“Get your window fixed.” He whacked the reins and the wagon horses moved out.
Inghram picked up the money and walked over near the sheriff and his deputy, who were watching Shad’s wagon roll down the street.
“Elwood,” the deputy asked, “shouldn’t we have arrested him?”
“Didn’t like the odds, from what I saw,” the sheriff said, then looked at the men from the saloon. “Go about your drinking, boys. That’s all there is.”
Deek Keeshaw had made his way next to Inghram.
“That man’s stronger’n Samson.” Deek said.
“And meaner’n a gut-shot grizzly,” Pete Inghram replied.
* * *
Not much later, inside the Appaloosa, Deek Keeshaw bought Hooter a couple more drinks and plied him for information that could be vital in their strategy, while Tom and Bart
listened.
“That there sheriff, what’s his name?”
“Name’s Hinge. Elwood Hinge.”
“Well, from what I’ve seen so far, I’d say that Sheriff Hinge has the situation pretty much in control in the town of Gilead.”
“He’s the boss around here and if you don’t believe it, you can ask them two he clapped in his jail just a short time ago. They’re waiting to be escorted outta here by a federal marshal, and Hinge’ll get the reward. Rumor is, he’s gonna give part of it to Yellow Rose.”
“Who’s Yellow Rose.”
“One of the women here—at night. Octoroon, from New Orleans way. But they’re the lucky ones.”
“Who?”
“The two in jail. The other two who rode in with ’em weren’t so lucky.”
“Why?”
“They’re dead.”
“What happened?”
Hooter looked at the empty glass in front of him.
“Have another drink,” Deek said.
“Don’t mind.” Hooter poured.
“What happened?” Deek repeated.
Hooter proceeded to relate the recent adventure. It turned out to be a four-drink story.
Less than two weeks ago four men rode into Gilead just before sundown. They drifted into the Appaloosa, ordered a bottle, sat at a table, and asked Hooter about women, while making it known that they had plenty of money to spend. Sheriff Hinge’s deputy, Homer Keeler, chanced to be there at the time. Deputy Keeler studied the strangers without making it obvious, then went across the street to Sheriff Hinge’s office.
Yellow Rose, who would be a good-looking woman anywhere, and no doubt the best-looking woman in Gilead, was just walking out of Elwood’s door. Homer had never seen her in the office before but returned her greeting without thinking much about it. He had other business on his mind.
“Elwood,” Homer said with fervor, “you know who I think rode into town? Sitting in the Appaloosa right now?”
Sheriff Hinge said nothing.
“Elwood, you hear what I said? I said, do you know who’s sitting in the Appaloosa right now?”
Sheriff Hinge pointed to four dodgers spread on the desk in front of him. The four wanted posters included names, drawings, and descriptions of four men wanted dead or alive for murder and bank robbery. Five hundred dollars each man. The leader was Frank Chase. The others were Red Borden and the two Reno Brothers, Johnsy and Charlie.
The Christmas Trespassers Page 3