Shotgun Charlie (6 page)

Since riling up the town council, Marshal Dodd Wickham had spent too much time stalking the streets of Bakersfield, ramming that walking stick hard into the boardwalks, the flagged sidewalks, and the hard-packed pan with all the vengeance and righteous rage he could muster. Not that it did a lick of good—no one in the town seemed to care a whit that he was headed for the door.

Marshal Dodd Wickham prided himself on the fact that he rarely, in all his days, sulked and brooded over himself. It had indeed been a long time since he felt sorry for himself. But if ever such a mood was justified, he figured it was now. But he'd be jiggered if he'd let those town council fools frazzle him and run him out of town, his town as much as theirs, like a common gambler whose luck had long since run out.

He'd serve out the term as he'd intended, and as he'd said he'd do. He was, after all, a man of his word, a man of his honor. But come the next morning, he was bound and determined to be packed and ready to mount up. Well, maybe not climb into the saddle so much as boil up a good bit of dust as his buggy rolled on out of town.

And it would be one cold day in the Devil's playground before he'd mosey on back to Bakersfield, rest assured.

It was these and other such potent thoughts that drove Marshal Dodd Wickham to regard every child, woman, man, dog, cat, snake, and skunk with a hardened eye and not a smidge of a smile on his lined, leathery cheeks. Oh, he'd still do the job he hired on for, but—and though he chastised himself for it—Wickham secretly hoped there might be a spate of crimes after he wheeled on out of town.

“Marshal!”

The voice pulled him from his reverie. He stood at the corner of Wallace's Emporium and his old friend Gimpy's Dry Goods Warehouse. Down the alley a couple of young rascals were harassing a tomcat. Was a time not long before when he would have halfheartedly told the boys to back off, give the cat his space. But now he watched them.

“Marshal Wickham. Ho there, it's me, Bert Tollinson.”

Wickham sighed. “Yeah, Bert.” Blasted banker. He guessed what the man wanted. Something about the bank. The fat banker was always on him about hiring deputies to help patrol the streets surrounding the bank whenever he had payroll shipments coming in. So far Wickham had put him off. And he didn't see any reason to change course now.

Bert Tollinson blustered up alongside the marshal. “Morning, Dodd.”

“Bert.” Wickham pulled his gaze from the kids.

The porcine banker looked down the alley, shouted, “Hey, you two kids, leave off that critter! You should know better than that.” He looked at the marshal. “I'm surprised at you, Dodd. You ought to know better than to let them boys torment that cat so.”

“Seems to me a whole lot of people know what's good for me and what isn't. A whole lot of people lately want to tell me my business.”

The fat man's jowls drooped and his bushy eyebrows rose. “Oh no, I didn't mean anything of the sort, Dodd. Just that . . .” He waited for Wickham to interrupt him like always, to tell him to forget it, no worries. It was a joke. He wasn't offended.

But Wickham didn't. He stood waiting for the fat banker to bluster to a stop. And then waited some more before finally saying, “What can I do for you, Bert?”

“Well, Dodd. I . . . uh . . .” He puffed up a bit more, thumbed the lapels of his black boiled-wool suit coat. “As you know, I, that is to say my bank, regularly receives shipments of payroll, refined ore, and other, uh, assets on the third weekend of each month.”

“Yes, Bert, I seem to recall you telling me that a time or two before.”

“Well, that's only because I should be concerned about the safety of that which has been left in my care, don't you agree?”

“Sure, Bert. Sure.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?” But Wickham knew exactly what the fat man wanted.

“I'll need your assurance that nothing will happen to my holdings. To my patrons' investments in my business.” Now Tollinson stuck out his lower jaw, as if to emphasize the weight his words deserved.

“Bert, you ever wonder why your bank has never been robbed while I've been top law in this town?”

“No, but I would like to keep it that way.”

Wickham pushed off the side of the building and rammed the hard tip of his walking stick down on the wood as he began walking away. He stopped, turned, and said, “Then you had best hire yourself a new marshal, Tollinson. Because my contract ends Friday of next week and if my calendar's correct, that's still a full week before your payroll train rolls into town.”

“But! But . . . Marshal Wickham! You can't do this to me! To the town! What will we do?”

“Can't do what? Leave you high and dry? Do what you and your fancy town council did to me? Sure I can. And I aim to. You watch.”

“But . . .”

“Good day to you . . . Mr. Tollinson.” The marshal offered the bulbous banker a hat-brim salute and clunked off down the sidewalk.

The fat banker stood staring at the tall, thin lawman's long, black claw hammer coat, wishing with every step that the stubborn old rooster would slip on a pile of road apples and break his neck. A more infuriating man he'd never met.

Charlie rattled the tin plates and cups in the streambed, scouring them with a paw full of sand to help dislodge any stuck bits. His thoughts turned once more to the old man not far away. Pap was sitting alone, whittling a big stick into a smaller stick. Not a good sign, in Charlie's estimation.

He poured two tin cups with steaming coffee and ambled on over to the older man. “I'd known you was going to make shavings, I would have waited till now to make that campfire.”

The old man didn't meet Charlie's eyes. He reached up with an old clawlike hand and accepted the hot cup. “Obliged.”

He sipped noisily, then set it on the ground beside his left foot.

Charlie tried again. “Mind if I set down here, Pap?”

“Suit yourself.”

Charlie sat on the log, wondering what in the heck was going on with Pap—besides the obvious problem with the boys. Charlie had a feeling Pap wanted to tell him something but didn't know how. Charlie tried again. “Something on your mind, Pap?” It was bold of him to say it that way, he knew, but something wasn't right and Charlie didn't like the tension he felt rippling off the old man.

Finally Pap cleared his throat and spat a green wad into the curls of pine at his feet. “You know I ain't never told you nor anyone else what to do, Charlie.”

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie, a little relieved that at least Pap was in a speaking mood.

“And I ain't about to start now.” The old man looked at him, wagged the stick with emphasis as he spoke.

“No, sir.”

Pap looked square at him now. “But I wouldn't blame you if you was to head on out of here, you got me?”

It took a few seconds for the old man's words to sink in. “What? Pap, you know I ain't leaving you. Besides, if this is about Haskell, well, ol' Grady ain't so bad.”

Pap made a snorting sound. “I'm too dang old, Charlie, for you to be lying to me.”

Charlie grinned. “Aw, I ain't lying to you, Pap. I reckon this whole thing's got a bit out of hand.” Charlie's eyes brightened. “Hey.” He nudged Pap on the arm. “What say I go talk to him? Tell him we ain't keen on the notion of doing in Bakersfield what he's laid out. Might be he'd—”

Pap stood up with more speed than Charlie had seen the man ever display. He thrust a knobby finger at Charlie. “Boy, you don't read me right.” Pap's mouth was set in a hard line, his wet eyes blazed in red rims, and his chin trembled. “It's not that I want you to like that no-account Grady Haskell, nor that I want you to speak to him for me—anybody does that it'll be me, Pap Morton, and no one else.”

“But, Pap, I didn't—”

“Hush your mouth, Charlie Chilton. And you listen good. I don't plain want you around no more. You got me? I had enough of you suckling like a newborn! Grow up and git gone. I got enough worry about without a big galoot like you dragging his feet through everything I try to do.”

It was rare in Charlie's life, especially given the past couple of years, that Charlie could be surprised, but the old man's words caught him unawares. “But you can't mean that, Pap.”

“I do mean it,” he said, but he'd turned away, and his voice cracked.

“But what'd I do, Pap? Tell me what I done wrong and I'll do it over again, but right this time. You'll see. I . . . I don't understand, Pap.”

Morton turned his back on the large fellow. “Git gone, Charlie Chilton.”

“But, Pap, I—”

“Git!” Pap wheeled on him, holding his knife out as if he were about to drive the tip into the big middle of the young man.

Instead of waiting for Charlie to walk away, Pap Morton stalked off, muttering and shaking his head.

“What'd I do, Pap?”

Already too far away for him to be heard by the big young man, Pap Morton said, under wet eyes, “Nothing, Charlie boy. You didn't do a thing wrong. You done it all right. Just too dang late.”

Charlie heard none of it as he watched the old man who had, in such a short time, become so like a father to him.

That night, Charlie lay rolled in his blanket well away from the rest of the fellows, a confused hulk of a young man turning over and over again in his mind what it was he had done to incur such sudden anger from Pap. After hours of fruitless mental groping, the only conclusion he came to was to regretfully heed Pap Morton's advice.

Judging from the hard snores of Simp, Mex, Ace, and Dutchy—he had no idea where Grady was, nor did he much care—Charlie doubted his leaving would be noticed. He made only slight rustlings as he gathered his meager bits of gear, which consisted of a few extra pieces of clothing, his old, much-repaired saddlebags containing holey socks, a tin cup, a few odds and ends of cooking implements with which he had been able to cobble together a campfire meal, and scraps of leather and twine he always found useful to have on hand for repairs. He dithered for a long time beside Nub, the broad, tall workhorse Charlie had ridden since Pap and the boys came along.

Should he ride out on Nub? Pap had said several times to him that the horse was his. But was it really? Did that mean he'd given the horse to Charlie as a gift? One friend to another? A few hours before he most surely would have said yes. But now . . . now he was mostly unsure. If he'd ever been Pap's friend, he wasn't any longer. In fact, the more he mulled on it there in the dark, the more he realized that Pap had been serious—Charlie wasn't wanted. He was probably unwanted the entire time he'd been with them. And for it, he blamed Grady Haskell. That man's appearance had changed everything.

As if he'd been bidden to appear by Charlie's very thoughts, Grady's voice, rough as broadcloth dragged over rusted iron, frogged in a hoarse whisper out of the dark behind him.

“You got yourself what the learned folks call a conundrum, eh, Charlie boy?” Then he laughed, long and low and slow, a snaky sound, half whisper and half branch rustled through brush.

“Who's that?” said Charlie in a hushed tone as he spun, narrowing his eyes into the dark. There was the man, not five, six feet behind him, arms crossed as if he were hugging himself.

“You know, Charlie,” said Haskell, “I get me the impression you're sneaking off somewhere, and in the night too.”

There was enough moon glow cracking through the branches high above that Charlie saw steam from the man's mouth rise into the cool air. He hadn't noticed it was a cool evening. Too preoccupied with thoughts of other things, other concerns.

“What are you worming around here for, Haskell?”

“Well, now . . .” Haskell's eyebrows rose and he rocked back on his heels. “Sounds to me like Charlie boy has a hankering for an argument. What you doing out here in the night, boy? You got something hid away that belongs to someone else? You been . . . pilfering, Charlie boy?”

That last bit tugged a big old smile out on the foul man's face. Charlie ground his back teeth together, his jaw muscles bunching. “I ain't never stole a thing. . . .” But Charlie stopped. It wasn't true. That pretty little doily . . . He looked again at Haskell. The man was smiling, nodding. Could he know about that? How?

“Oh, Charlie boy, you are a thief. I can see it in your eyes. Always knew it, from the moment I laid eyes on you. I told myself, ‘Grady, he's one of us.' Oh, you might act the big, tough man who is too good to associate with the likes of the rest of us thieves, but no, sir, Charlie boy, make no mistake, you are a thief like the rest.”

Charlie shook his head. “Ain't true,” he said. But he couldn't meet the man's gaze. Even in the near dark, he felt that accusing glare. Somehow Grady Haskell had to know all about him swiping that little doily.

“You about to steal a horse, now, wasn't you?”

Charlie's big, stubbled lantern jaw thrust outward. “No, I wasn't neither. In fact, I was saying my good-byes.”

“Good-byes? Why, Charlie boy, now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I see that you are indeed lugging a bundle in one of those big grabbers you call a hand. Could be you're going on a trip, Charlie boy? Alone and in the middle of the night?”

“Could be. At any rate, it ain't none of your business.” With that Charlie glanced once more at Nub, bade him a silent farewell with a look and a nod, and began scissoring his big legs on the trail southward, the direction they'd come from two days before. The town Haskell had told them of had turned out to be Bakersfield, and it lay to the north half a dozen miles. Charlie had no intention of heading there.

That would only result in him bumping into Pap and the boys once again, probably on the trail. Considering all that Pap had said to him earlier in the night, there was no way he was ever going to annoy that old man again.

From behind him, Charlie heard footsteps, knew that Haskell was up to something. The footsteps increased, gained on him. With sudden speed, Charlie bent low, feinted to the right, pivoting on his left foot. He tossed his gear to the ground and set his stance, but of Haskell there was no sign.

He swung back to the right . . . nothing. Then felt a cold, hard ring of steel dimple into his left cheekbone.

“Don't move no more, Charlie boy. Else I'll be forced to squeeze on this trigger and that's a promise.”

“What do you want from me, Haskell?” Charlie's breath came in shallow stutters. He'd had guns pulled on him before, but never had one pressed tight to his face like this. He didn't like the feeling.

“Not so much what I want, Charlie boy, as it is a question of what it is I need. And I need you to stick around, not let those other goobers see you rabbiting off into the night right before our big day. Else they might get to thinking that you knew something they didn't, something about how it could all go wrong. You got me, Charlie boy?”

“You saying it is going to go wrong, Haskell?” Sweat stippled Charlie's round face, but he asked the question because he wanted to know the answer. He also wanted to buy himself time to think how he might get away from this crazy man. If what Haskell had said about not wanting the others to know he was leaving was true, it probably meant that Haskell wouldn't shoot him and risk waking the others.

But how sure was he? Did he feel confident enough to risk a mistake? “You ain't about to shoot me, Haskell.” The question was bold enough, but Charlie hated the way his voice quaked, like that of a scared child.

“Smart lad, Charlie boy. You're one right smart laddie. But I do have me a right sharp skinning knife too, now, don't I? You seen it. I know you have. And what's more, what if I was to tell you that it was right handy, right close by, in fact?”

Charlie swallowed, made a sound that showed fear. He hated that. Hated this man, knife and gun or no.

Haskell continued. “I heard everything you and the old man said tonight.”

Charlie's face fell. He could do nothing to suppress his surprise.

“Oh yes, Charlie boy. You and Pap were yammering on and on and I heard it all. Not that it did me much good, but it did let me know that even if the old man hates you I don't. In fact, I could use you in a key position come the morning, Charlie boy. What do you say?”

Everything Grady Haskell had whispered low to him set Charlie's teeth together tight once again. Haskell had a way of doing that to a body, he reckoned. But no matter the man's demands, Charlie knew with a man like Haskell it would be one foul deed piled on another. And before long that would only lead to one thing. Quick death by bullet or rope.

Much as it pained him to think about it, he expected bad things were going to happen to Pap and the boys, and sooner rather than later. Might be something in that, some connection like a stuck thread, between how Pap had treated him and what Haskell had said, but Charlie would think on it later.

Right now he had to do something about Haskell. And with no more thought than that, Charlie ducked, spun, and whipped his left arm upward, knocking the gun away. No thunderous explosion cracked the night, no more sounds rose from the two men than grunts and the slamming of Charlie's big ham fist as it drove in the near dark at Haskell's leering face. Or where he hoped Haskell's face was.

Somehow he connected with it, felt the satisfying snap of jaw coming together hard with jaw, heard a muffled shriek as Grady Haskell's head whipped from him. In the dark Charlie thought he might have seen the dull glint of a blade angling away. But it didn't matter, for he was already backing away from Haskell, saw the shadowed form of the man crouched in the darkness several feet from him.

Charlie had no weapon other than his own sheath knife, and he rested one shaking hand atop the hilt. With his other he groped in the dark by his feet for his gear, felt it with his boot, and snatched at it, caught it up by the rough rope loops he'd made.

He heard his own breath rasping in and out, heard the same coming from Haskell. The man was still crouched low but didn't appear to be making any movements that might be him lifting his revolver, not that Charlie was waiting around to be shot.

As soon as his fingers closed around the handles of his gear, he stepped backward fast, keeping the black hunched form in sight, until it blended with the dark.

When it seemed there was nothing more than darkness there, and when he was about to turn and hotfoot it southward, a groan rose from Haskell, now a good twenty yards back. Then he heard the man cough, pull a breath, and spit, sending something no doubt bloody and phlegmy to the ground. It was a grim sound that twinged Charlie a moment, knowing he'd caused it. Then he recalled the gun, the hint of a knife, and wished he had doubled his efforts and pummeled the man into hard submission.

The most unexpected and curious sound of all came next—long, slow laughter, loud enough to heckle Charlie on down the trail. It worked, and Charlie swore he heard it for far longer than he expected he should, chasing his ears, driving him southward into the night.