The King Hill War (14 page)

“I’m glad you boys could join us,” Creed said. “Find a seat somewhere.”

Carlisle glared at Jesse, who looked away.

“So, if the sheep herders put their sheep out tonight, what are we going to do about it?” Fenton asked.

“We’re going to run them off,” Creed said. “We’ve got the law on our side.”

“When does this gunfighter we hired get here?” Wilson asked.

Creed took out his watch and looked at it. “Clay Morgan is coming in on the noon train. I’m going to meet him.”

“If we go out tonight, will he go with us?” Fenton asked.

“I doubt it, him just getting into town and all,” Creed said.

“We don’t need Clay Morgan anyway,” Lonnie said. He stuck the little piece of rawhide in his mouth and chewed on it for a second or two before he spoke again. “Those of you who want to ride with me tonight, just show up over here before dark.”

“All right, we won’t have our gunfighter with us, but what if they have their gunfighter with them?” Fenton asked.

“You mean Fancy Dan?” Lonnie asked with a smirk. “Don’t worry about him, I can handle him.”

“Like you handled him in town the other day?” Fenton asked.

“I had the drop on him and I pulled the trigger but my pistol misfired,” Lonnie said. “I didn’t have any choice but to run.”

“You had the drop on him, huh?”

“Yes,” Lonnie said. “He pulled his gun against the three of us. Poke and Jules fired and missed, and he killed them. I would have killed him if my gun hadn’t misfired.”

“Why didn’t he kill you?” Carlisle asked.

Lonnie shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “But not killin’ me was the biggest mistake he ever made. ’Cause I guarantee you, I’m goin’ to kill him.”

“If Clay Morgan doesn’t kill him first,” Wilson said.

“Clay Morgan can help us with the sheep herders all he wants,” Lonnie said. He pulled the little string of rawhide from his mouth and held it out for emphasis. “But when it comes to Fancy Dan, he’s mine. He’s all mine.”

“Lonnie, I’ll be here tonight,” Johnny said. “What time do you want me?”

“We’ll gather here just before dark,” Lonnie said, putting the rawhide back in his pocket. “Anyone else comin’?”

“Jesse will be comin’ too,” Johnny said.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Jesse asked. “I didn’t say I was coming.”

“I know you didn’t,” Johnny said. “I said you were comin’.”

“Pa?” Jesse said.

“For God’s sake, Jesse, it’s time you became a man,” Carlisle said.

Johnny laughed as the meeting broke up.

JOSHUA CREED AND DALT FENTON MET CLAY
Morgan at the depot in King Hill.

“Mr. Morgan, welcome to King Hill,” Creed said, reaching for Morgan’s grip. “I’ve got a room for you out at the ranch.”

“I prefer to stay in town,” Morgan said. “Get me a hotel room.”

“In town? No, you don’t want to stay in town. I assure you, you’ll be much more comfortable out at the ranch.”

Morgan took his suitcase away from Creed and started back toward the train.

“Wait a minute! What are you doing? Where are you going?” Creed called after him.

“I didn’t come here to argue about where I am going to stay,” Creed answered without looking around. “I’m going back.”

“No! No, wait!” Creed called. “Of course, if you want to stay in a hotel room, you can. I was merely trying to look out for your comfort, that’s all.”

“I’ll look out for my own comfort,” Morgan replied.

“Of course, of course,” Creed said. “Well, uh, shall we get you checked in to the hotel? Then maybe we could stop by the saloon and have a drink or two.”

“All right,” Morgan said. He handed his suitcase back to Creed.

Creed had been prepared to carry it to the buckboard, but he didn’t like the idea of carrying it down the street to the hotel. He stood there for a moment, indecisive as to what to do next.

“Are you coming? Or are you just going to stand there?” Morgan asked.

Creed shrugged, then started up the street carrying the bag.

“We believe the sheep herders will be putting their sheep out on the range again, perhaps as early as tonight,” Creed said, huffing now as he struggled to carry the suitcase. “So some of our people will be going out to, let’s say, discourage them. I said that you were probably too tired to go out tonight because of your trip, but that you would probably go with them tomorrow night.”

“Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not any night, will I go out with a bunch of ranchers,” Morgan said.

Creed stopped in the middle of the street and looked at Morgan.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I’m not going out on any night rides with anyone,” Morgan said.

“Mr. Morgan, you will excuse me, sir, but just what in the hell am I hiring you for?”

“I believe you said it was to keep the sheep herders
from running their sheep on the open range,” Morgan said.

“Yes. But if you aren’t going to ride with any of us, to…lead us…then how do you expect to do that?”

“I don’t lead anyone. I work alone.”

“But there are at least twenty to thirty sheep herders, counting the hands that work for them.”

“I work alone,” Morgan said again. “If you have any trouble with that, I’ll just take the deposit and leave.”

“The deposit?”

“One thousand dollars,” Morgan said.

“You…you want a thousand dollars for doing nothing?”

“That’s my price,” Morgan said. “Now, either you let me work my way, or pay me the deposit and I’ll leave.”

“No,” Creed said. “No, you don’t have to leave. Very well, Mr. Morgan. You can work in any way you wish.”

“I thought you might see it my way.”

After Clay Morgan checked into the hotel, he, Creed, and Fenton walked two doors down to the Cattlemen’s Saloon. The piano was grinding away in the back, sounding more off-key than before, because the bullets of the shooting incident of a few days ago had severed some of the strings. The saloon was quite busy, with several men standing at the bar, while many others were at the tables. The various conversations, interspersed with outbreaks of laughter, were almost louder than the piano.

“It seems a little more crowded than usual,” Creed said. “We’ll be lucky if we can get a table.”

“We’ll take that table,” Morgan said, pointing to a table close to a side wall. There were two cowboys sitting at it.

Creed was about to point out the obvious, that there were two men sitting at the table, but even though he had only just met Morgan, he knew better than to say anything
about it. Instead he walked over to the table ahead of Morgan and Fenton.

“Boys,” he said. “Here’s ten dollars apiece if you’ll give us your table.”

Although neither of the cowboys worked for Creed, both knew him.

“Ten dollars each?” one of them said with a broad smile. “Yes, sir! You can have it!”

The two cowboys got up and walked away.

“Move the table over there, against the wall,” Morgan said, pointing to where he wanted it to go.

Both Creed and Fenton were successful cattlemen, more used to giving orders than accepting them. But, as if they were no more than hired hands, the two men grabbed the table and started to reposition it.

“Here, you men!” the bartender called. “What are you doing with that table?”

“It’s all right, Dan,” Creed called back to him. “This is Mr. Morgan. Mr. Clay Morgan. He wants the table up against the wall.”

“It’s the Regulator,” someone said, and the name was repeated several times over the next few seconds. All conversation stopped as everyone looked toward the men moving the table.

“Bartender, is your name Dan?” Morgan asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dan answered nervously.

“Well, Dan, as long as I am in town, I intend to make your saloon my headquarters. So I’d appreciate it if you would keep this table over here, and keep it reserved.”

“Well, I, uh—” Dan started, but was interrupted by Morgan himself, who addressed his remarks to all the saloon patrons.

“If I come in here and see anyone sitting at this table, I’m going to be very upset. I know none of you folks in
here would be dumb enough to sit at my table. But you might pass it on to some of your friends who aren’t here now. I’m sure they would appreciate that information.”

A few nodded, but nobody made a verbal response.

“And now, Dan, would you bring us a bottle and three glasses? My friends and I have some business to discuss.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Morgan,” Dan said. “Right away.”

Morgan sat down at the table with his back against the wall. This position allowed him to keep his eye on the entire room, from the bat wings front door to the stairs that climbed up to the second story at the back of the saloon.

“Now, gentlemen, we have something to talk about,” Morgan said.

“Yes, the rest of your money,” Creed said. “As we agreed, you will get the final five hundred dollars when the job is completed.”

“The final one thousand,” Morgan said.

“One thousand?” Creed gasped. “Mr. Morgan, we agreed upon fifteen hundred dollars, and I’ve already given you a thousand.”

“Yes, but that was before I knew,” Morgan said.

“Before you knew what?”

“That Mason Hawke was on the side of the sheep herders.”

“Mason Hawke?” Creed said. He barked a cynical laugh. “You are afraid of Mason Hawke?”

“You aren’t?” Morgan asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Then you are a fool,” Morgan said. “Mason Hawke is not a man you want to have as an enemy. And, it would appear, you already have him as an enemy.”

“He’s a piano player, for crying out loud,” Creed said.

“Nevertheless, my price has gone up. One thousand dollars when this is over.”

Creed sat and fumed for a long moment as he drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“All right,” he said. “I have no choice. Otherwise you’ll leave and I will have lost the first one thousand dollars.”

“Josh, you only have a commitment from the others for five hundred dollars more,” Fenton said.

“I know that, Dalt, but what else am I going to do? You heard him, same as I did.”

“I guess you can try and get another five hundred out of ’em,” Fenton said. “I know I’ll put in my part.”

“Thanks,” Creed said, and looked at Morgan. “All right. We’ve got a deal.”

Morgan had taken out a deck of cards and was dealing himself a game of solitaire. If he heard Creed, he made no acknowledgment.

“Did you hear me? I said we have a deal,” Creed repeated.”

“Of course we have a deal,” Morgan said as he played a red seven on a black eight. “The issue was never in doubt.”

“I have to ask the question, though,” Creed said. “Are you better than Mason Hawke?”

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “I’m better.”

George Butrum and Mitch Arnold were in King Hill, having come into town to buy some supplies at the hardware store.

“Come on,” Arnold said as they dropped their supplies in the back of the wagon. “Ian has called another meeting today.”

“It’s not another potluck is it? ’Cause if it is, I don’t think Anna knew anything about it. Leastwise, she wasn’t cookin’ nothin’ when I left.”

“No, I think it’s just to tell us what happened in court,
and probably to talk about takin’ our sheep out into the open range again,” Arnold said.

“Yeah, I think I would like to hear about it. I mean, I’ve already heard that the judge took away the injunction, but I’d like to hear all the particulars. What time is the meeting?” Butrum asked.

“It’s at four o’clock this afternoon,” Arnold answered.

“Ah, well, then we’ve got plenty of time for a couple of drinks. What do you say we stop in down at the Cattlemen’s Saloon?”

“I don’t know,” Butrum said. “It looks like there are a lot of horses down there. I expect it might be pretty full, and this time of day I doubt that there will be any of our people there.”

“You don’t think it’ll be so full that we get turned away, do you?”

“No, I don’t reckon that’s the case. But…”

“But what?”

“There is a reason they call it the Cattlemen’s Saloon. We’re going to be outnumbered while we are in there.”

Butrum laughed. “Then we probably shouldn’t start any fistfights, should we?”

Arnold laughed with him. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “What trouble can we get into just by going in to have a drink or two? Come on, let’s go.”

Nobody noticed Butrum or Arnold when they first entered the saloon except for the bartender, Dan. As he passed the damp cloth over the bar in front of them, he spoke quietly.

“This is not a very good time for you boys to be in here,” he said.

“Why not?” Butrum asked.

“You see the man at the table in the back? The one with the moustache and the scar on his face?”

Butrum started to look around, but Dan hissed, “No! Don’t turn around. Just look for him in the mirror.”

“All right, I see him. What about him?”

“They call him the Regulator,” Dan said. “The cattlemen have hired him.”

“Hired him to do what?”

“I don’t know,” Dan answered. “But it can’t be good.”

Across the room, Joshua Creed said, “There are a couple of sheep herders now, standing over there at the bar,” and pointed them out to Butrum and Arnold.

Morgan heard him as well and nodded. Then he got up and walked over to the bar. He stepped in beside Butrum, crowding in so close that Butrum was forced to move.

“Mister, there’s room enough for both of us,” Butrum said, his voice showing his irritation. “You don’t have to crowd in.”

Morgan turned toward him and stared at him with cold, dead eyes. He ran his finger along his scar, then preened his moustache.

“Sheep herder, are you telling me you don’t like my company?” Morgan asked

“No, I’m not saying that,” Butrum replied. Seeing who it was, his irritation was replaced by intimidation.

“Then what are you saying?” Morgan asked.

“I…I’m not saying anything,” Butrum said. “I just…”

“You just what?”

Butrum cleared his throat. “Uh, Mitch, didn’t you say we had to be somewhere soon?”

“Yes, and we’re already late. We’d better be going.”

“You didn’t drink your beer,” Morgan said.

“That’s all right.”

“No, really, I hate to see good beer go to waste,” Morgan said. “Here, why don’t you take it with you?”

All conversation in the saloon had stopped as everyone watched the drama playing out before them. They saw Morgan reach up and take Butrum’s hat off his head. After pouring the beer into the crown, Morgan put the hat back on Butrum’s head. The beer ran down across Butrum’s face and onto his shirt. Some of it splashed onto Morgan’s shirt.

The saloon patrons laughed nervously.

“You spilled beer on me, sheep herder!” Morgan said angrily.

“I’m sorry.”

“Get a towel and wipe it off!”

“Dan, d-d-do you have a towel?” Butrum asked, stuttering in his fear.

“D-d-d-do you have a towel?” Morgan mocked.

Dan gave Butrum a towel, and Butrum wiped at the spot of beer on Morgan’s shirt.

“That’s not going to do it,” Morgan said. “Bartender, you got a Chinaman in town who does laundry?”

“Yes, sir, Lin Cho does laundry.”

“How much does he charge to clean a shirt?”

“Fifteen cents.”

Morgan held his hand out, palm up. “You owe me fifteen cents, sheep herder.”

“What? What about
his
shirt?” Arnold asked in quick anger, pointing to Butrum’s beer-soaked shirt. “You poured beer all over his shirt.”

“His shirt is his problem,” Morgan said. He chuckled. “And as it turns out, my shirt is also his problem. I want fifteen cents, sheep herder.”

Butrum took out a dime and a nickel and dropped the coins into Morgan’s outstretched hand.

“Very good,” Morgan said. “Now, didn’t the two of you say you had somewhere to go?”

“Y-Y-Yes,” Butrum replied.

Morgan turned his hand over, then made a dismissive motion. “Then go,” he said.

Butrum and Arnold hurried out of the saloon, their exit followed by the laughter of all the cattlemen who were there.