Shotgun Charlie (7 page)

“Where's Charlie at?” It was Dutch, and he was inquiring as to Charlie Chilton's whereabouts for good reason. Until they'd happened upon the big galoot of a boy, ol' Dutchy had been the outfit's cook, being the newest member to that point. The task had galled him to no end, and for two years he had professed his hatred of the culinary arts loudly and to whoever might listen. Come breakfast or suppertime he groused long and hard about the various indignities and infirmities he was sure would plague him any minute all because he was forced to engage in what he referred to as “woman's work.”

So when Dutchy awoke, earlier than the others, as was still his habit, to find no sign of Charlie, at first he was not concerned. Then as he wandered back from watering the roots of a nearby pine, he grew curious. And when half a minute's worth of searching revealed neither hide nor hair of Chilton, he became panicked, and then enraged. For he knew what this meant—sure as snow was white, he would be stuck once again with the womanly work.

He'd begun voicing his concern about Big Charlie's lack of whereabouts, louder with each passing second. The rest of the boys awoke, grumbling and running their tongues over fuzzy teeth.

Pap was the only one to remain silent. Well, Pap and that new fella, Grady Haskell, the bossy one with the big ideas about getting rich and all.

Pap roamed the camp walked far and wide, checked the horses, which was something that Dutchy had failed to do, and came back. Standing alone and unusually silent, Pap toed a sooty rock protruding from the fire ring.

“Dutchy, I expect you best get the water on for coffee. I'm partial to hot coffee when I wake up, and Charlie seemed to be the only one who knew a thing about it.” He looked at Dutchy, then at the others in turn, but ignored Haskell.

But Grady spoke, cutting in with a grin and that early-morning croaking voice of his, something that barely evened out after that man had hammered back a couple of quirleys, one after the next. Dutchy noticed the man had a swelled-up jaw that sported shades of purple.

“Now, there, Pap. I'd say your fair-haired boy done run out on you.” Haskell grinned and set fire to his first cigarette of the day, pulling in a deep draft of smoke, holding it there a second or two before expelling it in a long blue plume, like smoke from a steam train's stack as it labored up a long push.

“Naw,” said Pap. “Nothing of the sort.” He was smiling. “I'd say he let you down, Haskell. From the looks of things he also give you a wallopin' on that homely mug of yours. That boy has more sense than I give him credit for. In fact, he has more sense than the rest of us all together.”

“How you figure that, boss?” said Simp, stretching his suspenders up over his shoulders and yawning.

But it was Haskell who answered, cutting off the old man before he had a chance to give a worked-up answer.

“What he means, Simp, is that him and Charlie boy sat up long into the night chattering away like camp jays, figuring on ways to beat me at my own game. Ain't that right, Pap? You're all set to deal with that bank your own self, ain't you? And for your information, I walked into a tree last night while watering a bush. Walked into a big ol' dumb tree.”

Dutchy, Simp, Ace, and Mex all stared between Haskell and Pap. This was more amusement than they'd had in a long time.

Pap broke the spell with a smirk. “You know so all-fired much about what me and the boy was up to, you'd do best not to lie to us all.” He leaned forward, pinned Haskell with a steely gaze. “But then again I expect lying is something that you can't help, being the lowlife you are.”

“Out with it, old man. What's your angle?” Haskell strutted toward Pap, who set his feet and held his ground. Though he did look to Dutchy as if he had suddenly grown very old and very small.

He was at least a head shorter than Haskell and his chest, without all the layers of shirt and vest and coat he wore all day, looked sunken beneath his pink, timeworn long-handles.

“You want to test me, Haskell, you come right ahead. I know what I know. And I know you're a bad seed. Anyone with enough sense God give a goose can see that. But that don't mean I won't go along with you fools tomorrow. It's obvious I can't save you all from yourselves, so I'll do what I can to save innocent folks from you. That's about what I've been up to for years now.”

“But what about Charlie, boss?”

“I expect he saw the truth in all this, that you all were about to get yourselves killed, and maybe kill a few good and innocent folks at the same time, so I figure he lit on out to save his own hide.”

By the time the six men were saddled and picking their way down into town from the campsite twelve miles northwest to the bustling burg of Bakersfield, their spirits had buoyed. All except for the old man's. Pap Morton sat his mount straight, as if he were once again riding into battle—like the war, he thought. No, not quite that bad. At least not yet anyway. Maybe the day would get worse and worse. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

And before he knew it, Dutchy was nudging him. “We made it to town, Pap.” The man's voice was low, but excited. “And man, Grady was right. You looky there, Pap. Now, that's a town like I ain't seen in a long time. If I was rich I'd consider locking up all my precious dollars in a bank vault in a town such as this. Like as not I'll have use of such in a few hours anyway.” He guffawed. “Once I have my share, that is.”

He winked and rode off, leaving Pap shaking his head.

Off to the side of the road leading in, an out-of-place thresher warred for space with an abandoned wagon that looked as if it had been scavenged for parts until there wasn't much else left to pry off the old thing.

“About what I feel like,” muttered Pap. “Boys use me and then move on. Well, good luck and good riddance. The only one ever mattered, I had to run off.” He sighed.

Up ahead, Grady began speaking. “We get into town, I want you all to do exactly as I laid it out for you. You got me? Ace, Mex, you two head on over to the Lucky Dollar Saloon, tie up out front, but don't go in, you got me? Last thing I need is to deal with a couple of drunks.” He smiled broadly and winked. “Time enough for that business when we've conducted our transaction. When it's time, you come on over to the bank, lead your mounts there, tie up.”

“You got it, boss.” Ace's eyes widened as he realized what he'd said. He cut his glance quickly to Pap, but the man was still lagging behind.

But Grady heard it, and he smiled. He liked the sound of it. Someone calling him “boss.” That had happened before, earlier in the week. If he recalled correctly, it was the one they called Simp. It was an entirely appropriate name, given the man's dumb nature.

He was not impressed with any of the men, but he felt sure they'd do what he told them to. He'd gone over it time and time again in hopes that it would stick. He felt confident that he'd hit the right combination of explanation and ordering without sounding too much like a cavalry boss.

. . .

Pap watched from the street, trying to figure an angle, some way he might be able to stop the foolish proceedings. They were really going to do it, really going to rob that bank. It was easily one of the grandest structures Pap had ever seen. In fact, his first thought on arriving in Bakersfield, when he saw the brick edifice of the bank jutting in all direction, angles and roof points and arches and column, was one of awe.

He'd never seen so much brick in one place. He even made the mistake of saying so aloud, and wouldn't you know, Grady Haskell had to be riding up alongside him. They both slowed, staring hard at each other. Another moment of unvarnished hatred exchanged.

“And I'm fixing to take it apart, brick by brick, very soon.” Haskell didn't take his eyes from Pap as he said it.

“Don't do this thing, man! You're a fool if you think you can get away with it.”

Haskell had laughed at him, then ridden up ahead once again, to take the lead.

“My word,” Pap said, thumbing his grizzled chin. He had to admit that neither he nor his men had been much impressed with Haskell's so-called plan to rob the bank. With it boiled down to its raw parts, there wasn't much to it, in fact. They were going to bluster on in there, wave guns, and snatch what money they could.

He had to admit that Haskell was a natural leader of some sort. He had a way of convincing folks around him that they had to listen to him, had to trust him. But Pap saw something else too. Saw that the man was an idiot and not someone who had brains enough to plan a job the size of this one.

But he had no luck in convincing the boys that Haskell's plan was little more than a whole lot of talk about how much money they were all going to get, equal parts, in fact. Including Haskell, which Pap doubted to high heaven, but he gave up trying to convince those fools that their new leader, an even bigger fool, would turn out to be anything but fair.

He watched Dutchy, Simp, and Haskell swagger on through the tall, heavy oak-and-glass double front doors of the bank. Nothing like being obvious, eh, boys? Pap shook his head.

The plan was more than a joke. Either Haskell is a genius and I don't see it, thought Pap, or he's even more of a fool than I give him credit for. Pap swung down from his mount, gave thought briefly to the boy, Big Charlie, as he unwrapped the lead rope of the horse he'd been leading behind, Nub, the one he'd expected Charlie to take with him. “Should have been more forceful with the boy, told him he'd earned the horse. Dang fool kid's too polite for his own britches.”

He had lain awake much of the night, and between snatches of sleep had heard Charlie rise, gather his meager gear, and head on out of camp. He'd heard the voice of Haskell too, berating Charlie, badgering him in some way about whatever it was he felt he needed to. Pap had almost risen then, almost butted in, but he'd stayed put, laid out like a dead man in his cold blanket, regretting having given Charlie such a tongue-lashing earlier.

Had to be a way to make it right. He'd lain there for hours and it wasn't until they'd been riding to Bakersfield that Pap Morton had come up with the perfect idea. So simple he wondered why it hadn't come to mind yet. But there you go, he thought. The best ideas are like that, aren't they?

He'd provision up in Bakersfield, then leave those boys to their own thickheaded devices. Next, he'd head on out of town, return southward, which was where he thought he saw sign back at the camp of Charlie's direction. Eventually he'd find the boy—he was hard to miss—and together they'd travel, find that little valley they both spoke of. Build up that homestead and spend the rest of his days swapping lies with the boy. Pap smiled at the notion.

Simple and sudden. And setting there on a fence post right before him all the time, grinning like that monkey he'd seen at that traveling circus show years back. Made him want to know more about the world. If there were such creatures as monkeys out there, why not other, more fanciful critters? Who knew what might be out there, living in the trees and rivers of strange, far-off lands?

He'd gotten into such conversations with Charlie in their brief time traveling together. He'd felt a good kinship with the boy, as if he were the son he'd never had.

In the past he'd tried to strike up such conversations, what he liked to think of as deep, thoughtful ruminations on life and the world, with the other boys. But none of them, save Dutchy when he'd been in his cups, had much interest in speculating about much of anything beyond whiskey, women, and getting rich.

Pap looped the reins on the hitch rail and looked out at the street. He reckoned it wasn't nine yet, by his inner clock. Still have time to do something about this, Pap, he told himself.

Pap pushed out away from the stamping, fidgeting pair of mounts and looked up the street for any sign of a law dog's office. Normally he'd not go very far at all out of his way for a lawman. He'd spent far too many years looking to get away, then keep away from them.

But knowing what was about to take place and knowing he'd been a fool for far too long where Haskell was concerned, Pap figured it was high time he made amends, even at the risk of getting his boys in trouble. He had to do it, had to get the law involved lest innocent folks get hurt or worse.

He stepped up onto the boardwalk with a creak and a pop in his joints. “Never was a man more tired or old feeling than I am today,” he said aloud. A woman passing by not two feet from him clutched her drawstring purse tighter to her chest, her thin form draped in what looked to be a heavy wool cape. Pap noticed the deep blue of the fabric complemented her narrowed eyes.

“Ma'am,” he said, touching his hat brim. “Getting right chilly, ain't it?”

She nodded, kept walking.

“Uh, ma'am? I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the law. Marshal, maybe? Or a constable?”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head, kept on walking.

“Well, Morton. That went well. Considering you about frightened the poor rabbit out of her boots.” He rubbed a bony hand across his whiskers. “Likely I shoulda shaved.”

The late-season chill seemed to crawl under his coat, claw its way beneath his vest, made him feel as though he were being slowly frozen to death. As though it might take months. That was about what the winters were like too. He liked the high country most any time of year, but especially to gaze upon it in winter, all bedecked with snow, now, that was a sight. But these past few years it had been a whole lot more work than it ever was to get going in the morning, to keep warm all day. Heck, he was even cold in summer in the high country.

Pap sighed and clumped along the boardwalk, looking for a friendly face he might ask of the whereabouts of the law in Bakersfield. Once he committed to a thing, he didn't like to back off it. Haskell's plan had been a harebrained thing from the start. Pap had only gone along so he might convince the man or more likely his boys to scrap it altogether and get away from the fool. He'd secretly been hoping that they'd discover on their own what a bad seed Haskell really was. But that hadn't happened, and now that the planned day of the bank robbery was on them, it seemed there was nothing for it but to rat them out. He'd take the consequences for himself too, come what may.

Pap wasn't sure if there was paper on him in California, but if he had to guess he'd say it was likely. He found himself well along the boardwalk, getting more anxious by the minute. He reckoned, as unpredictable as Haskell was, that he might open the ball any second instead of waiting for nine o'clock, the time Haskell had told them he would kick off the robbery.

LOFTON
'
S
DRY
GOODS
was painted on the small sign tacked to the right of the glass-pane door. The sign itself had been painted by someone who knew their craft. And the decorations of dresses and hats set up in the windows looked like headless people. Always struck Pap odd that women might want to see a particular store-bought outfit even though it was draped on a dress dummy.

He reached for the glass doorknob, paused, pulled off his hat, and ran a hand over his wiry thatch of gray hair. He caught quick sight of himself in the glass door and shook his head. Didn't do a lick of good. In fact, he thought he looked better with the hat on, but he'd be jiggered if he could bring himself to enter a shop, and especially a women's finery store, with a hat on his head. But he had no time to waste—he had a niggling feeling that something was going to happen soon at the bank.

“Hello?” he said too soon as the brass bells rang and rattled above the door.

A woman looked up from behind the counter, pince-nez forking the end of her slender nose. She was a long-faced old girl, hair pulled back in a bun, forming a topknot that made her look even taller than she was. She wore a dark dress, maybe burgundy, with puffy sleeves. Pap couldn't be sure of the color, as the store itself was dimly lit.

“Yes? May I help you?” Her eyes settled on Pap and they narrowed.

He decided right then that while she might be a handsome thing in certain ways, there was little possibility he'd ever make any inroads with her or any women of her kind. Class and status and station meant all to such women, and he carried none of those things in any amount. So it was little problem for Pap to ignore her arched eyebrows and cut to the quick of the matter.

“I'm looking for the law in this town. I . . . uh.”

Her eyebrows arched even higher, like dark wings of a raven. Looked as if they might take flight any second.

“Yes, you were saying?”

“I . . . uh, well, I need the marshal, ma'am.”

“Oh, really? What is it you've done?”

“Oh no, ma'am. I . . .” He spun his hat in his hands, gnawed his lower lip, stretched his lips over his teeth. Nothing. Couldn't remember a thing he was going to say. Been that way his entire life around the ladies. “Confound it, ma'am, I . . . I ain't done nothing yet. I mean, nothing's been done yet.”

“Then this is purportedly for a crime you expect to commit?”

Pap looked up, eyes blazing and chin set. “Now, looky here!” He was set to light into her, but caught the beginnings of a smile on her face.

“Calm down, sir. I'm having a little fun with you. I've never been called ‘ma'am' so many times in my life. It's amusing, maybe even flattering.”

Uh-oh, he thought. Here's a pretty kettle of fish I didn't see settin' there before me. “I'm looking for—”

“Yes, an officer of the law. As you said.” She sighed. “It so happens that we are between lawmen. That is to say our usual town marshal has seen fit to leave service in a snit. We are high and dry, as it were.”

Pap wasn't sure what she was going on about, but he took a stab at it. “You're saying your law dog, er, marshal, has up and vamoosed on you?”

“That is exactly what I'm saying, sir. Oh, he's still around, but there's no telling what condition he's in. When he's sober he's without reproach. But when he's in his cups, he's useless. And since that fool, McCafferty, that's the head of our illustrious city council, decided to all but lynch the old law dog, as you so quaintly put it—and behind closed doors at one of his silly meetings, to boot—why, there's been nothing but a steady stream of hand wringers and teetotalers howling for his head because they claim he's forsaken them.” She leaned over the counter.