The Law of a Fast Gun (5 page)

“So, what does that tell you?” Cracker asked.

“What do you mean, what does that tell us?”

“That means that the only folks doin’ the talkin’ at that hearing was town folks. And if you think any of them damn Yankees is goin’ to find one of their own guilty for killin’ a cowboy, then you just ain’t thinkin’ straight.”

“Cracker, you know yourself that Shorty had a temper,” Tex said. “He could get all worked up over the least little thing.”

“Do you think he actually killed that whore?” Cracker asked. “You seen how he was takin’ on over her last night, same as me.”

“Yeah, I think he might have killed her,” Tex admitted. “I don’t think he done it of a pure purpose, but I ain’t got no doubt but what it happened pretty much like the marshal
said it did. I mean, even the marshal said it was sort of an accident.”

“Well, if it was an accident, then nobody had any right to kill Shorty, did they?”

“You know, Tex, Cracker’s right,” Brandt said. “And there’s somethin’ else nobody seems to be considerin’.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re sayin’ that the fella who kilt him was the piano player, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, don’t you remember that him and Shorty seemed to get into it while we was there?”

“Yeah,” Tex said. “Yeah, now that you mention it, there was words passed between them.”

“That’s right,” Cracker said. “I remember that too. The piano player wouldn’t play the song Shorty was askin’ him to play, and they come near to getting’ in a fight over it.”

“Yeah,” Tex replied. He laughed. “But I tell you the truth, I was just as glad the piano player didn’t play it anymore. I was gettin’ plumb tired of listenin’ to ‘Buffalo Gals.’ But you’re right there was cross words that passed between them.”

“Well then, there you go,” Cracker said.

“There you go, where?”

“That’s how he come to kill Shorty. It didn’t have nothin’ at all to do with Shorty killin’ that whore, because even the marshal said that was an accident. I think the piano player kilt Shorty ’cause him and Shorty got into an argument.”

“Well, what if it was?” Tex replied. “Everyone still says that Shorty drew first.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is, we ought not do anything about it,” Cracker said.

“Just what do you think we could do about it?” Tex asked.

“I don’t know,” Cracker admitted. “But there ought to be somethin’ we could do. I mean, what if it was one of you
lyin’ up there dead? Wouldn’t you want your pards to do somethin’?”

“Well, we could go into town and get drunk and celebrate,” Tex suggested.

“Celebrate? What are you talkin’ about? You mean celebrate that Shorty’s dead?”

“Sure, the Irish do it all the time,” Tex said. “It’s called a wake.”

“Well, I ain’t no Irishman.”

Tex smiled. “No, but Ian McDougal was.”

“Ian McDougal?”

“Yeah,” Tex said. “You didn’t think Shorty was his real name, did you?”

“I guess I never thought about it.”

Brandt laughed. “Do you believe folks think that Cracker is your real name?”

“Yeah,” Cracker said. “Yeah, I see what you mean. A wake, huh?”

“Yep.”

“And you think Shorty would like this? I mean us having a wake and gettin’ drunk ’n’ all?” Cracker asked.

“Oh, yeah, I think he’ll be lookin’ down from heaven, just smilin’ at his old pards,” Tex said.

Brandt laughed.

“What are you laughin’ at?”

“Knowin’ Shorty, he’s not smilin’ down from heaven. Like as not, he’s lookin’ up from hell, wishin’ he had just one drop to cool his tongue.”

The others laughed at Brandt’s observation.

“What is it you called that celebratin’ thing, now?” Cracker asked. “Us gettin’ drunk and all?”

“It’s called a wake,” Tex said.

“A wake, huh? Well, I sure hope it don’t wake him up,” Cracker said.

“What do you mean? I thought Shorty was your friend,” Brandt said.

“Yeah, he was my friend. But he’s dead now, and I’d just as soon anyone that’s dead, stay dead.”

“Ooooooh,” Brandt said, putting his hat over his face.

“Stop that,” Cracker said.

“Oooooh, Cracker, this is Shorty, comin’ back from the dead. Oooooh.”

“Stop that, I said,” Cracker said irritably. “That ain’t no way funny.”

When the cowboys took the third bunch of cows into town to the railhead the next day, Jessup rode with them. He was halfway through town when he saw what he was looking for.

There was a sign, in the shape of a hand, suspended from the overhanging awning that covered the boardwalk in front of Robison’s Hardware Store. The finger pointed to the rear of the building. Hanging from the hand was another sign:

ROBERT GRIFFIN
UNDERTAKER
FINE COFFINS
OFFICE IN BACK

“Deekus,” Jessup called.

“Yes, sir?”

“You take charge till I get down there. I’m going to see about Shorty.”

“Yes, sir,” Deekus replied.

Jessup turned away from the others and rode over toward the mortuary. Dismounting, he followed the sign around back.

A bell, attached to the door, jangled when Jessup stepped into the room. The room smelled strongly of formaldehyde. This was obviously a showroom for coffins, because there were three on display. There was a door leading from this room into another room, but a hanging curtain prevented anyone from looking into the back room.

Hearing the bell, Robert Griffin stepped through the
curtain, drying his hands as he did so. He was wearing a white apron which was stained with blood, old and new.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” Robert Griffin asked.

“I’m Clint Jessup,” Jessup said. “I own the Bar-J. I believe you have one of my men.”

“You are talking about the cowboy who was involved in the trouble at the Hog Lot?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I have him.”

“I’d like to see him,” Jessup said, starting toward the curtain.

Robert Griffin stepped in front of him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t allow anyone in the embalming room.”

“You think you can keep me out?”

Robert Griffin shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t suppose I could if you wanted to force your way in. I would hope, though, that you would have enough respect for the dead not to do that.”

Jessup paused for a moment, then nodded. “All right, I’ll give you that,” he said. “I guess I’ll be able to see him soon enough. I’m here to make arrangements for him. I want to pay whatever your costs are, and I want to pick out a coffin.”

“What kind of coffin?”

“A good one,” Jessup said. “Your best one.”

“Oh, then I think you would like this one. It is particularly nice,” Robert Griffin said, pointing to a highly polished, black and silver casket. “It is called the Eternal Cloud, and it is guaranteed for one thousand years.”

Jessup laughed.

“I beg your pardon, Major Jessup, but have I said something humorous?” Robert Griffin asked, surprised by the ranch owner’s unexpected response.

“Yeah,” Jessup said. “You think you’re going to live for a thousand years?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then, suppose I dig this coffin up in a thousand years and it’s rotted out. You’ll be dead, who the hell am I going to collect my guarantee from?”

“Well, it’s a substantial company, I’m sure there will be someone who can…” Robert Griffin started, then paused. “Sir, you won’t be here in one thousand years either.”

“That’s my point,” Jessup said. “So, don’t tell me about the one thousand year guarantee. It doesn’t matter.”

“I see what you mean,” Robert Griffin said, somewhat crestfallen from the exchange. He ran his hand across the smooth, glossy black surface. “However, I am sure you are discerning enough to understand what a wonderful piece of workmanship this is.”

“I’ll take it,” Jessup said.

Robert Griffin picked up his account book and wrote:
One Eternal Cloud coffin to Major Clint Jessup
.

“I presume you’ll have the late Mr. McDougal’s body shipped somewhere?”

“Yes,” Jessup said. “But first I want him put on display.”

“I see. You want to arrange for a visitation and viewing so you—”

“No,” Jessup interrupted. “No visitation.”

“But I don’t understand. I thought you said you wanted him to be on display.”

“That’s exactly what I said, and that’s exactly what I mean.”

“How can there be a display without a visitation and viewing?”

“I want you to dress him up in a suit, then I want you to open up the top half of that fancy casket I just bought and set him in the front window of this hardware store. I want everyone in town to see him if they happen by the store window.”

“I don’t know if Mr. Robison would agree to that. He owns the hardware store.”

“Find out how much it costs to make him agree,” Jessup said. “I want Shorty displayed in that front window.”

“Very good, sir,” Jessup said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

“And I want you to have the sign painter paint a sign to put on the coffin.”

“You want a sign buried with the coffin?”

“Not buried with it,” Jessup said. “I want the sign put on the coffin while it’s on display in the window, so that everyone who happens by will be able to read it.”

“What shall the sign say?” Robert Griffin asked.

“This is what it will say,” Jessup said, handing a piece of paper to the undertaker.

Leaving the mortuary, Jessup rode down to the railroad depot where the cows his men had just brought in were being loaded. Deekus was standing with the broker, watching as the cows were led up the ramp and into the car. As each car was filled, the train would move forward slightly, then the next car would be filled, thirty cows to each car.

“How’s the count going?” Jessup asked.

“Three hundred today, three hundred yesterday,” the broker said.

“Eight more days and we’ll have them all loaded,” Jessup said.

“Unless the town runs us off,” the broker said.

“What do you mean, unless the town runs us off?”

“Some of the folks in town are talking about closing the cattle shipping facilities here.”

“Yes, Trueblood said something about that yesterday. But I’m not worried. They aren’t going to do that. They’d lose too much money.”

“Maybe not. There are more farmers around Braggadocio than there are ranchers. If they closed the cattle pens, they could build more grain elevators. They say they don’t have as much trouble with the farmers as they do with the cowboys. That was one of your riders killed yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jessup answered. He nodded back toward the center of town. “As a matter of fact, I just stopped by to make arrangements with the undertaker.”

“You going to bury him here?”

“No, I’m going to ship him back to Iowa,” Jessup said. “But first, I want the people of the town to have an opportunity to see him.”

The broker looked up in surprise. “Why in heaven’s name would you want that?”

“Let’s just say that it is my way of reaching out to the town,” Jessup said.

By mid-morning nearly half the town had wandered by Robison’s Hardware Store, where Shorty’s body lay on display in the front window. All talked about the beautiful black coffin with the bright, silver accouterments, and the cowboy who was dressed more elegantly in death than he had ever been in life.

But the thing that got everyone’s attention was the neatly painted, hand-lettered sign that perched on the bottom half of the coffin.

YOU SEE HERE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF
IAN “SHORTY” MC DOUGAL
A GRIEVING MOTHER’S SON
GATHER ’ROUND YE DEMONS OF BRAGGADOCIO
TO LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE

SHOOTOUT IN THE HOG LOT SALOON
TWO KILLED, ONE WOUNDED
COWBOY SHOT DEAD BY ACCURATE
SHOOTING
COWBOY HAD KILLED A WOMAN
BARTENDER WOUNDED IN FRACAS

THE ISSUE OF THE
BRAGGADOCIO JOURNAL
THAT
told of the shootout came out on the day before Cindy’s funeral, and it sold more copies than any paper Vernon Clemmons had ever printed. He had to go back to the Washington hand press several times, eventually turning out over 250 copies. Nearly everyone in town got a copy of the paper, and in the saloons and cafés of the town, the incident, and the article in the paper, were the prime subjects of conversation.

“Who would have thought that a piano player would be able to best a cowboy in shooting?”

The questioner was George Schermerhorn, owner of Schermerhorn Wagon Freight. The two men with him were James Cornett, who owned the general store and was also the mayor of the town, and Jubal Goodpasture, owner of the livery stable. They were having lunch at Lambert’s Café.

“Well, have you ever paid much attention to this piano player?” Goodpasture replied.

“Not in particular. I mean, he’s just a piano player. Who pays attention to a piano player?” Schermerhorn asked.

“Mason Hawke is a pretty good one, though,” the mayor said. “You two might remember the one Harder had working for him before he hired Hawke. Sifferman, I think his name was. His piano playing sounded like a peddler’s wagon banging across the prairie.”

The other two laughed at the mayor’s description of the previous piano player’s talents.

“Yeah, but I’m not talkin’ about his piano playin’,” Goodpasture said. “I was in the Hog Lot a few weeks ago when a drunk pulled his pistol and threatened to shoot ol’ Bob Gary, claimin’ that he watered the drinks.”

“Hell, Gary does water his drinks,” Schermerhorn said, and the other two laughed.

“Maybe,” Goodpasture said. “But there was that drunk, waving his gun around, threatening to shoot anyone who came close. That didn’t stop Hawke, though. He walked up to him, just as calm as you please, picked up a bottle and hit him over the head.”

“I remember that. But the man was drunk,” Schermerhorn said.

“I was there, Schermerhorn, you was there, there was maybe a dozen more in there. But Hawke was the only one who had nerve enough to walk up to him and disarm him.”

“Yeah, that’s true, now that you mention it. I reckon it did take some nerve to do that,” Schermerhorn admitted.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Goodpasture said, “I think there’s more to this fella Hawke than meets the eye.”

“Are either of you goin’ to the girl’s funeral?” the mayor asked.

“I am,” Schermerhorn said. He chuckled. “I wasn’t, I figured my wife would give me hell for goin’ to a whore’s funeral. But she’s been readin’ the paper and she’s got so interested that she’s wantin’ to go.”

“I think Karen wants to go,” Cornett said. “But she’s wondering how it will look to the good folks of the city if they see their mayor at a whore’s funeral.”

“Hell, Mayor, how’s that going to be any different from you sittin’ down at the Hog Lot havin’ drinks while whores is walkin’ by, pattin’ you on the head?” Goodpasture asked.

“They may pat me on the head,” the mayor said. “But I’ve never patted any of them on the behind.”

Goodpasture, and even Schermerhorn, laughed at the observation.

“What about you, Goodpasture?” Schermerhorn asked. “You goin’ to the funeral?”

“Yeah,” Goodpasture answered. “And unlike you two, I don’t have a wife to answer to.”

“Hell, Goodpasture, you don’t have to tell us you don’t have a wife,” Cornett said. “What woman would be dumb enough to marry you in the first place?”

The jibe was good natured, and everyone, including Goodpasture, laughed.

The church was filled to capacity for Cindy Carey’s funeral. As people continued to file in, Tamara McCall, the parson’s wife, was standing just inside the pastor’s study, looking through the crack in the barely opened door at the crowd gathering in the sanctuary.

“I had no idea so many people would be here,” she said.

“The newspaper article attracted a lot of attention,” Gideon said. He was tying and retying his tie. “I can’t get this thing tied,” he said in frustration.

“Here, let me do that,” Tamara said, stepping up to tie it for him.

“I don’t deserve you,” Gideon said.

Tamara smiled. “No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But you’ve got me.”

“And Lucy,” Gideon added. “Is she out there, by the way?”

“Oh, yes. She’s sitting in the front row, right next to Mrs. Rittenhouse.”

Gideon chuckled. “There is no accounting for that child’s choice of friends. I don’t know how she can stand that woman.”

“Gideon,” Tamara scolded. “Please remember that you are a man of the cloth. I’ll admit that Mrs. Rittenhouse can be cantankerous from time to time.”

“Can be? Tamara, that woman’s normal disposition is cantankerous. What you mean is, she can be normal from time to time.” He sighed. “But somehow, Lucy seems to bring that out of her.”

“Lucy is a sweet child who brings out the best in everyone,” Tamara said with pride.

There was a small knock on the back door of the study, and Tamara walked over to open it. The visitor was Mason Hawke.

“Mr. Hawke,” Tamara said, smiling pleasantly. “How wonderful of you to agree to play for the funeral.”

“Well, Cindy…that is, Miss Carey…was a friend of mine,” Hawke said. “I’m very pleased to be able to play for her, and honored that you would ask.”

“Do you play by music, or by ear?” Tamara asked. “The reason I ask is, so many saloon piano players play by ear. But I’m told by those who have heard you that you are quite good.”

Hawke smiled. “I play by music…or by memory,” he said. “And by ear,” he added.

“Well, I have some sheet music if you would care to use it. It’s from the hymnal.”

“Thank you,” Hawke said. “I will play the songs you have picked out for me. But I also brought some sheet music that I would like to play as well. That is, with your permission.” He showed the music to her.

“‘Joseph Haydn’s Mass in G,’” Tamara said, reading the title. “Oh, my, that sounds quite…ambitious.”

“I thought it might make an appropriate prelude,” Hawke said. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll just go get started.”

“Please, by all means,” Tamara said, leading him to the door that opened onto the sanctuary. “Be my guest.”

Hawke walked out to the piano and looked down at it. It was a Haynes Square piano, rosewood, with octagon curved legs and mother-of-pearl inlay on the name board. He had been told that it was a good piano, but had no idea it was this good. He was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the instrument, and when he depressed a few of the keys, he was rewarded with a rich, resonant tone.

Hawke sat on the bench, put his music on the ornately carved lyre before him, then looked out over the congregation. Every seat in the church was full, and a long line of mourners stretched along one side of the church as the men and women filed silently by to view the open coffin that sat just below the sacristy.

Hawke couldn’t see Cindy’s body from where he sat and was just as glad. He preferred to remember the young woman the way she was the last time he’d seen her, when she was drinking coffee with him, laughing and flirtatious.

Then he began to play.

Many in the congregation had heard him in the saloon, but most never had. They thought that, at best, it would be little more than a saloon piano player, selected for the service only because the decedent was one of his own. They were totally unprepared for what they were about to hear.

The music filled the church and caressed the collective
soul of the congregation. If they did not know of his talent and ability before now, it took but a few bars of music to convince even the most skeptical that they weren’t hearing a mere saloon piano player. They were listening to a concert pianist of great skill.

Not one person in the congregation had read the story in the
London Times
, written by a British music critic, about Mason Hawke. But if they had, they would have agreed with every word:

They merely would have substituted the name Joseph Haydn for Ludwig Beethoven.

Even before the music finished, the coffin was closed and those who could find a place to sit did so. Those who could not find seats stood along the walls on each side and at the rear of the church. Even the narthex was filled, and several more waited out front, ready to accompany the funeral cortege to the graveyard.

Gideon McCall had come out of the study during the prelude, and sat quietly in his chair in the sacristy until the music ended. Then he stepped up to the pulpit, looking out over the congregation. A couple of people in the congregation coughed. At the rear of the church someone opened a window. Not until there was absolute quiet did Gideon begin to speak. His voice was richly timbered, and it resonated throughout the room. Every eye was turned toward him, every ear attuned.

“I begin today with a reading from the Book of Matthew,” he said.

He looked at the Bible on his pulpit and began to read:

Gideon looked up from the Bible. “Here endeth the lesson,” he said.

“Thanks be to God,” the congregation responded.

Gideon closed the Bible.

“Cindy Carey was a harlot.”

There were several gasps from the congregation, but Gideon held out his hand as if asking for a moment to explain.

“Cindy was a harlot,” he repeated. “But do not believe that because she was a harlot she was abandoned by our Lord. In our reading, Jesus told us that a harlot who is good at heart will be welcome into the Kingdom of God. And those who knew Cindy have all attested to the fact that she was a woman with a good heart, truly, a child of God. Therefore we can rejoice with Cindy, because I can tell you with Biblical authority,” he held up the Bible, “that Cindy is in heaven today.

“The hymn I have chosen today speaks eloquently of God’s grace for all sinners.”

At a nod from Gideon, Hawke began playing the music that Tamara had selected for him. The congregation began to sing:

When Cracker, Tex, and Brandt rode into town with the next batch of cows for delivery, they passed by the church. The area in front of and immediately around the church was filled with wagons, buckboards, and tethered horses. The hearse was parked in front, back up against the steps. The
team of horses was in black harness, and black bunting draped the windows of the hearse.

In addition to the horses and vehicles, there were several men and women just outside the church, some of whom were standing by the open windows so they could hear the eulogy and the music from inside.

“What’s goin’ on in there, you reckon?” Cracker asked. “Why are they havin’ church on a Friday morning?”

“There’s a hearse,” Tex said. “That means it’s a funeral.”

“Shorty’s funeral, do you reckon?”

“Nah, Shorty ain’t goin’ to have a funeral here. The major is shippin’ him back to Iowa. I expect this is the whore’s funeral,” Tex said.

“Who woulda thought they’d have a whore’s funeral in a church? And who woulda thought there would be that many folks comin’ to the funeral of a whore?” Cracker said.

“You think Shorty is still lyin’ in the window of the hardware store?” Brandt asked.

“I expect he is,” Tex answered. “Leastwise, that’s what Deekus said.”

“After we deliver these here cows, I think we should go down there ’n’ pay our respects,” Cracker said. “Especially if we’re going to have us that wake you was talkin’ about.”

Once the cows were delivered to the train, the three cowboys left the depot and rode down the street toward the hardware store. Because of the funeral, the street was nearly empty and there was no one standing in front of the store. As a result, they could see Shorty’s coffin from two blocks away…propped up at a forty-five-degree angle for better viewing. It
created the illusion that Shorty was staring back at them from the far end of the street.

“Damn,” Brandt said. “That’s kind of spooky, ain’t it? I mean, seein’ ol’ Shorty down there like he’s lookin’ back at us.”

Cracker stopped.

“What is it?” Tex asked.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Well, hell, you was the one said you wanted to go in the first place.”

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t know it would be so damn spooky.”

“Ooooooh,” Brandt said, teasing Cracker.

“Cut that out!” Cracker said.

Tex and Brandt laughed.

“It’s Shorty, remember?” Tex said. “Even if he is a spook, he ain’t goin’ do nothin’ to his ol’ pards.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Cracker said.

The three men rode to the end of the empty street, then dismounted and stood in front of the window, looking at Shorty.

“He looks kinda pasty-faced, don’t he?” Cracker said.

“He’s dead,” Tex replied. “Dead folks tends to get pasty-faced lookin’.”

“He sure is dressed up nice,” Brandt said. “Wonder where-at he got them fancy clothes?”

“Like as not the major bought ’em for ’im whenever he bought that fancy coffin,” Tex said.

The three cowboys stood for another minute, then Tex cleared his throat. “Let’s go get somethin’ to drink,” he said.

“I’m for that,” Brandt agreed.