A Stranger in Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “What about this deputy that was on your trail?” Earl asked. “You think you lost him?” The thought of a U.S. Deputy Marshal so close was cause for concern. He and his men had operated out of Baxter Springs for a couple of reasons. It was a wide-open cattle town, with more than a few who made a living on the wrong side of the law. But also, if things got hot for them in Kansas, they could slip over the river into Oklahoma Indian Territory. This Tanner fellow sounded like he was not one to notice boundary lines.

  “I think so,” Larsen said with a confident look. That was a lie also, because he had taken no pains to cover his trail. His one thought had been to run for his life. “I had too big a start on him, left him with a woman and child to take care of. Besides, I’m in Kansas now. He ain’t got no jurisdiction here. He’ll just have to turn hisself around and go back to Fort Smith.” He looked from one smiling face to another, satisfied that he was welcome to return. “What’s this little job you’ve been thinkin’ about?” he asked.

  Earl grunted a chuckle. “This’ll tickle you. It’s what Ben was always talkin’ about doin’, only the time weren’t right when he was always jawin’ about it. But now the time’s right. There’s a little bank opened up in Independence that’s just settin’ fat and sassy, waitin’ for us to walk in and make a withdrawal. They oughta have enough cash on hand, ’cause the town’s been growin’ fast since they made it the county seat.”

  “What about the law?” Larsen asked, already feeling eager over the prospect.

  “They got a sheriff and no deputies that we know of,” Ike answered. “The sheriff looks like he might run the first time he hears a gun go off.”

  “Even if he don’t,” Jake offered, “he won’t stand much chance in a shoot-out against the three of us. The four of us now,” he corrected. “And the U.S. Marshal’s deputies are a hundred and fifty miles away at Fort Riley.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Larsen said. “When you figurin’ on hittin’ it? ’Cause I need money now.”

  “We’ve got time,” Earl said. “I figure the best day to hit it is on a Friday, before all the farmers and cowhands come into town on Saturday, lookin’ to get money outta the bank. Independence is about forty-five miles from here, so we’ve got time before then to take two easy days’ ride up there. And our horses won’t be tired out when we get there.”

  “Looks like I got back at the right time, all right,” Larsen said. “I need to take care of my horses, then I’m hopin’ you’ll let me owe you for a room till we get back,” he said to Ernie.

  “I reckon,” Ernie replied.

  “’Preciate it,” Larsen said. “I’ll take my horses down to Saul’s place.”

  “Saul ain’t there no more,” Earl said. “He got took with consumption or somethin’ and died last winter. His widow sold the stables to a feller from Kansas City named Holden. We still keep our horses there when we’re in town, ’cause it’s so close to Ernie’s here. But Holden ain’t the same as ol’ Saul was. You didn’t have to be careful what you said around Saul. He was as big a crook as we are. And I suppose I’ll have to loan you a little money, so you can pay to board your horses. I doubt Holden will give you any credit, specially since he ain’t ever seen you before. It will just be for one night, we’re leaving for Independence in the mornin’.”

  “Much obliged,” Larsen said.

  “Might be you could loan him enough to pay for his room while you’re at it,” Ernie was quick to suggest.

  “You can just wait till we come back, you greedy ol’ bastard,” Earl said.

  “How do I know you’ll come back here?” Ernie asked.

  “Hell, we always wind up back in this dump you call a saloon,” Earl said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”

  * * *

  With a few dollars in his pocket, thanks to Earl, Larsen took his horses to the stable. Robert Holden was working on a bridle in the tack room when Larsen dismounted and led them inside. When Holden heard him, he walked out to greet him. “Howdy, friend, you lookin’ to board your horses?”

  “I am,” Larsen replied. “Just need to leave ’em one night.” He sized Holden up while he was quoting his rates, and decided the man might be interested in a bargain. When Holden had finished, Larsen said, “I can pay you for the night, but I’m runnin’ short of cash. I’m thinkin’ about sellin’ a fine .44 Colt handgun that belonged to a friend of mine, includin’ the holster. He passed away a short time ago, and I’ve got no use for another gun. If you think you might have a use for one, this would be a chance to get one cheap.” Larsen had judged Holden correctly, and after a minimum of bargaining, he walked out of the stable with thirty dollars in his pocket. “Give my horses a ration of oats each,” he said as he left. “They’ve got a forty-five-mile ride ahead of ’em.”

  * * *

  Will arrived at the Spring River ferry after two days of steady riding. When he left Zach Goodson’s place on Plum Creek, he had tried to follow the fresh trail he found leading away from Zach’s forge. However, he lost the trail after following it across a wide prairie of switchgrass when it led onto a rocky plateau. He lost a good bit of time trying to pick up the trail again until saying, “To hell with it,” and striking out straight north to Baxter Springs. It was a gamble, but it was the best chance left to him. Zach told him that Larsen was headed for Kansas, and Baxter Springs was a likely town to head for. The town was a gathering spot for all manner of saddle tramps, but most of them were just wild hell-raising cowhands. Hardened criminals like Brock Larsen and Ben Trout would not normally operate out of Baxter Springs. They might be too well known, so Will figured Larsen was not likely to spend much time in the town. This would be Will’s first time in Baxter Springs, so he was surprised to find just how big the town was. Ed Pine had once told him that the popular watering hole for drifters on the run was a shabby two-story building with a saloon on the first floor called Trail’s End. That was his only clue, so he asked the ferry operator for directions to that saloon.

  The operator looked him over pretty thoroughly before telling him how to find it. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, there’s a helluva lot better places in town to buy a drink, or rent a room, or whatever else you want.”

  “I ’preciate the advice,” Will said, “but I’ve gotta meet somebody there.”

  “Well, here’s some more advice then,” the operator said. “Keep your back to the wall and be particular about what Ernie pours in your glass.”

  “Much obliged,” Will said. “I’ll do that.”

  Trail’s End was not very far from the ferry, but not too close to what appeared to be the main street through town. Since it was already getting along toward evening, he knew he should take care of his horses, but he decided to check on the saloon first, in case he got lucky. He reached inside his coat, took his badge off his vest, and put it in his saddlebags. He couldn’t help recalling the last time he had done that. It was in Texas, another time when he had found it difficult to respect territorial boundaries. It would be nothing more than wasted time to notify the U.S. Marshal for the Kansas Territory, time that would give Brock Larsen ample time to disappear. Larsen’s arrest had become a personal case for Will, anyway. And if the murdering outlaw was to be tried, Will intended it to be done in Judge Isaac C. Parker’s court, with Ed Pine there to witness the hanging.

  The ferry operator had not exaggerated when he described the run-down condition of the Trail’s End Saloon. The only evidence of any attempt at upkeep was a fairly new hitching rail out front—the old one must have rotted away, Will presumed. He dismounted and tied his horses, pulled his rifle from the saddle sling, and walked in the door. Inside, he found a large room with a dozen tables and a set of stairs on one side. There was no one in the place but two men seated at a table close to the bar, and four card players at a back table. He looked quickly from one face to the other in case he had gotten lucky, but none of the customers was Brock Larsen. He shifted his gaze over to the man behind the bar, who was studying him i
ntently as well. A scrawny little man with a drooping gray mustache and bald head down to his sideburns was no doubt Ernie, Will decided, so he walked over to the bar.

  Still studying the tall stranger as he approached his bar, Ernie affected a welcoming grin and sang out, “Howdy, partner, what’ll it be?”

  Thinking the bartender might be more cooperative if he bought a drink, Will said, “Whiskey.” He laid his rifle on the bar between them and watched while Ernie blew the dust from a glass before pouring a shot from a half-full bottle.

  “Ain’t never seen you in here before,” Ernie said as he slid the glass closer to Will. “This time of year, we don’t see many cowhands come into Baxter Springs. You just passin’ through town, or you gonna light for a while?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Will answered, and tossed his whiskey down. He had to pause while he endured the burn in his throat. It was pretty rough whiskey, rougher that the drink he had taken with Zach Goodson, and it burned all the way down. “I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine who was supposed to meet me here. He said he’d most likely be at the Trail’s End, and if he wasn’t here yet, to ask for Ernie.”

  “Well, you found Ernie,” he said. “I’m Ernie and this here is my place. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Brock,” Will answered, “Brock Larsen. Have you seen him?” He watched Ernie’s reaction closely, and it told him what he wanted to know. If he had guessed correctly, that Larsen had been here, he would hardly expect Ernie to tell him. But the look in the bartender’s eyes and the suddenly frozen smile on his face could not disguise his sudden caution. If he was reading the man accurately, he was halfway certain his gamble to ride directly to Baxter Springs had paid off. Now it was a question of whether or not Larsen was still in town. He glanced toward the stairs at the side of the room and wondered if there was a chance he was renting one of the bedrooms up above.

  Ernie paused a long moment before answering. “Mister, I wouldn’t hardly know your friend if he hadda been in here. I don’t ask nobody their name. In this town, it ain’t healthy to ask questions.”

  “Well, now, if that don’t beat all,” Will said, still playing it straight. “Brock said you knew him real well. That’s why he told me to ask you.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Ernie said, “and that’s that.” He had no doubt now that he was talking to an Oklahoma deputy marshal, the man that Larsen had assumed would not cross the Kansas border to come after him. So much for what Larsen said, Ernie thought, because the crazy son of a bitch came right on into Kansas.

  “I bet you just don’t remember,” Will said. “Maybe he took one of the rooms upstairs for the night. I’ll go see if he’s up there.” He turned abruptly and walked briskly toward the steps.

  Momentarily struck dumb by the stranger’s brash move, Ernie yelled, “Hey, you can’t go up there!”

  With his foot already on the first step, Will ignored his warning and replied, “Why? It’s a public roomin’ house, ain’t it? I’ll just go up and see if ol’ Brock is up there.” By this time the few customers in the saloon were aware of the conversation between Ernie and the persistent stranger. One of the two men seated at the table close to the bar pushed his chair back and started to get to his feet, looking as if he was thinking about supporting Ernie. Halfway up the stairs by now, Will paused, cocked his Winchester, fixed the man with a warning gaze, and shook his head slowly. It was enough to change the man’s mind, so he sat back down.

  Up on the second floor, Will found himself in a hallway fronting a single row of rooms, four in all. He didn’t hold out much hope of finding Larsen in one of them, but he wanted to know for sure. Trying the first door, he turned the knob and found it unlocked. The room was empty. He found the second room unoccupied as well. The third door was locked, so he gave it a firm kick with his boot, sending the door banging open against the wall, startling a prostitute in the process of servicing a client. Before the man could reach for a pistol in a holster on a chair in the corner, Will grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back to get a look at him. It was not Larsen. “My mistake, mister. Sorry, ma’am,” he said, and left them in the state of shock he had created.

  The final door was also locked. It received the same opening procedure as the one next door. There was no one inside, but a quick look around told him that this was Ernie’s room. There were extra furnishings and clothes, too many for an overnight renter. Returning to the head of the stairs, he prepared himself for the reception that might be waiting for him. With his rifle ready before him, he stopped at the top. As he halfway expected, Ernie was standing in front of the bar, holding a shotgun in his hands. Anticipating a shoot-out, the card players had departed for reasons of health. The other two men were still seated at the table, with no indication they were going to be involved. Will thought it best to keep an eye on the one who had stood up before, anyway, lest he might decide to join in. Looking back at the angry little man holding the shotgun, Will said, “That would be a mistake.”

  “Who the hell you think you are?” Ernie demanded. “Come in here and raise hell on my property.”

  “I think you know who I am,” Will said calmly. “And what you need to know is that if you even think about raising that shotgun, I’ll cut you down right where you’re standin’.” He paused to let that warning sink in. “Now, I owe you for a drink, and for a couple of doors I damaged. I’ll pay you for that, then I’ll be on my way. So I’ll ask you to put that shotgun on the bar and we’ll settle up.” He started down the steps, slowly, the Winchester raised and ready to fire.

  Unnerved by the deadly calm of the lawman’s words, Ernie lost what nerve he had summoned. He laid the shotgun on the bar and backed away from it. Concerned that the two men at the table might think him spineless for having given in, he blustered, “All right. As long as you’re fixin’ to pay for everythin’, I reckon we’ll forget about the ruckus.”

  Will continued down the steps, still watching the two men, who were still silently witnessing the altercation. Walking over to the bar, he reached in his pocket and peeled off a few dollars, laid them on the bar, and said, “That oughta take care of the damage.” Before moving toward the door he asked, “How long has Larsen been gone?”

  “What?” Ernie started. “I told you, I don’t know no Brock Larsen.” Will shrugged. It was worth a shot.

  * * *

  Outside, Will wasted no time climbing aboard Buster and leaving the saloon, in case Ernie changed his mind about using his shotgun. At least he had satisfied himself that he was on Brock Larsen’s trail. The question facing him now remained, is Larsen still in Baxter Springs or has he moved on? If he is still here, it might take a lot of time searching a sizable town like this one. And if he’s already moved on, that search of Baxter Springs would result in giving Larsen more and more distance from here. The situation was not that promising. He shrugged. At any rate, he thought, I’m gonna need a place to take care of my horses and bed down for the night.

  He had not gone a hundred yards from the Trail’s End when he came upon a livery stable. It occurred to him that it was handy to the saloon, and very likely Larsen might have stabled his horses there. It would make sense, so he pulled Buster up before the corral and stepped down.

  “Evenin’,” Robert Holden said as he walked out to greet him. “Lookin’ to board your horses?”

  “Yes, sir,” Will said. “I am, if the rate’s fair. I’m new in town, so I ain’t had a chance to compare prices.”

  “It’s the cheapest in town,” Holden said with a laugh. “It’s the only way I could make it. I’m new in town, myself, been here since last May when I bought this place from the widow of the fellow who used to own it.”

  “Is that a fact?” Will replied. “Looks like you oughta get a little business from folks on this end of town, like that place just down the road, the Trail’s End.”

  “I get some from that place,” Holden allowed. “There seems to be a lot of people coming and going from there. Most of
’em I don’t ask many questions.”

  They talked on for a bit. Will asked about the town and how Holden liked it. Holden was frank in his willingness to talk about the town’s strengths and weaknesses. He concluded with a statement that if the cattle business slacked off, the town might dry up. Will came to the opinion that Holden was an honest businessman and had no real connections to the shady crowd that hung around the Trail’s End. Because of that, he decided to take a chance and level with him as to why he was in Baxter Springs. “Mr. Holden, you look like an honest man, so I’m gonna be square with you.” Holden paused, thinking maybe he had misjudged the stranger, expecting now that Will was going to explain that he didn’t have any money to pay him. He was astounded when Will continued. “To tell you the truth, I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal out of Fort Smith, Arkansas,” he said, and reached in his saddlebag for his badge. “And I’m tryin’ to track down a murderer and train robber that skipped over the line here in Kansas. I’m wondering if you’ve happened to have seen him, since I know he spent some time at Trail’s End.” Holden, properly surprised, was at first short of words. “It would have been within the last day or so,” Will prompted. “His name’s Brock Larsen. He’s ridin’ a red sorrel and leadin’ a bay packhorse. You see anybody like that?”

  “Yes, sir, I have,” Holden said. “Two or three days ago a fellow brought in two horses like that. He just left ’em one night. I don’t know what his name was, whether it was the fellow you’re after or not. Like I told you, I don’t ask a lot of people what their names are.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not he should say more. “He sold me a Colt .44—said he needed the money. I gave him thirty dollars for it.”

  Will felt certain it had been Larsen—it had to be. He would have been out of money, so he sold Ben Trout’s handgun. “I don’t suppose he said anything about where he was headin’,” Will said.

  “No, I’m sorry, he didn’t,” Holden said. He remembered then. “He did say to give his horses a ration of oats because they were gonna have to make a forty-five-mile trip the next day.”