Barjack and the Unwelcome Ghost

by Robert J Conley

  BARJACK AND

  THE UNWELCOME

  GHOST

  Robert J.

  Conley

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  War in the Street

  It weren’t but a few seconds later when I heared the sound a’ their horses a-coming, and then real quick after that I seed them. They come a-riding on in, and I fired a shot up into the air and yelled out.

  “Hold up there,” I called out to them.

  They was startled. Their horses commenced to jumping around some on them. “What the hell?” one of them said. Then me and Sly, we walked out into the street with our six guns in our hands.

  “All right, boys,” I said, “toss down your guns. I’m a-taking you to jail.”

  One of them hauled out his six gun, and Sly shot him off a’ his horse. Then the other five all reached for theirs. I nicked one in the shoulder, and then a rifle shot from off one a’ the roofs knocked him plumb out a’ the saddle. The other four jumped off a’ their horses and tuck out a-running for cover. A couple of them was shooting as they run. I fell down on my face. I don’t know what Sly done. What I do know is that of a sudden it sounded like a small war broke out in Asininity.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  War in the Street

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  If you’ve been keeping up with my tales, you know that ole Butcher Doyle come out to Asininity from New York City just only to kill my ass for that time I kicked him in his balls whenever we was just snot-nosed kids. And you also know that Butcher’s old man was the head of the Five Points Gang in the city. Well, now, I don’t want to waste too much time a-telling what I done told before, but I got to tell a certain amount just in case you somehow or other missed the last tale. The long and the short of it is this here. Butcher changed his damn mind about killing me, and I went and made him a depitty. I already had me one depitty what was pretty damn good, although I sure as hell don’t want him hearing about me saying that. His name is Happy Bonapart. So they got me outta the trouble I was in, and then there I was without no problems and with two goddamn depitties on my hands. I reckon on account a’ the boring and peaceful times, I shouldn’t ought to a’ been surprised none about what happened next.

  Butcher come into my marshaling office—oh yeah. In case you didn’t already know it, I was town marshal of the little ole town of Asininity, and I also owned the one and only saloon and whorehouse what was allowed to run in that town. One a’ the benefits a’ being the local law. So Butcher come into my marshaling office while I was setting there behind my big ole desk, and he walked right up to the desk and plopped a sack on top of it. I looked up at him.

  “What the hell’s that?” I asked him.

  He reached down and loosened the cord around it and then tipped it over, spilling out a whole bunch a’ cash. My eyes musta opened up kinda wide, and I looked up at him again.

  “One more time,” I said. “What the hell is that?”

  “Well, it’s money, boss,” Butcher said.

  I heaved up a long sigh, and I said, “Well, hell, I reckon I can see that it’s goddamn money, Butcher. What the hell I’m wanting to know is where the hell did it come from, goddamn it.”

  “Well, now,” he said, “I just went around collecting it.”

  “Tell me from who you collected it and what for you collected it.”

  “I collected it from all the merchants in town,” Butcher said, “and I collected it from them in exchange for keeping them safe.”

  “The old protection racket, huh?” I said.

  “That’s right, boss,” he said.

  “Goddamn it. Butcher, set your ass down.”

  He went and dragged a chair up right close to my desk, and I seen the really proud look of him, and I kinda hated to wipe that there look offa his face, but I knowed I had to do it.

  “Let me explain some things to you, Butcher,” I said, and I opened up my desk drawer and brung out my bottle a’ favorite whiskey and a coupla’ glasses and poured them full. I shoved one over to Butcher and he tuck it. I tuck my own self a drink. “We don’t do that ole New York City protection racket out here. That’s what the hell they pay us for, keeping the citizens safe from crooks and all. So we don’t do it that other way. Now, I know you ain’t been out here long, and I ain’t explained ever’thing to you, but we just don’t do that. So I reckon you’re just going to have to go back around and give all this all back.”

  “Give it back?” Butcher said, sounding real goddamn astounded-like.

  “That’s what I said, Butcher. Give it all back.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  Butcher stood up and went to scooping up the cash what he had spilt out and stuffing it back into the bag, and I can tell you what, his face was wearing a long-ass look on it.

  “Something else, Butcher,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I wish you’d cut it out a-calling me ‘boss.’ It sounds too much like you’re still a part of a gang in New York. It just don’t sound right out here.”

  “Well, what do you want me to call you, then?” he asked me.

  “Barjack is all right,” I said, “or just marshal. Either one. It don’t matter. Just don’t call me ‘boss’ no more. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure, Marshal. Whatever you say.”

  He’d done scooped up all the money, and he picked up the sack. He turned and walked toward the door with his head a-hanging real low. I felt kindly sorry for the son of a bitch.

  “Butcher,” I said.

  He looked back over his shoulder.

  “There ain’t that big a hurry,” I said. “You ain’t finished your whiskey yet.”

  He come back over and set down again and picked up his glass. He kindly smiled at me then, and he tuck another drink.

  “I guess I still got me a lot to learn,” he said. “It’s like you said. I ain’t been out here very long yet. Hell, back home all the cops takes payoffs.”

  “This here town has been real good to me, Butcher,” I said. “I got my marshaling job, and I got the Hooch House, and I got the royalties off a’ them damn silly books that ole Dingle writes about me. Hell, I don’t need no more money. And if I ain’t paying you enough, hell, if you need any money, just ask me. I’ll take good care a’ you.”

  “Okay, Marshal. I’ll remember that.” He finished off his whiskey, and then he stood up and picked up that money sack again. “I’ll get this back to them people now.”

  “All right, Butcher,” I said. “That’s good.”

  He left the office that time, and I let him go. When he was gone, I just kindly shuck my head a little. I hadn’t anticipated nothing like that, but a’ course, I reckon I should’ve. Ole Butcher, he was all right. He just only didn’t know nothing about nothing but his city ways. Then too, he just weren’t very damn smart. It seemed as if I always had that problem with my g
oddamn depitties. They’d do any damn thing I asked them to do, and they was god damn good men to have beside you when times got tough, but they just wasn’t none too bright. I guessed I’d just have to learn to live with that.

  Well, I drained my glass and got up. I figgered I had done spent enough time in the marshaling office for one day, so I headed down the street for the Hooch House. Along the way I seen that goddamned pettifogging Peester what was our town mayor and the one what had hired me in the first place to be town marshal. I nodded at him, and he kindly grumbled at me and went on by. He was a-headed toward his office. I went on into the Hooch House, and soon as ole Aubrey, our barkeep, seen me, he poured me a tumbler full a’ my special good brown whiskey and tuck it over to my table where ole Bonnie Boodle, my partner in the Hooch House and my special woman, was already setting with my other depitty, ole Happy Bonapart. I set down with them and picked up my drink and had me a good gulp. Bonnie grabbed on tight to my right arm what was the closer one to her and snuggled up against me, wriggling her fat ass around in her chair.

  “What’s up, Barjack?” asked Happy.

  “Not a goddamn thing,” I said.

  “I could do something about that,” said Bonnie.

  “Not now, sweet tits,” I said. “Maybe in a little while.”

  “Is anything wrong, Barjack?” Bonnie said.

  “Ever’thing’s just fine,” I said.

  Just then a cowboy at the bar knocked the shit out of another puncher and sent him sprawling on the floor. He walked over to stand up above his victim and commenced to telling him to get up and have some more.

  “Take care of that, Happy,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” Happy said. He stood up and pulled out his six-gun, walking toward the cowboy. When he got right up behind the bastard, he raised his gun arm up real high, and then he brung the barrel down as hard as ever he could right smack on top of the cowboy’s head. That cowboy made a little “whuffing” sound and dropped straight down onto the floor like a sack a’ flour. Then Happy collared a couple a’ stiffs and told them to toss the lump of cowhand outside. He give a hand to the other puncher what had been knocked down and helped him up to his feet. That puncher stood up a-rubbing his jaw.

  “You okay, ole pard?” Happy asked him.

  “Yeah,” the puncher said. “I will be.”

  “Aubrey,” Happy said. “Give him a drink. Whatever he wants.” He left that puncher at the bar and come back over to the table. I was thinking how ole Happy had handled that real well. Just like what I woulda done, but I said to him, “You’re real goddamn free with my booze, ain’t you, pard?”

  “I’m sorry, Barjack,” he said. “I just thought—”

  “Aw, shut up,” I said.

  Ole Flossy Applewhite, what I had just recent allowed to deal cards in the place at a table in a front corner a’ the room, raised up a glass toward me as if he was a-toasting me, and he smiled. I just grumbled. Just then I heared a voice from back behind me what sounded like as if it was right by the front door.

  “Hey,” it said. “Looky there. What’s that?”

  Then another voice said, “You can’t come in here.”

  I twisted around to look, and I seen a Indian, by God, walking into the place. He was dressed mostly like a white man, but he was a damn Indian for sure. I figgered him to be somewheres between thirty-five and forty years old. He was wearing two six-guns, and he had on a black vest and a black fl atbrimmed hat with a red-tailed hawk feather tied onto the hatband. I stood up right away and walked towards the door, and ole Happy, he was right close behind me. Two men at a table by the door had done stood up too, and I figgered it was their two voices what I had heared.

  One a’ the men was ole Oscar Martin what run the hardware store, and the other’n was his running buddy ole Harry Henshaw, the gunsmith. They was stepping around the table looking as menacing as they could manage.

  “Did you hear me, Indian?” Martin said. “I said you can’t come in here.”

  “Let’s throw his ass out, Oscar,” said Henshaw.

  I stepped up just about then, and I said, “Now, just hold on, boys. If anyone gets throwed out a’ the Hooch House, it gets did by me.”

  “Hell, Barjack,” said Henshaw, “we just thought we’d save you the trouble is all.”

  I looked at the Indian. “Mister,” I said, “is you really a Indian?”

  “I’m part white,” the Indian said, “but I can’t prove it.”

  “Does the white part a’ you have the price of a drink?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  I turned toward Martin and Henshaw. “Boys,” I said, “there’s only two reasons how come I ever throws anyone outta the Hooch House. One is if he’s causing trouble. The other’n is if he ain’t got the price of a drink. This fella here don’t qualify on either one a’ them counts, so you two just set your ass back down and mind your goddamn manners.”

  Well, they looked at me kindly unbelieving and then give each other real questioning looks, but they set back down and didn’t say nothing more. I was damn curious about our Indian visitor, on account a’ we didn’t have no Indians nowhere near around Asininity. I was standing right smack in his way a’ walking on into the place. I looked him in the face, and I said, “Come on in, pard. If you’ll join us over at my special table, I’ll buy your first one.”

  He looked around a bit and didn’t see no other friendly faces. “All right,” he said, and he follered us back to our table and set down with us. I looked at him again, and I asked, “Whiskey?”

  “I don’t mind,” he said.

  I waved at ole Aubrey and helt up my empty tumbler. When I seen that he had saw me, I called out, “And one fresh one.” Well, he brung a fresh one, and I pointed to the Indian. Aubrey set the glass on the table in front of him. Then he poured my tumbler full again and went on back behind the bar. The Indian picked up his glass to take a drink.

  “Barjack,” said Happy, “I ain’t looking to cause no trouble, and personal, I don’t really care, but ain’t it against the law to serve alcohol to Injuns here?”

  “I ain’t never heared a’ no such law in Asininity,” I said, “and that’s all I give a shit about.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Happy, and then he looked over at the Indian. “No offense, sir.”

  “None taken,” the Indian said.

  “What name do you go by, pard?” I said.

  “My name is Moses Red-Tailed Hawk,” he said, “but that’s a little awkward in English, so I just go by Mose Miller.”

  “I’m Barjack,” I said. “I own this place and I’m the town marshal. This here is my depitty Happy Bonapart, and this is my sweet-assed Bonnie Boodle.”

  Ever’one howdied each other all around. But I weren’t yet satisfied. “Where you come from, Mose?” I said. “Not from around here.”

  “No, Marshal,” he said. “I’m up from Indian Ter ritory. The Cherokee Nation to be exact.”

  “You a Churkee?” I asked him.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Well, don’t pay no attention to those shit-heads over yonder by the door,” I said. “You’re welcome in here any time. I sure as hell ain’t got nothing against Indians, especially Churkees. If you don’t mind me asking it, what brings you all the way up here?”

  “I’m chasing a man,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “To kill him.”

  Well, that done it. It went and got real quietlike around the table then. Final, I broke the silence.

  “Has you found him here in Asininity?”

  “I just got in, Marshal,” he said. “I don’t know if he’s here or not. He might have just passed through.”

  “But you know he come here?”

  “I’m a pretty fair tracker,” Miller said. “He came here all right.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Miller,” I said, “I can’t have folks, Churkee or not, coming into my town to do no killings. I think you can understand that all right, can’t you?”
/>   “Marshal,” he said, “I promise you that I won’t shoot the man in your town, not unless he forces me to.”

  “What would you do if you was to see him walk in here right now?” I asked him.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I’d run him out of town, and then I’d kill him.”

  “That’s all right, then,” I said. “Have another drink.”

  Chapter Two

  Well, hell, I went on and bought that Churkee Indian several more drinks, and I reckon I got him some drunk. I was feeling pretty loose my own self. I thunk that Happy was just about ready to fall over and pass out, and Bonnie was loud and raucous and laughing at ever’ little thing that anyone said. Then here come ole Butcher, and when he got to the table, he tossed that sack he had toted with him on the table right in front a’ me. I looked up at him, and he was grinning real wide.

  “It’s empty, Barjack,” he said.

  “What?” I said. Then it come back to me and I picked up the sack and kindly hefted it. “Oh yeah. That’s real good, Butcher. Real good. Set your ass down and have a drink.”

  Well, the only chair was right next to Miller, and Butcher pulled it out and give Miller a right curious look.

  “Miller,” I said, “this here is ole Butcher Doyle. He’s out from New York City, and he’s my other depitty. Butcher, shake hands with Mose Miller, or the Red-Tailed Hawk. He’s a goddamned Churkee Indian, and he just hit town up from the Churkee Nation in Indian Territory.”

  Well, ole Butcher stuck out his hand, and Miller, he tuck it and shuck it, but Butcher never said nothing. He just mostly stared right at Miller.

  “A real Indian?” he said final.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Doyle,” Miller said.

  “I’ll have to write Papa about this,” Butcher said. “A real Indian.”

  Aubrey fetched Butcher over a drink, and I waved my glass at him. He had carried along my bottle, and so he went and poured my tumbler full again. Ever’one else was okay, so he went on back to his place at the bar. I was still thinking about that stray Churkee in my town and how come him to be there, but I didn’t rightly feel like as if I could quiz him up about it right there in front a’ all them folks, so I kept my goddamn mouth shut about it. But I did wonder just who the hell it was he was a-chasing down to kill and what the hell for.