The Law of a Fast Gun (3 page)

Hawke sighed, then put the cup down, smiled, and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m not angry. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it to be so public.”

“Well, Hawke, we’re both in a public business, so to speak,” Cindy said. “I mean, you sit down here and play the piano for the public, so all eyes are on you all the time. And anytime I go upstairs with a customer, people know we aren’t going up there just to have a nice conversation.”

Hawke laughed out loud. “I guess you’ve got me on that one,” he said.

At that moment, about three miles north of town, Clint Jessup stood in his stirrups to relieve the pressure on his seat. Behind him were three thousand head of cattle that he had brought 140 miles down from Cherry County.

The cowboys whistled and called out to the herd as they moved them into a large field. Now and then one of them would break into a gallop as he hurried to redirect a few head of cows back into the herd. Jessup, who owned the Bar-J Ranch, had rented the field from Todd Bailey, the landowner, because it was big enough and had enough grass and water to support his herd until he got them onto the train.

Looking toward Birdwood Creek, which was the source of water, Jessup saw that Poke had parked the chuckwagon on an island in the middle of the creek, in the only grove of shade trees available. The cook was good about choosing the most comfortable place to spend the night. Each day of the drive, Poke would leave immediately after breakfast and proceed to the spot where the herd would be held for the night. That way he’d have supper ready for the outfit by the time they arrived.

The herd had averaged ten miles per day, sometimes taking a circuitous route in order to follow water or to avoid crossing areas where the landowners charged exorbitant tolls. When Jessup factored in all the costs involved—to include wages for twenty men, the cost of the remuda, plus the cost of raising the cows from calves, which he estimated at five dollars per head—he knew he would have to sell his cows at the best possible price in order to realize a comfortable profit.

“The first cows to market will get the best price,” his cattle broker had told him.

“I’ll be the first one there,” Jessup had promised.

“And the fewer the cows that are shipped, the better the price is for those that are shipped.”

“What are you telling me?” Jessup asked, confused by the comment. “That I should hold some of my cattle back?”

“No. The trick is to ship all of your cows at the best price, but hope that the other cattlemen can’t ship theirs.”

“Now, just how is that likely to happen?” Jessup asked.

“Oh, it probably won’t happen,” the broker had replied. “I was just talking, that’s all.”

Jessup recalled the conversation as he rode through the creek and onto the island. He had sent a couple of riders out, one to the south and one to the east, to check on other herds that might be coming to the railhead. He expected them back tonight.

As he dismounted in the camp, Jessup saw, and smelled, the stew Poke was cooking in a big, black, iron kettle.

“Hello, Major,” Poke said.

“Poke,” Jessup replied as he tied off his horse.

“I hope this camp is all right by you. It seemed like the best spot,” Poke said. “There’s water and shade, and I don’t think the creek’s going to rise.”

“This is fine,” Jessup said. “Especially since we are going to be here for a couple of weeks.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll probably go into town tomorrow right after breakfast and get some supplies,” Poke said.

“I don’t mind,” Jessup replied, filling a coffee cup. “Fact is, I’m going to let the men who take the first batch of cows in spend some time in town after they get them loaded. It’s been a long, hard drive and they need to let off a little steam.”

“They’ll appreciate that, that’s for sure,” Poke said as he went back to peeling potatoes.

Before Jessup finished his coffee, two of his riders, Deekus and Arnie, showed up. He had sent them out to scout for any other herds that might be approaching.

“Did you see anyone?” Jessup asked.

“Yes, sir, Charley Townes is bringing up the Rocking T herd,” Deekus said.

“How many head?”

“Mr. Townes said they started with twenty-five hundred. They lost a few along the way, but not many.”

“How long before they get here?”

“Four or five days at the most.”

“What about you, Arnie? What did you see?”

“The Slash Diamond is comin’ from the west,” Arnie said. “Tucker Evans is bringin’ about two thousand head.”

“Damn,” Jessup said. “If that many head are shipped, it’s going to drive the price down. I’ll do well to break even.”

“Sorry, Major. I wish I could’ve brought you better news,” Deekus said.

“Ahh, don’t worry about it,” Jessup said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We’ll just have to deal with it, that’s all.”

In Braggadocio, Hawke was sitting at the table nearest the piano. Harder was at the table with him, as was Marshal Matthew Trueblood. The saloon was nearly full but it was relatively quiet. The girls were moving from table to table, smiling and flirting with the men, sometimes taking off a customer’s hat and running their fingers through his hair.

Although Cindy had not come over to talk to Hawke, he did catch her looking in his direction several times. He was trying to stay detached, but couldn’t help but recall last night, when her nude body lay next to his. His blood warmed and he forced himself to look away in order to get her out of his mind.

Instead he looked toward the bar, where Bob Gary was busy with customers.

“You’re doing a pretty good business tonight,” Hawke said.

“Yes, it looks like we are,” Harder replied. “But everyone seems to be local.” He turned to Marshal Trueblood. “Are you sure the Bar-J is here?”

Trueblood nodded. “I’m sure. Todd Bailey is renting them his pastureland. He said they’d be getting in today.”

“Well, if they’re getting into Bailey’s place today, like as not they’ll be comin’ into town tomorrow,” Harder said.

Out at the cow camp the next morning, Jessup addressed all of his riders.

“I’m going to let those of you who take the cows in today
to stay in town for a while. Have a good meal, take a shower, have some drinks. Enjoy yourself, but be back in time to take another bunch in tomorrow.”

“All right!” someone said.

“Hey, you reckon they got’ny women in that town?”

“Of course they do, it’s a town, ain’t it?”

“I don’t mean women, women. I mean whores.”

The other cowboys laughed.

Jessup held up his hand to get their attention.

“Now, the only way we can do this is to keep some people back to watch the herd. So if five of you want to volunteer, do it now.”

Only three volunteered.

“We’re goin’ to have to choose two more to stay behind,” Deekus said.

“Here’s how we will do it,” Jessup said. “You men form a long line. Poke, you stand out in front with your back to us. I’m going to start walking down the line. When you say stop, whoever I’m in front of will stay behind.”

The men formed the line, and Poke stood out in front with his back to them.

“All right, I’m going to start walking now,” Jessup said.

Poke waited a second or two, then said, “Stop.”

The cowboy selected stepped out of the line and Jessup started walking again.

“Stop.”

“Damn!” Carter said as he stepped out of line. “Of all the luck.”

“Don’t worry,” Shorty said. “I’ll drink enough whiskey for the two of us, and I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

“Hah,” Carter said. “Like as not you’ll get so drunk you won’t even remember it. Tex, you and Brandt will have to tell me what happened.”

“What makes you think we’ll be sober enough to remember?” Tex asked.

The others laughed.

Everyone went to the remuda to saddle their horses, those who would be taking the first batch of cows as well as those who would be staying back with the rest of the herd.

“Yeeee ha!” Tex shouted. “Boys, we’re goin’ to have us a good time tonight!”

Tex’s shout, reminiscent of the Rebel yell, gave Jessup a sense of déjà vu. For a moment these weren’t cowboys getting ready to take a herd into town…these were soldiers, preparing for a raid.

“Men!” Jessup called in his most commanding voice. He saw all his men looking at him, and for a moment he was at a loss for something to say. It wasn’t the ranch owner who had shouted, it was the military commander he’d once been, and he surprised himself with the outburst.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Major, you want to say something?” Tex asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Jessup replied. “Let’s don’t be in such a hurry to get to town that we forget why we’re going.” He pointed to the herd. “Go cut three hundred head out.”

The question as to whether the Bar-J had arrived was answered when the first three hundred cows were brought into town and driven down to the railroad. The cowboys whistled and shouted at the cows, often darting quickly up or down the street to keep the cows in line. Dogs ran alongside the cattle, barking at cows and riders alike. Children followed, excitedly, down the street.

As the cowboys passed Pearlie’s, the girls who worked for her came out onto the balcony, all heavily made up, with breasts that spilled over the tops of the low-cut dresses they were wearing. Although the two saloons—the Hog Lot and Foley’s—employed girls, Pearlie’s was the only out and out whorehouse. Her girls were older and somewhat less attractive, and it was the place where the girls wound up after they left the two saloons.

Pearlie’s girls leaned over the balcony and waved at the cowboys, some being so brazen as to lift their skirts.

“Hey, all you cowboys!” one of the girls shouted. “Come see us when you can! We’ll be waiting for you!”

“Darlin’, we been on the trail for a long time,” one of the cowboys called back. “You sure you can handle one of us?”

“One of you? Honey, I can handle all of you,” one of the girls called back, and while the girls and cowboys laughed, a few who were within earshot of the ribald conversation turned away from the distasteful language.

As the cattle were being driven through town, all other traffic was stopped and wagons and buckboards were forced to the side of the street or into one of the side streets until the cattle passed. That was not unusual. It happened every year as the cows were brought down to the railhead.

A special train, consisting of an engine and ten cattle cars, waited on a side track at the depot. The engineer stood alongside the six-foot-high driver wheels of his locomotive, squirting oil from an oversized oil can with a very long spout into the fittings.

When the cows reached the depot, they were pushed into the loading pens where they were held until they could be driven up ramps and crowded into the cars. It was a noisy operation, with the cattle bawling, the cowboys whistling, shouting, and cursing, gates being slammed shut, and the engine venting steam.

Jessup had come into town with the first batch of cows, and now stood at the loading chute watching as the cattle were loaded.

“How many do you have?” Gene Harris asked as he wrote out a receipt. Harris was the broker that Jessup had hired to sell his herd.

“Three hundred in this batch.”

“How many total?”

“I brought three thousand head up,” Jessup answered. “What is the going price?”

“Depends on how many head we ship out of here,” Harris replied. “Like I told you before, the lower the number, the greater the demand, and that will drive the price up. I’ll get the best price I can for you, Jessup, you know that.”

“There are two other herds coming.”

“How big?”

“One is nearly as large as mine, the other a little smaller.”

Harris shook his head. “That’s not good,” he said. “But like I said, I’ll do the best I can. Do they have someone brokering their cattle for them? Or are they just going to ship north for whatever they can get?”

“Hell, this is the first time I’ve ever used a broker,” Jessup replied. “So I’m sure they don’t have one. I think they just plan to ship them north and take whatever the rate is on delivery.”

“It’s good that they don’t have brokers,” Harris said. “I know I can get you a better price than they’re going to get. But it sure would be good if they weren’t shipping at all. We could double our asking price, maybe even do better than that.”

When the last of the cows were loaded, Jessup returned to the camp. For the cowboys, though, this was their first time to be in any town since they started the drive weeks earlier.

When Shorty, Tex, and Brandt finished the loading, Shorty jumped onto his horse, spurred it into a gallop and shouted to the two men behind him.

“Come on! Let’s show this town that we’re here!”

Tex and Brandt got on their horses and broke into a gallop as well, and the three dashed down the main street of Braggadocio, laughing at the people who had to scramble to get out of their way. They tied off their horses at the hitching rail in front of the Hog Lot, then pushed through the bat-wing doors.

“The Bar-J is here!” Shorty shouted.

“You boys bring in them cows we seen comin’ down the street earlier?” one of the saloon patrons asked.

“We not only brought ’em down the street, we brought ’em halfway down the state,” Shorty said.

“Well, welcome to Braggadocio.”

“You want to make us welcome? Bring us whiskey and women!” Tex shouted.

Shorty and Brandt’s raucous laughter followed Tex’s yell.

NOT LONG AFTER SHORTY, TEX, AND BRANDT ARRIVED
at the Hog Lot, several of the other Bar-J riders came into the saloon as well, and the atmosphere changed almost immediately. Unlike the locals, who were generally quiet and reserved, the cowboys were loud and boisterous. They were argumentative with the customers and with each other.

“Hey, piano player, play ‘Buffalo Gals’!” Shorty yelled.

Hawke complied. He also played, by request, “Oh Susanna,” “Dixie,” and “Jimmy Crack Corn.”

“Hey, piano player, play ‘Buffalo Gals’!” Shorty yelled.

Once again Hawke complied, then he played “Trail to Mexico,” “Sally Doodin,” and the “Texas Quickstep.”

“Hey, piano player, play ‘Buffalo Gals’!” Shorty yelled again.

“Come on, cowboy,” Hawke replied with a smile. “I’ve played that song half a dozen times. I’m sure people are getting tired of hearing it.”

Shorty, who had been standing at the bar with Tex and Brandt, pushed his way through the crowd to confront Hawke.

“You’re a piano player, ain’t you?” Shorty said.

“I’m a pianist,” Hawke replied.

Shorty looked confused for a moment, then laughed and called back over his shoulder to Tex and Brandt, “Did you hear what this here fella just said? He said he was a peein’.”

Tex, Brandt, and several of the other cowboys from the Bar-J laughed.

“Mister, ain’t you got sense enough to go outside whenever you got to pee?” Shorty asked Hawke.

Again the cowboys laughed, though Hawke noticed that the regulars were beginning to get a little uneasy.

“Now, Mr. Piano Player, if you don’t want to get on my bad side, you’ll play ‘Buffalo Gals’ just like I asked you to.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Hawke said. “Suppose you go back over to the bar and have a drink. Tell Mr. Gary the drink is on me.” Hawke smiled. “And I’ll play ‘Buffalo Gals’ for you one more time.”

Shorty nodded and smiled. “Well, now, maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought you was,” he said. “You know better than to get on my bad side, don’t you?”

Hawke played “Buffalo Gals” once more. The cowboy had irritated him, but he hadn’t actually made Hawke angry. It took a lot to make him angry, and he was self-confident enough not to let the annoying prattle of some drunk get to him.

“Hey, piano player!” Shorty shouted when the song was over. “Play ‘Buffalo Gals’!”

“Oh, honey, do you want to listen to that song all night?” a woman asked. “Or do you want to have some real fun?”

Looking back toward the bar, Hawke saw that Cindy had stepped in between Shorty and the piano. She was flirting with him, as was her job. And she was suggesting that they go upstairs to her room, which was also her job.

Hawke had been working in the Hog Lot Saloon long enough now that he’d seen Cindy and all the other girls take men up to their rooms scores of times. It was not something he had ever given a second thought. And he knew that the fact that Cindy had been with him last night gave him no proprietorship over her.

But, unexpectedly, he found the idea of her taking this obnoxious cowboy up to her room now particularly disagreeable. For just a moment he thought it was unthinking of her, particularly given that he and Shorty had had words a few minutes earlier. Then he realized that it was just the opposite. She wasn’t unthinking at all. She was offering to take him up to her room to prevent any further escalation of the argument that appeared to be developing between him and the cowboy. It was as if she were sacrificing herself for him. And, for some reason, that seemed even worse.

Hawke was playing “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen” as he watched Cindy lead Shorty up the stairs. Just as they reached the top, Cindy looked back down toward him. The expression on her face seemed to say,
Please forgive me.
She had never looked at him like that with any other man she had taken up to her room. But then, it had never bothered him before.

“What time did you close last night?” Betty Lou asked at breakfast the next morning.

“Well, thankfully, most of the cowboys had a pretty rough day so they were all out of here before midnight,” Harder replied. “Bob, what time was it when you served your last drink?”

“Just before one this morning, and that was to a local,” Bob answered from his position behind the bar. “It got real quiet after the cowboys left.”

“Hawke, what was it with you and ‘Buffalo Gals’?” Harder asked. “Seems to me like I heard that song about twenty times.”

“It seems that the cowboys like that song,” Hawke replied, without getting into the specifics.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cindy descending the stairs. She came over to the table and looked down at him.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked, her voice hesitant, almost apprehensive.

“Hah!” Harder said. “Since when do you have to ask permission to—” He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw that Cindy and Hawke were looking directly at each other. He saw too the concern in Cindy’s face.

“Of course you can join us,” Hawke said, getting up to pull out a chair for her.

“Hawke, I—” Cindy started, but Hawke reached across the table and put his hand on hers.

“You came to my rescue last night, and I am grateful to you for it,” he said, interrupting her.

“Would you mind telling me what you two are talking about?” Harder asked.

The expression on Cindy’s face eased, and she smiled in relief. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she said. “I have to go upstairs and wake him up now, but I wanted to just make sure that you understood.”

“Wake him up?” Betty Lou said. “Lord, child, you still have someone in your room?”

Cindy nodded. “He was too drunk to…uh…” She looked pointedly at Hawke. “Well, he was just too drunk last night, if you know what I mean. So I figured that, at the very least, I owed him a place to sleep.” She laughed. “I’ll just tell him how good he was last night, and he’ll never know the difference.”

Harder and Betty Lou laughed with her as she started up the stairs.

“Well, I’d better get back to the kitchen,” Betty Lou said.

“Bob, how do we stand on liquor?” Harder called over to his bartender.

“Too many more nights like last night, and we’ll be dry as a bone,” Bob replied.

“I’ve got a new shipment coming in by train. I just hope we don’t run out of whiskey before it does get here. If you think the Bar-J cowboys are hard to handle now, wait until you see them with a thirst and nothing to drink. They are the worst of the lot.”

“Are they really the worst of the lot? Or are there just more of them?” Hawke asked.

Harder stroked his chin. “Well, they are the biggest outfit,” he said. “But it’s not just that. The owner of the Bar-J is a fella by the name of Major Clint Jessup, and he doesn’t do much to keep his men reined in.”

“Major?”

“Yeah, that’s what his men call him. He was a Rebel, I know that. And I think he was a cavalry commander. I just don’t understand why he doesn’t control them more.”

“Maybe he just got a bellyful of command and decided he doesn’t want to give any more orders,” Hawke suggested.

“Could be, I suppose,” Harder said, though it was obvious he didn’t buy Hawke’s explanation.

Their conversation was interrupted by a scream from upstairs.

“No! No!”

Looking up toward the landing immediately above them, Hawke and Harder saw Cindy running from her room, trying to make it back to the head of the stairs. Shorty was chasing her.

“I wonder what’s going on up there?” Harder asked, concern in his voice.

“Come back here, you bitch!” Shorty demanded. He caught up with her just as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Stay away from me! Leave me alone!” Cindy screamed out in fear.

“What did you do with my money?” Shorty demanded.

“Shorty, leave her alone!” Hawke shouted, starting up the stairs.

“You stay out of this, piano player. I’ll leave her alone soon as she tells me what she done with my money.”

“Shorty, I didn’t take your money,” Cindy insisted.

“Oh yeah? Well, if you didn’t take it, who the hell did? And where the hell is it?” Shorty shouted angrily. He grabbed Cindy and began shaking her hard. “I said I want my money!” he yelled.

Cindy started scratching his face, and he pushed her away from him. Cindy fell back and called out in shock and fear as she tumbled down the stairs, her sharp scream cut short halfway down. She tumbled the rest of the way, then lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, right in front of Hawke. Her head was twisted to one side, her eyes open and glazed, and her mouth open, though the scream was now silent.

“Cindy!” Hawke shouted. But even before he bent down to examine her, he could tell that she was dead. And the twist of her head suggested that it was the result of a broken neck.

“Now, you bitch, you ain’t goin’ nowhere, are you?” Shorty said, staring down the stairs toward her.

Then, suddenly, Shorty’s face registered surprise. He’d realized that Cindy was dead. He looked at the others in the saloon; Bob Gary, who was behind the bar washing glasses; John Harder, still standing by the table he had shared with Hawke; Betty Lou, standing in the door of the kitchen; as well as half a dozen customers who had been quietly eating their breakfast. On the landing above, four of the other working girls, drawn by the noise, had come to the railing and now stood looking down at Cindy’s still and twisted form on the floor below.

“I…I didn’t do this,” Shorty said, pointing down at Cindy. “You all seen it. It was an accident. She fell down the stairs.”

“You were chasing her,” Bob Gary said as he put down the
towel and glass he was working on. “She wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t been chasing her.”

“I was chasing her because this bitch stole my money,” he said, pointing at her prone form.

“Cindy didn’t steal your money, cowboy,” one of other the girls said.

“Oh yeah? Well, what happened to it?”

“You spent it all last night,” the girl insisted. “You didn’t even have enough to go upstairs with Cindy until you borrowed some from a couple of your friends.”

The cowboy put his hands to his head. “I…I…” he started, then drew his pistol and waved the gun around, threatening everyone in the room.

“This was an accident,” he said. “You all saw it. This was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill her, and I ain’t goin’ to get hung by no lynch mob that doesn’t even know what they are doin’.”

“I don’t blame you,” Bob said from behind the bar, speaking in a low, calming voice. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you put your gun away and wait for Marshal Trueblood to get here? I’m sure it can be worked out.”

“No! I ain’t goin’ to jail!” Shorty said. He started down the stairs.

“Cowboy, wait! You’re making a mistake,” Bob said. “You need to stay and work this out!”

“You go to hell!” Shorty shouted, and shot at Bob, hitting the bartender in the shoulder.

The impact of the bullet knocked Bob back against the shelf of mirrored whiskey bottles, shattering the mirror and sending the bottles tumbling down, to break on the floor.

Hawke had watched the scene quickly deteriorate. Now he pointed his finger at the cowboy.

“Shorty! Put your gun down before you make things any worse!” he ordered.

“Ain’t no damn piano player goin’ to tell me what to do!” Shorty shouted. He swung his gun toward Hawke and fired, his bullet frying the air no more than an inch from Hawke’s
ear. Hawke, whose gun had been in his holster, now drew it so quickly that to the witnesses in the room it seemed as if it had appeared in his hand by magic.

Hawke returned fire, and his bullet hit the cowboy high in the chest. With a gasp of surprise, Shorty fell forward, tumbling down the rest of the stairs, winding up on the floor alongside Cindy. He raised himself up on his elbows.

“Kilt by a piano player,” he said. “Who would’ve thought?” Then he fell forward and lay quietly.

Shortly afterward, Trueblood, with pistol drawn, came running in through the front door. He saw Cindy and Shorty lying at the foot of the stairs. Behind the bar, Bob was holding his hand over a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Hawke had already put his own pistol back in the holster.

The marshal stood just inside the door for a long moment, taking everything in.

“Hello, Matthew,” Harder said.

“Marshal Trueblood,” Bob said.

The calmness of the greetings told Trueblood that everything was over now, so he put his pistol away.

“Someone want to tell me what went on here?”

“It all started with the cowboy there,” Harder said, pointing toward Shorty. “He caused Cindy to tumble down the stairs. The fall killed her, then when Bob suggested that he wait for you to come sort things out, the cowboy shot Bob.”

“Uh-huh,” Trueblood replied. “And who shot the cowboy?”

“I did,” Hawke replied.

“You?” Trueblood replied.

“Yes.”

“I guess you are some surprised by that,” Harder suggested.

“Not particularly,” Trueblood replied, looking pointedly at Hawke.

Hawke realized then that Trueblood knew he was more than a saloon piano player. The marshal must have realized that he was a man with skill and experience in the use of handguns.

“By the way, I forgot to tell you,” Harder added, “the cowboy also shot at Hawke,
before
Hawke even drew his pistol. It was the damnedest thing I ever saw. Hawke must’ve been scared to death to draw his own gun that fast.”

“I was scared, all right,” Hawke said, not taking his eyes off the marshal. He saw that Trueblood did not believe that he had been frightened.

“Uh-huh,” Trueblood replied. “Who wouldn’t be? We’re going to have to get Judge Craig to hold a hearing. I’m sure there won’t be anything come from the hearing, but you need to get this cleared up…no sense in letting it follow you around. I’d appreciate it, Hawke, if you didn’t leave town until this is taken care of.”

“I won’t be going anywhere,” Hawke said.

“When you think we can have the hearing?” Harder asked.

“I don’t see why he couldn’t do it today,” Trueblood answered.

Marshal Trueblood looked over at Bob.