Bill sat forward in the chair as the female customer turned and hurried out of the store. Nobody else was in the mercantile.
If it came down to a fight, a man who had to hobble around on crutches wouldn’t stand much of a chance. But Monroe had helped him. Grudgingly, sure, but Bill was still in his debt. He couldn’t sit by and do nothing if Blaisdell or either of the other two bullwhackers tried to hurt Monroe. He would feel that way even if Monroe hadn’t been Eden’s father.
“You talk too damn much, old man,” Blaisdell said. Without warning, he leaned forward and his arm shot out over the counter. He grabbed Monroe’s long white beard and jerked. Monroe howled in pain as Blaisdell hauled him forward onto the counter.
Bill heaved himself up on his crutches and yelled, “Hey!”
Blaisdell barely spared him a glance. He jerked his head toward Bill and told his companions, “Take care of that cripple. I’m gonna teach this mouthy old mossback a lesson.”
He shifted his grip from Monroe’s beard to the canvas apron he wore and held the old man while he swung a brutal backhand across his face.
Bill grated a curse as he clumped forward on the crutches. He was about to take a beating, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it. Bum leg or not, he had to try to fight.
Maybe he could get in a couple of blows with a crutch, he thought. It might not be such a bad weapon.
One of the other bullwhackers growled, “Sit down, gimp. We don’t want to hurt you.”
Blaisdell hit Monroe again, this time with a fist. The storekeeper groaned as he lay half on the counter with Blaisdell holding him in place.
“Make your friend stop,” said Bill, nodding toward Blaisdell.
“Nobody makes Clint Blaisdell do anything he doesn’t want to do. Now, are you gonna butt out of this, mister, or do we bust that other leg for you?”
Bill judged he was close enough now. Bracing himself, he whipped up the right-hand crutch and thrust it forward like a spear, taking the nearest bullwhacker by surprise as he drove the tip of it into the man’s belly.
As the man staggered backward from the unexpected blow, the third one lunged at Bill. Bill swung the crutch and tried to hit the man with it, but the bullwhacker blocked the blow with a forearm and swiped the crutch away from him. It slipped out of Bill’s hand and clattered across the floor toward the front door.
A booted foot came down on the crutch to stop its slide. Marshal Frank Porter drew his revolver, earing back the hammer. The distinctive metallic ratcheting was loud enough to cut through the profane tirade coming from Blaisdell as he hammered punches into Monroe’s face. Blaisdell froze with his fist pulled back for another blow.
“You’re about a second away from me blowing a hole in you, mister,” Porter told the bullwhacker. “Let go of Mr. Monroe and step away from the counter.”
“Marshal, you stay out of this!” blustered Blaisdell. “This is between me and this old coot!”
“You’re wrong as you can be. My job is to protect that man and his store. If that means splatterin’ your brains all over the wall . . . well, I’m a man who does his duty at all costs.”
The standoff held as seconds ticked by. The man Bill had jabbed in the stomach had staggered off to the side, catching himself against a cracker barrel. As he leaned against the barrel, his right hand stole toward a coiled bullwhip attached to his belt.
Bill saw the move and knew what the man intended. The bullwhacker was off to Porter’s right. His body concealed his movements from the marshal.
Bullwhackers were deadly accurate with the long whips. They could flay a man’s skin or pop an eye out of its socket. If this man struck fast enough, he might be able to knock the gun out of Porter’s hand before the marshal could pull the trigger.
For a split second Bill thought about calling a warning to Porter. Then he realized there was no time for that. The whip was free and snaking out, writhing like a snake as it prepared to strike.
Bill threw his other crutch as hard as he could.
The crutch didn’t hit the bullwhacker all that hard, but the whip tangled around it and fell far short of its intended target. Porter pivoted smoothly and fired. The bullet smashed into the bullwhacker’s shoulder and spun him off his feet, screaming in agony.
Blaisdell let go of Monroe and started to charge toward Porter, but the marshal was too fast. He’d already swung his gun back in line. Blaisdell skidded to a halt as he found himself staring down the Colt’s barrel.
Bill was left with only one leg to stand on. He windmilled his arms in an attempt to keep his balance as he reeled and hopped backward. It was blind luck that he came down hard in the chair where he had been sitting earlier. It was better than falling all the way to the floor.
The wounded man lay on the planks, whimpering. Porter motioned toward him with the gun barrel and told Blaisdell and the other bullwhacker, “Pick him up and carry him over to the jail.”
“Jail! You can’t throw us in jail! We’re part of a supply train.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you started assaulting citizens and trying to kill a lawman. Reckon your wagon boss will have to either do without your services or pay your fine.”
Blaisdell snarled. “You tin star-wearin’ son of a bitch.”
“I can shoot you, too, you know,” Porter said with a smile. “Shoot all three of you dead and say it was self-defense. I don’t reckon Mr. Monroe or Tex here would claim otherwise.”
Bill wasn’t so sure about that. Killing the three bullwhackers when Porter had the drop on them would be pure murder, nothing less.
But he figured the marshal was just bluffing.
Blaisdell sighed and muttered to his companion, “Hell. I guess we better do what he says.”
Porter covered them as they lifted the wounded man to his feet and helped him toward the door. The lawman glanced at Bill and threw him a wink, seemingly confirming that the threat had been a bluff.
“Thanks for your help, Harvey,” said Porter. “That fella probably wouldn’t have gotten me with that bullwhip . . . but he might have.” He asked the storekeeper, “Are you all right, Mr. Monroe?”
“Yeah, yeah, madder than anything else,” Monroe said as he came out from behind the counter. “He yanked a few hairs out of my beard and I’ll have some bruises, but they’ll heal.”
“Well, I’ll tend to these varmints and see that they get what’s comin’ to them.” Porter ushered the prisoners out through the group of curious townspeople who had gathered on the store’s front porch in response to the shot. He raised his voice and called, “Move along, folks, move along.”
Monroe picked up the crutches and brought them over to Bill. “How about you, young fella?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Bill touched his left leg gingerly. “It hurts a mite, but not enough for me to have busted anything loose again, and it doesn’t look like it’s bleeding.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Monroe frowned and gave him a curt nod. “Appreciate you stickin’ up for me like that. Most men in the shape you’re in wouldn’t risk a fight.”
Bill shrugged. “De nada.” He could tell that Monroe was struggling to express his gratitude. The man still didn’t like him and probably didn’t trust him, either, but now at least a little of the debt went the other way.
Eden rushed in then, hurrying to her father and throwing her arms around him. “I heard there was a shooting!” she said. “Are you all right? Oh, no! There’s blood on your face!”
“Just from being punched,” said Monroe. “I’m fine.”
Bill got the crutches under his arms and struggled to his feet. Eden turned to him, and he smiled as he waited for her to thank him.
“And you!” she said. “Brawling like a man who doesn’t have an injured leg! What’s wrong with you?”
Then she punched him on the shoulder. Bill didn’t know what to say. All he could do was stare at her in surprise.
He suddenl
y had a feeling that if he was going to be around Eden Monroe very much, that was a feeling he’d better get used to.
Chapter 8
The wagon boss paid the fines levied against Blaisdell and the other two men by the local justice of the peace, Kermit Dunaway. The freighter complained bitterly about it, but he needed the two uninjured men. When he suggested leaving the wounded man behind, Marshal Frank Porter vetoed that idea.
“You just take him with you,” the marshal said. “We don’t want the likes of him in our town, even if he is wounded.”
When Bill heard about that, it made him feel good. Redemption had taken him in, but not the wounded bullwhacker.
Of course, he reminded himself, that was because the wounded bullwhacker hadn’t had the strong-willed Eden Monroe to stick up for him and offer to take care of him.
The wagons rolled out of Redemption late that afternoon, taking Blaisdell, the wounded man, and the other bullwhacker with them.
Eden was cool toward Bill the rest of the day. He told himself it was just because she’d been worried about him. Maybe that was a sign she really did care for him but didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. That possibility didn’t make the decision he was facing any easier.
That evening, after supper, Bill was alone in the store with Perry Monroe. Eden had brought Bill’s supper to him and taken the tray back home when he was finished. Monroe would be closing up soon and heading for the house on a side street a couple of blocks away he shared with his daughter.
Bill was leaning against the counter with the crutch under his left arm while he toyed with the right-hand crutch, spinning it on its tip. A few feet away, the battered and bruised storekeeper bent forward over a piece of paper as he used a stub of a pencil to tote up a column of numbers. Monroe muttered to himself as he added the sums.
The clump of boots on the floorboards made Bill look up. He saw Zach Norris coming along the aisle toward the counter. The deputy’s scarred face was set in its usual smirk.
“Evenin’, gents,” he drawled. “I’m makin’ my rounds. You about ready to close up, Monroe?”
“Just as soon as I get this figuring done,” replied Monroe.
Norris came up to the front of the counter and rested his hands on it. He looked at the paper, tilted his head to read the numbers, and asked, “Is that your day’s take?”
“Yeah.” Monroe’s voice was curt and unfriendly. Nobody in town seemed to like the deputy. That included Bill, who had seen Norris in the store several times during the past few days. If Eden happened to be in the mercantile at the same time Norris was, his eyes followed her around with an intensity Bill didn’t like.
“You’re makin’ pretty good money,” said Norris.
“I do all right.” Monroe’s tone made it clear he didn’t want to discuss his finances.
“And you know why?”
“Because I work damned hard,” said Monroe.
Norris gave his head a lazy shake. “You make good money because there’s law and order in this town. Folks ain’t afraid to come here and buy what they need. If Redemption didn’t have such good peace officers, people would start movin’ out and nobody new would come in. The settlement would start to wither on the vine. Sooner or later it’d just dry up and blow away.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Monroe sounded distracted and impatient. “Is there something I can do for you, Deputy?”
Norris put his left hand on his chest. “Not for me. I don’t need a thing. But from the way I hear it, those troublemakin’ bullwhackers who came in here earlier today probably would’ve beat you within an inch of your life if not for Marshal Porter.”
Monroe frowned across the counter at Norris but didn’t say anything. Norris never even looked at Bill. He acted like the Texan wasn’t there.
“What are you suggesting?” Monroe asked coldly.
“Well, if somebody was to do me as big a favor as Marshal Porter done you, I’d want to, I don’t know, show my appreciation somehow.”
“I thanked the marshal for doing his job. What was he supposed to do when one of my customers found him and told him there was trouble brewing?”
“Oh, he’d do his duty, sure enough, and never hesitate,” said Norris with a nod. “That’s just the way Marshal Porter is. Devoted to his duty. But I know for a fact it’d make him feel mighty good to have some concrete evidence that the people of this town truly appreciate him and everything he does.”
“He gets paid good wages.”
Norris grinned. “Everybody can always use a little bit extra, even a lawman.”
Bill kept his expression neutral, even though he had a hard time believing what he was hearing. It sounded for all the world like Norris was trying to extort a payoff from Monroe, a payoff to Marshal Porter for doing his job and intervening in the trouble with the bullwhackers.
“I’ll think about it,” Monroe said in a grudging tone.
“You know, if it’d make things easier for you, you could just give me whatever you think’s fair, and I’ll pass it on to the marshal as a token of your gratitude.”
That made it different, thought Bill. Norris wasn’t really here on Marshal Porter’s behalf after all. He was just trying to weasel a little cash out of Monroe for himself. Bill would have bet a hat—if he still had a hat—that any money Monroe might give to Norris would go straight in the deputy’s pocket and Porter wouldn’t know anything about it.
“I told you I’d think about it,” said Monroe. He put the paper he’d been working on under the counter. “I need to close up now, Deputy.”
“Sure,” Norris said with a casual shrug. “Just thought I’d mention how nice it’d be if the marshal knew how much you folks appreciate him.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Monroe put his hands flat on the counter and stared at Norris, obviously intent on waiting him out.
Grinning, Norris turned away. He stopped and finally looked at Bill. “How you doin’, Harvey?”
“I reckon I’m all right,” Bill said.
“I hear that even on crutches, you got mixed up in that fracas this afternoon.” Norris chuckled. “Ain’t that just like you Texans? If there’s any trouble anywhere, you got to be right in the big middle of it, don’t you?”
“Not me. I’m the peaceable sort.”
“If you are, you’re the first Texan I ever met that was. But you just stay that way, you hear? I expect you’ll be leavin’ town soon, so it’d be better if you didn’t go messin’ in things that don’t concern you.”
That sounded like a warning to Bill, and he knew the smart thing would be to let Norris have the last word. That way the deputy might go ahead and leave.
But he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Mr. Monroe took me in. I’m beholden to him. I couldn’t stand by and let those hombres attack him.”
Norris hooked his thumbs behind his gun belt and said, “But if it hadn’t been for the marshal, you’d have got a whippin’, too, wouldn’t you? You’d ought to be thankin’ him, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re just a dirt-poor cowboy without a pot to piss in.”
“Is there anything else you need, Deputy?” asked Monroe.
Norris shook his head. “Nope. I’ve said what I come in to say. You gents have a nice evenin’.”
He walked out of the store, not getting in any hurry about it and leaving the front door standing wide open behind him.
Monroe came out from behind the counter and hurried to the front of the store to close the door before anybody else could come in, thinking the place was still open. When Monroe came back to the counter, Bill had both crutches under his arms and was standing straight again.
“I feel sort of bad about it, him being a lawman and all,” he said, “but I don’t like that fella.”
Monroe snorted. “Nobody does. I reckon it’d be all right with most folks in Redemption if Marshal Porter was to fire him and run him out of town. I suppose we needed Norris at first, to help stop those trail herds from causing so much troubl
e, but I think Porter could handle the job by himself now.”
“Do you think the marshal knows Norris was over here trying to get money out of you?”
“I’d like to believe that he doesn’t.”
That wasn’t really an answer, but Bill didn’t press the question. Monroe took off his apron, put on his hat and coat, and gave Bill a curt nod as he muttered, “G’night.” He turned out all the lamps except the one in the storeroom where Bill was staying, went out the front door, and locked it behind him. Bill heard the key turn in the lock.
He started toward the storeroom, figuring he would turn in for the night, but he paused along the way and looked into a cabinet that had glass on the front and top of it. The cabinet had three shelves in it. On the bottom one lay a couple of double-barreled shotguns. The middle shelf held three new Winchesters, the Model ’73.
And arranged on the top shelf were half a dozen handguns. Bill saw the cylinders and barrels gleaming dully in the light that came from the storeroom.
His pistol and his hat were lost, somewhere out there on the range where the herd had stampeded and he had been injured. His bloody, dirty, cut-up jeans had been discarded, and Eden had taken his shirt to wash it. He was dressed now in clothes provided by the Monroes, he ate the food they provided as well, and he depended on Eden to care for his injured leg. He was already so deeply in debt to them, he figured a little more wouldn’t matter.
He went behind the cabinet, opened the door in the back, and reached in to wrap his fingers around the walnut grips of a Colt Single-Action Army revolver. As he lifted it and took it out of the cabinet, the weight of the weapon felt familiar in his hand. He’d carried the old pistol he’d lost for a good many years. It had never been as fine as this .44-caliber Peacemaker, though. Bill leaned on the crutches and spun the cylinder, pleased and impressed by the way it turned so smoothly and easily.
Carefully, he placed the gun on the glass top of the cabinet and went to the shelves on the back wall where Monroe kept boxes of ammunition. He took down a box of .44s and carried it back to the cabinet. Then he opened the box, plucked out five cartridges, and thumbed them one by one into the Colt’s cylinder. He kept one chamber empty and let the revolver’s hammer rest on it.
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