Nemesis

by L. J. Martin

  “Glad I could help,” I said to the bartender. But my stomach turned, as I was sure I’d added two notches to my list of dead men, and it never sat well with me.

  We turned back to the saloon, where three men were hoisting the first bandit to his feet. His arm dangled at his side, his shoulder obviously broken.

  “You son of a bitch,” he spat at me, “them was my brothers you shot down. Everette may be laying out there bleedin’ out, and y’all are here shootin’ the breeze.”

  “Just did what needed doin’,” I said, taking no pleasure in the fact.

  “You’ll die hard for that,” he said.

  “Odds is,” I said quietly, “we’ll all die hard. This country’s not much for dying easy.”

  “Shut up,” the bartender said to him. “Lock him up,” barked at to those holding him. “See if those other two are alive enough to hang…then go out to the sheriff’s ranch and tell him he’s needed.”

  “You hang bank robbers here in Nemesis?” I asked.

  “That’s how she got her name. We don’t abide robbers, rapists, and damn few republicans, an we sure as hell don’t abide a man who’d strike a woman,” he said, then laughed and pushed me toward the batwing doors. “Get on in there, you’ve got a fat steak and a bottle of Black Widow whiskey coming, friend. Town owes you and I owe you. The city council will have to talk about some kind of reward.”

  “Doing right is all the reward a man should ask for. How-some-ever I have worked up a bit of an appetite.” I said it and was surprised by it, as killing should have soured my gullet. Fact was, it seemed to have made me even more hungry. Deep inside, and unsaid, I can only hope those bandits were some of the same who plied their evil on my sis, her husband, and her beautiful daughters—but I know that’s a daydream. Those scum suckin’ pigs still breath God’s good air, but I hope not for long.

  “I’ve got to go check on Miss McGregor. I’ll be along in a moment.” He strode away to where the women were attending to the sandy haired lady in the bustle.

  As I made my way to the batwing doors, I couldn’t help but realize that he’d called her Miss. There were damn few single women between St. Louis and California, and women as fine looking as that one were rare as hair on a frog…but then what could I offer any woman, as the path I’d chosen will, I’m sure, lead me straight to hell.

  I might as well go with a full stomach.

  I had to clean the glass shards and mullion splinters off my table and chair before sitting. The thin girl had removed my glass peppered breakfast and had broom and dustpan in hand and was doing her best to clean up the mess.

  “No one hurt in here?” I asked.

  “No, thanks to you I’d run behind the bar, and the rest of the patrons were far enough away and under the tables with your warning, and they avoided the flying glass. And the shot went into the wall…a new decoration for the patrons to jaw over.”

  “Good. The bartender said something about buying me steak and eggs and a good bottle of whiskey.”

  “Sure enough,” she said, and hustled to the back and out the door.

  Looking at the size of the hole blown in the windows and the number of mullions blown away, it must have been a ten gauge loaded with cut up dimes or square nails. I was relishing the thought that I hadn’t been the recipient of that load when the girl returned with a bottle of good whiskey, and to tell the truth, even though a little early for my taste, I was ready to clean the dust and taste of blood out of my gullet.

  It had been quite an introduction to Nemesis, but I feared…or maybe hoped…the worst was yet to come.

  Chapter Five

  As I shoved in the last bite of a fine chunk of beef loin, the bartender pushed his way in through the batwings, strode across the floor covered with goober peanut shells and the remnants of glass shards, and joined me at the table.

  “The sheriff wants you next door to give a statement.”

  I eyed him for a moment. “What for?” But I knew it was a dumb question. And he didn’t reply, merely looked at me like it was as dumb a question as I knew it to be. I was merely vying for time; time to decide if I wanted to sit with some lawman after I’d just shot a couple of men down in his town, deserved lowlifes or not. I sighed deeply, then answered, “I guess that’s understandable.”

  “I’m sure it won’t take long. I noticed your rig, the pair of LeMats in the saddle holsters, the Sharps you carried in. Are you a gun for hire, sir?”

  I laughed at that, wondering if he would have thought I was an army for hire had he seen the belly gun, the lever action Winchester, and the bear traps I’d hidden in the wind cave. I smiled sheepishly, and offered, “Hell no, I can barely keep meat on the table.”

  He didn’t smile. “Pardon me for saying so, but that’s hogwash. I watched your style, Mr…?” He extended a hand. “I’m Paul Alexander Polkinghorn…and you’re?”

  Hesitating a moment, I finally grasped his handshake, and lied, “I’m Taggart Slade.” I quickly decided I shouldn’t use the name McBain, since I knew my sister occasionally used her maiden name as middle, and I was a long way from wanting myself tied to the Bar M ranch…at least not yet.

  “Like I said, sir, I believe you’re a bit more of a shootest than you care to admit. All three of your pistol shots found your target. One in the shoulder of that retreating bank robber, one in his lower back, just a flesh wound on his side, but still a hit, and one in the buttocks. Had he lived, he would have been spending his long-in-the-tooth years standing. And your final rifle shot blew his spine away between the shoulder blades, I imagine taking a goodly part of his black heart with it. That was some kind of shooting, Mr. Slade.” He eyed me for a moment, awaiting a reply. Instead, I took another sip of the rather fine whiskey he’d provided, so he continued. “Slade…are you that lawman from down Texas way?”

  I decided the less said the better, but I could hear the buzz across the saloon, which had filled up with townsfolk since the robbery, most of them eying me until I lifted my eyes to their stare, then they cut away. So I avoided the question. “I’m just a wandering pilgrim trying to find some peace.”

  “Those are LeMats on your saddle, are they not?”

  “You’ve a good eye for weapons, Mr. Polkinghorn.”

  “So you were a Reb in the war?”

  “You are a curious man, Mr. Polkinghorn.”

  “No offense meant,” he said, holding up both hands, palm out.

  “None taken, however I was a member of Mr. Lincoln’s army, not that I care to remember any of the recent unpleasentries. Life, in my opinion, should gallop forward with the past forgotten…for the good of everyman in this saloon, and every state in this union.”

  “I agree,” Polkinghorn said, again extending his hand. We shook again, then he offered, “I’ll be happy to walk next door and introduce you to the sheriff.”

  I arose. “I’d be obliged, and I’m obliged for that fine meal.” I picked up the bottle of Black Widow from the table, only three fingers light of full. “You did say a bottle?”

  “I did,” he said with another broad smile, and headed for the batwings. I followed, carrying the bottle with me and pausing to stuff it into Dusty’s saddle bags before continuing.

  I rubbed my chin whiskers, two weeks long, as I passed the tonsorial pallor. Maybe after my ‘statement’ I could take the time to blow a quarter on a shave and a trim, particularly since barbershops are the gossip centers of most towns, and I was a man seeking information.

  This time I instructed Ranger to flop down near the door on the boardwalk.

  As Nemesis was also the country seat, it seemed the city marshal shared the space with the county sheriff, as there was a second desk in the room with a hand-carved name plate that said Sam Pritchard, City Marshal, but it was at the sheriff’s desk where a large man with a handlebar mustache sat, eyeing, a little lasciviously, I thought, the same light haired lady in the bustled gown who’d taken a hard blow to the head from the bandit who’d fired his scatterg
un at me. Her cheekbone was badly marked and already turning blue around a red lined cut—but even that detracted little from how comely she was.

  Eying me like a bull at a bastard calf, the sheriff did not bother to lift his prodigious bulk from the chair when we entered. I snatched my broad brimmed hat off, not in respect for his laziness but rather since a lady was in attendance.

  Polkinghorn introduced us, calling out his full name, Tobias Stanford Wentworth, and I shook with the still-seated sheriff and nodded to the lady, who I learned was Miss Madeline McGregor. She did not seem to look upon me with pleasure, rather like I was a pitcher of soured milk she’d pulled from the cooler when hoping to make a pudding. Her expression was curdled as well.

  “Take a seat, Slade,” the sheriff said, motioning me to a chair against the wall. His speech carried a hint of a whistle, I guess as a result of a missing front tooth, and his remaining teeth were stained tobacco brown. It took a second for it to soak in that I was Slade, a name new to me that I’d plucked out of the air. I did have a sergeant who served under me who was tough as horseshoe nails, and I admired him until he was shot through the brisket and died in less than a heartbeat.

  Miss McGregor had a parchment in front of her, and a quill tipped pen in hand. An inkwell and blotter were near.

  “Miss McGregor is a teacher here in Nemesis, who of course has a fine hand, and has kindly agreed to put your statement on paper.”

  She had a small cut and angry welt on her cheek. “I’m sorry you had to take that blow, ma’am,” I offered.

  “And I’m sorry you had to shoot down those men, particularly the one you shot in the back, four times or so I understand, who was no longer a threat to anyone.”

  I was so taken aback I merely stared at her.

  “That’s Miss McGregor’s opinion, to which she’s entitled,” the sheriff said, to his credit I thought, particularly when he continued. “We’re glad to get the folks money back.” He stuffed a little chaw in his cheek with a fat finger.

  “I took no pleasure in it, however one of them did try to blow a hole in me through which you could drive a freight wagon, judging by the window it passed through.”

  The sheriff laughed, then sobered and said, “Let’s get this statement out of the way. My wife’s about to put a pullet in the frying pan.”

  I related the story just as it happened, with the exception of the fact that I claimed I’d ridden into Nemesis from the east, crossing the great salt flats…it was a good thing I’d ridden that country in the past, so as to make the story plausible.

  When I finished, Miss Maddy McGregor arose and left without so much as a goodbye or go to hell.

  After her bustle disappeared out the door, I turned to the big man, “Did you ask her if she thanked that ol’ boy in the duster for the smack in the face he gave her?”

  He looked a little dumbfounded, so I added, “She sure as hell didn’t thank me for shooting down her attacker.”

  “No, she didn’t. She’s the preacher’s daughter and he don’t much take to violence either.”

  “Since when is self-defense a violence.”

  “You’d have to ask reverend McGregor that one.” He eyed my Sharps, now leaning against the wall. “I should be asking you to leave your firearms in my care until Judge Thorne has a chance to review….”

  My cold glare, and the fact I placed my hand on my sidearm, stopped him mid-sentence. I didn’t give that comment the respect of a reply, and, although I could see the hair rise on the back of his neck, he didn’t press it. I guess there’s some value in folks, even sheriffs, knowing you can shoot, and are willing to do so if the situation calls for it.

  The sheriff suggested, with the tone of a military order, that I hang around Nemesis until the circuit judge arrived and had a chance to review the statements. Which was fine as Wentworth had no idea that I have no intention of leaving until my business in the nearby cattle country is complete, and there is a good chance I’ll reside in the town’s boot hill forever after, should my business culminate in the manner I figure it will.

  I took my seat again and he, for the first time, arose. “That’s it,” he said, just as a voice rang out through an open door into the jail.

  “You son of a bitch, you are gonna to rot in hell.”

  I, too, arose and walked to the open doorway and peered inside, in a cell was the man I’d struck down with the heavy Sharps, his arm hanging loosely at his side. I had a tight smile when I replied.

  “To be truthful, pard, I am not a bit sorry about your broke wing, particularly if it’s the one leads to your gun hand. And I hope I don’t have to rot in hell, cause I’ll have to put up with you and your brothers burning next to me, and y’all don’t seem fit company.” I said it quietly.

  He spat a gob into the corner of the cell, probably because I was too far to reach, then crossed the three steps to his stone bunk and carefully sat, grimacing, grasping his left shoulder with his right hand as he did so. Across the hall from him in another cell stood a Mexican boy, badly beaten and swollen, but adamant eyed, staring through the bars. Enough condemning heat came from those eyes that I was surprised the bars didn’t puddle to the floor.

  “When do I see the doc?” the first man snapped.

  “Mr. Hutchins,” the sheriff called out, “I just hate to spend medical money on somebody who’s bound to hang. But when the doc finishes with some deserving folks, he’ll be along.” He turned back to me. “We’re through here,” and I doffed my hat, turned, and headed for the boardwalk.

  Next to the bank was a general store, and I was in need of supplies.

  Behind the counter, shelving some tins of peaches, was a lanky fellow who could have been brother to the recent departed Abe Lincoln, but he was a mite better looking which was not a difficult task, and wore a bushy mustache over his shaggy chin whiskers.

  He obviously didn’t hear me enter, was startled when I spoke up, and damn near fell off his step stool.

  “You got any Arbuckles?” I asked.

  “Lord!” he said, stepping down. “You about saw me take a tumble. You move real quiet for a big fella.” He eyed me carefully. “You’re the fellow who saved our bacon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Shot down those highbinders who tried to make off with the town’s money.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m that man, not that I took any pleasure in it. Now, you got any Arbuckle’s? And maybe some dried beans, a side of fatback, and three cans of those peaches, if they don’t come to proud.”

  He mounted the step stool again and snatched down four cans, walked to a nearby shelf and got a large tin of Arbuckle’s coffee beans, then turned to me, “Sugar? Salt? I got a new shipment of fresh chaw.”

  “Don’t use the tobacco, but a pound of sugar and three pounds of salt would suit me fine.” If I was fortunate enough to slay a deer, I might be able to salt enough meat to keep me for a long while.

  He gathered it all together on the counter and I stood waiting for the total, thinking him a little presumptuous bringing four cans when I asked for three.

  “You sure that’s all?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, that’ll last me, should I be able to down a rabbit or a fat deer our in the sagebrush.”

  He reached into a nearby jar and fished out a handful of hard candies, and into another and fingered out at least a half pound of jerky.

  As he was wrapping it all up in paper, I had to complain, “Sorry, friend, but I can’t afford the luxuries.”

  “Yep, you can, friend. All this is on me, as a thank you for what you did for us.”

  I was only a little taken aback, but not so much I’d refuse. “Well, sir, that’s mighty kind of you.”

  He extended a hand. “I’m John Pointer, slave to this counter here and mayor of Nemesis, and you’re…”

  “Taggart Slade.” Again I lied about my name, and shook with him.

  “You that lawman from Texas?” he asked.

  I smiled. “I’m trying to leave my past b
ehind me, Mr. Pointer.” I didn’t lie, I just didn’t answer his question.

  He cleared his voice. “We got a council meeting tomorrow…Saturday. Don’t you be leaving as we may have a little reward for you, and something more to offer. Least ways if I have anything to say about it,” he smiled, “and I damn sure do.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just try and be close by come Saturday, or maybe we’ll see you in church on Sunday? You are a church goin’ man?” He didn’t wait for my answer, but went on presuming it a yes. “Sunday would do just fine.”

  “I was headed for the barber from here, so it’s likely you’ll see me, least ways if the preacher goes easy on fresh-shaven newcomer sinners.”

  “New to sin, or just new to town?” Pointer laughed, and when I just smiled, continued. “I’ll make sure he does go easy, either way. Not that Preacher McGregor pays much attention to anyone’s opinion, other than the good Lord’s.”

  “Is there a Chinaman in town?” I asked.

  “Sure is. You need laundry done?”

  “If it’s church on Sunday. I got one shirt that might suit, should it be scrubbed and have a hot iron taken to it.”

  “The last tent on the north on your way out of town headin’ west…the one with a couple of tubs aside it. I got a couple of ready mades, but they come proud. I’d give you one--”

  I held out my hand, palm out, and he knew I meant for him to stop with the ‘I’ll give you.’ However, if there was a reward to be had, I guess I can stand to be preached at…besides, could be that Miss Maddy McGregor, the preacher’s daughter, will be over her mad by then, not that it will do me any good if’n she is. Still, it might do a fella good to have a gander at a comely, God-fearing woman before he goes to meet his maker.

  Gathering up my goods, I headed for the door, then paused a moment. “Thanks, Mr. Pointer. I’ll pay my way next time in.”

  “I never thought you wouldn’t,” he said, and turned back to his shelving, yelling over his shoulder. “You sure you can’t use some tobacco. It’s on the house as well.”