The Law of a Fast Gun (6 page)

The men rode back to the Hog Lot Saloon, but as they were dismounting, Cracker said, “What the hell? It don’t look like there’s nobody here.”

“It’s closed,” Tex said.

“How do you know?”

“That’s what the sign says.”

“Oh. I can’t read. What else does it say? I know that closed is only one word, and there’s more words than that.”

“It says, ‘Closed for the funeral of Miss Cindy Carey, a lovely flower, plucked from our midst by a deranged cowboy,’” Tex said, reading the sign.

“Deranged cowboy? What does that mean?” Brandt asked.

“It means crazy.”

“Hell, Shorty wasn’t crazy,” Cracker said. “I mean, he could get crazy mad sometimes. But he wasn’t crazy.”

“We could go down to Foley’s,” Brandt suggested. “It ain’t as nice as the Hog Lot…can’t get no food there.”

“That’s okay. They got liquor and whores at Foley’s,” Cracker said.

Foley’s was just across the street and down about fifty yards from the Hog Lot. It was open, but there were only two customers in the place when the three cowboys pushed through the bat-wing doors to step inside.

“Damn, this place is empty,” Cracker said. “Where-at is ever’body?”

“Purt’ near the whole town has turned out for the funeral,” the bartender said, coming down the bar to meet them. “What’ll you gents have?”

“Three whiskeys,” Tex said, putting a coin on the bar.

“And we’ll have the same,” Brandt said, putting his own coin down. Cracker joined him.

“Where-at’s your whores?” Cracker asked.

“If you mean the young ladies who work here, they are at the funeral as well.”

“Why’d they go? I mean the whore they’re buryin’ worked at the Hog Lot, didn’t she?” Cracker asked.

“Hell, Cracker,” Tex said, “whores all stick together, like cowboys do.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right. I ’spect even the girls from Pearlie’s is over there. I guess I just never figured on seein’ so many people go to a whore’s funeral,” Cracker said.

Nine glasses were put before the men, then filled from the bar bottle.

“By the way, the cowboy that kilt her got hisself kilt too,” the bartender said. “You can see him in the window down at Robison’s Hardware.”

“Yeah, we seen ’im,” Cracker said. “But I still don’t know why the whole town would turn out for a whore’s funeral.”

“Could be Vernon Clemmons’s doin’,” the bartender suggested.

“Who is Vernon Clemmons?”

“He’s the publisher of the
Journal
. Yes, sir, we got us a real good paper, and ol’ Vernon wrote a dandy article as to how the whore was really a good girl at heart, and how the cowboy was as evil as ol’ Satan hisself. I reckon it was that article that got folks all riled up so. And goin’ to the woman’s funeral was about the only thing they could do about it.”

“You got one of them papers?” Tex asked.

“Sure do, but it’ll cost you a nickel.”

“A nickel? Hell, you can get a paper in Kansas City for two cents,” Tex said.

“Well, you ain’t in Kansas City, cowboy,” the bartender replied. “You’re in Braggadocio.”

“Ain’t you got a paper that somebody’s done read that I can have?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll take that one.”

“It’ll cost you a nickel,” the bartender said.

Growling his displeasure, Tex put a nickel on the bar and the bartender reached under the bar to take out a newspaper and hand it to him.

“Let’s go over to the table and sit a spell,” Tex said. He tossed down all three whiskeys, then called to the bartender. “We’ll take a whole bottle.”

“That’ll be a dollar and a half.”

The three cowboys came up with fifty cents apiece, then Tex grabbed the bottle and they moved to a table.

When the services in the church were completed, the congregation filed outside. They formed up on either side of the steps as the pallbearers brought Cindy’s body through the front door, then placed it in the back of the highly polished, black, glass-sided hearse. The bell of the church began tolling as Robert Griffin, wearing striped pants, cutaway coat, and high-topped hat, climbed up on the seat, then started driving the matched team of black horses toward the cemetery.

The mourners followed the hearse, not only those who were coming from the church, but the ones who had been waiting outside as well. John Harder, his bartender Bob Gary, whose arm was in a sling, Mason Hawke, and the soiled doves who worked at the Hog Lot, all rode in a wagon directly behind the hearse. They were accorded this honor because they were as close to family as Cindy had. The girls from Foley’s and Pearlie’s rode in the next wagon behind.

The grave had already been opened and the grave digger stood over to one side of the cemetery, sweating and dirty from his labors. He stayed out of the way so as not to intrude into the graveside services.

Down at Foley’s, Tex, Cracker, and Brandt were separated from the funeral by distance and disposition. The bottle, which was full when they carried it to the table, was now three-quarters empty. As they drank, they shared stories about Shorty.

The other two customers in the saloon were at an adjoining table.

“Are you three gents from the Bar-J outfit that’s sittin’ just outside town, here?” one of the two men asked.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Brandt replied.

“You was talking about the dead cowboy that’s lyin’ in the window down to Robison’s Hardware Store, wasn’t you?”

“Yeah, we was,” Brandt said.

“I thought you was. And when I heard the way you was talkin’ about him, why, I figured you was friends of his. I’m sorry he got hisself kilt.”

“What I can’t figure is what kind of town would let someone just murder someone and get away with it,” Cracker said.

“What do you mean?”

“This here piano player. He kilt Shorty, didn’t he? Only he ain’t in jail, is he?”

“It wasn’t like that,” the bar patron said. “It was a fair fight. Your friend shot at the piano player first. Fact is, the piano player didn’t even have his gun drawed.”

“I don’t believe it really happened that way,” Cracker said. “If Shorty had shot first, the piano player would be dead.”

“Oh, it happened that way, all right,” the patron said.

“How do you know?”

“’Cause I was there, and I seen it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you callin’ me a liar?” the patron asked.

“Ike,” the bartender called to the patron.

“What?”

“Go home now.”

“What?”

“Go home,” the bartender said. “I don’t want no trouble in here.”

“Well hell, Mica, he’s the son of a bitch that started it,” Ike replied.

“Do me a favor and go home now, will you?” Mica replied. “Don’t worry about your bar bill. I’ll pay it.”

The expression on Ike’s face eased, and he nodded. “All right, Mica,” he said. “If it’ll make you feel any better.” Ike and his friend stood up and started toward the door.

“Yeah, run away from me, you coward,” Cracker called toward him.

Ike turned back quickly, but he heard the double click of a
double-barreled shotgun being cocked. Looking toward the bar, he saw that Mica was pointing the shotgun toward the table where the cowboys sat.

“On second thought, Ike, you can stay,” Mica said. “But you sons of bitches are going,” he added, raising the shotgun to his shoulder.

“What the hell?” Tex said. “Why are you kicking Brandt and me out for somethin’ Cracker said?”

“Let’s just say I’m being cautious,” Mica said. “Ike, you ’n’ Pearson get over here behind me until these gents is gone.”

Scowling, Tex, Cracker, and Brandt left the saloon, taking their bottle with them.

“Where now?” Cracker asked.

“Well, we could go down to the Nebraska House and get us some supper,” Brandt suggested. “That is, if you don’t shoot off your mouth an’ get us kicked out again.”

“I didn’t like the way that son of a bitch was talkin’,” Cracker said.

“Yeah, so we gathered,” Tex said. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

The three walked down to the Nebraska House, where they had a meal of ham, eggs, potatoes, and biscuits. Tex continued to read the paper as they ate.

“Listen to this,” he said, and read an excerpt.

Tex looked up from the paper. “How do you like that? This son of a bitch wants us to give up our guns, but he wants the people of the town to be exempt.”

“What does ‘exempt’ mean?” Cracker asked.

“It means he doesn’t think they should have to give up their guns.”

“Piss on that,” Brandt said. “If the people in town don’t give up their gun, I sure as hell ain’t goin’ to give up mine.”

“I ain’t goin’ to give up my gun, period,” Texas said. “No matter what the people of this town do.”

“Yeah,” Cracker said. “I ain’t plannin’ on givin’ up my
gun either. I mean, look what happened with Shorty. It was a town person who kilt him, wasn’t it? A town person with a gun?”

“Yeah, it was,” Tex said. He poured the last of the whiskey into the three glasses. “Drink up, boys. I’ve got a plan.”

AS THE TOWNSPEOPLE WERE RETURNING FROM THE
funeral, they heard the loud crash of breaking glass, followed by raucous laughter. Looking toward the newspaper office, they saw something thrown into the street.

“Marshal Trueblood!” Harder called. “Marshal, something’s going on down at the newspaper office!”

“At my office?” Vernon Clemmons shouted, running up quickly. “What is it?”

As they got closer, Clemmons recognized what was going on before anyone else. “My type!” he said. “That’s my type in the street!”

Two other trays of type came hurtling through the broken window, and Trueblood, with his gun drawn, ran toward the newspaper office.

“Cracker, you ’n’ Brandt get ahold of the other side of this thing,” Tex was saying as he started toward the press. “We’ll
throw this out in the street with his type. I’d like to see him print a paper out there,” he added, laughing.

At that moment Trueblood stepped in through the front door.

“Hold it!” he shouted. “Get your hands up!”

The three cowboys who had been trashing the newspaper office stopped and lifted their hands.

“Oh, now, Marshal,” Tex said, laughing. “You had to come along and spoil our fun.”

“Fun? You call this fun?” Clemmons said angrily, coming up then. He looked down at his type, scattered in the dirt. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Are you the newspaper fella?” Cracker asked. “Are you the one that says cowboys are evil?”

“Is there any doubt?” Clemmons said. “You’ve proven my point.” He waved his hand over the mess. “It’ll take me all day to put this together again.”

“No it won’t,” Hawke said. By now he and much of the rest of the town were present. “A town can’t be without a newspaper. We’ll help you put it back.”

“Wait a minute,” Tex said, looking at Hawke. “I know you. You’re the piano player, aren’t you?”

“No,” Hawke said.

“No? What do you mean no? I was there the same night Shorty was there. I saw you playing the piano. Are you going to say that wasn’t you?”

“That was me.”

Tex looked confused. “So what is it? Are you the piano player that killed Shorty or not?”

“I am the
pianist
who killed Shorty,” Hawke said.

“I’ll be damned,” Tex said. “Who would’ve thought that a good man like Shorty would be killed by a sissified dandy like you?”

“That’s enough, mister,” Trueblood said. “You three are going to jail now.”

“No, I don’t think we are,” Tex said. He put his hands down, and the other two cowboys, seeing that, put their hands down as well. “We don’t want no more trouble here, so I think we’ll just go on back out to the herd. Newspaperman, you just tell us how much it’s going to cost you to put the window back and we’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, you’ll pay for it, all right,” Trueblood said. “But first you’re going to jail.”

The expression on Tex’s face hardened. “I say we aren’t. Unless you really are going to shoot us over something like this. And I don’t think you’re willing to do that.”

“I am,” Hawke said.

“You are what?” Tex asked.

“I’m willing to shoot you,” Hawke said.

There was no anger in Hawke’s voice. There was no fear, and no hatred. There was no expression of any kind, other than a cold statement of fact.

“Hah!” Cracker said. “You think ’cause you got lucky with Shorty that you can—”

“Shut up, Cracker,” Tex said sharply. He continued to stare at Hawke. “The son of a bitch means it. Marshal, you heard him. He just threatened to kill us, and he ain’t no lawman. I demand that you arrest him.”

“Mr. Hawke, raise your right hand,” Trueblood said.

Hawke did as Trueblood asked.

“You are hereby appointed as a temporary deputy,” Trueblood said.

“You can’t do that,” Tex said.

“I can, and I just did. Now, drop your gun belts,” Trueblood ordered.

Tex hesitated.

“Now!” Trueblood repeated, this time reinforcing his order by pulling back the hammer of his pistol. It made a deadly click as it engaged the sear.

First Tex and then the other two cowboys unbuckled their pistol belts and let them fall to the floor.

“Now step back away from them,” Trueblood ordered.

“Look here, Marshal, this is gettin’ a little out of hand now,” Tex said. “Like I told you, me ’n’ the boys was just havin’ us a little fun. We didn’t hurt nobody. So we’re just going to go on about our business. Come on, boys.” Tex and the other two started toward the front door.

“Stop!” Trueblood called. “Stop!”

“You want us, we’ll be out at the cow camp,” Tex said.

There was the sound of a gunshot, then a mist of blood sprayed from Tex’s left ear. Shouting in pain, he slapped his hand to his ear and spun around. He saw Hawke holding a smoking pistol in his hand.

“You son of a bitch!” Tex shouted in shock and anger. “You shot off my ear!”

“I just nicked it,” Hawke said. “If I had wanted to shoot off your ear, I would have done so. Now, you do what the marshal tells you to do or I
will
shoot it off.”

“Come on, Tex,” Brandt said. “This son of a bitch is crazy. I believe he really would shoot your ear off.”

The three cowboys started toward the marshal’s office, then Tex turned and pointed at Hawke with a hand that was red with blood from his wounded ear.

“We’ll be meeting again,” he said with an angry snarl.

“I’m sure we will,” Hawke said, then bent down to help Clemmons pick up his scattered type. Several of the other townspeople joined in, and by the time Trueblood had the three cowboys in jail, nearly all the type had been recovered.

“Would you really have shot off his ear?” Clemmons asked as he squatted beside Hawke to retrieve his type.

“For starters,” Hawke said easily.

“Damn,” Clemmons said. “Remind me never to make you mad.”

The next day, after Tex, Cracker, and Brandt were taken to jail, another three hundred cows were brought into town. Although Clint Jessup had nothing to do with actually driving
the cows in, he arrived with them, as did Deekus and Arnie. Deekus was driving a wagon, and they stopped in front of Robison’s Hardware Store.

“You two wait here,” Jessup said as he swung down from his horse. “I’ll get with the undertaker, then we’ll take Shorty’s body down to the depot and have him shipped back to Council Bluffs.”

“All right, Major,” Deekus said, setting the brake on the wagon. He pulled out a plug of chewing tobacco, cut off a piece, and offered it to Arnie, who turned it down. Deekus shoved the cut into his own mouth while he waited.

Robert Griffin was polishing the hearse in the barn behind his shop when he saw Jessup go into his office. He hurried back, and stepping inside, saw that Jessup had wandered into the embalming room, where he was standing by the table.

“Is there something I can do for you, Major Jessup?” Robert Griffin asked.

Jessup pointed to the table. It was covered with galvanized tin, and slanted at a slight angle toward a catch basin. There was a pole to one side of the table, with a tube hanging down from it.

“Is this where you embalm the bodies?” Jessup asked.

“Yes.”

“So before you start, do you take all the blood from the body?”

“As much as possible,” Robert Griffin answered. “One can never get it all. Major Jessup, could we go up to the front office?”

“Why? You don’t have any bodies back here now,” Jessup said.

“No, I don’t.”

Jessup looked at one of the tubes, and at a small valve. “The stuff that you put in them, the embalming flood, it comes down through this tube?”

“Yes,” Robert Griffin said impatiently. “Major Jessup,
please, I don’t like people back here. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes, I’m here to pick up Shorty,” Jessup answered. He nodded toward the front of the building. “I figure the town has had a chance to see what they did in killing a fine young man. I want you to close his coffin and let my men load him on the wagon. We’re shipping him home today.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert Griffin replied. He didn’t add, but he thought,
Thank God
. Although having the cowboy’s body on display in the front window of the hardware store had been good advertising for how well he could make a body look, he was ready for it to be taken away.

Concluding his business, Jessup stepped back outside. Deekus and Arnie were waiting in the wagon parked just in front of the hardware store. They were watching a young woman who was walking along the board sidewalk. As they watched, they carried on an unsubtle conversation about her.

“What do you reckon a pretty young woman like that is doing downtown all by herself?” Deekus asked.

“I don’t know. If I had a filly like that, I’d keep her chained to the bed,” Arnie replied.

“Hell, I’d keep her chained to me and the bed,” Deekus said, and both men laughed, loudly.

The young woman, obviously able to hear what they were saying, blushed, and lifted her skirt high enough to allow her to walk more quickly.

“Deekus, Arnie,” Jessup said.

Neither man had heard Jessup return, but they turned toward him at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, Major?” Deekus said.

“Get Shorty in the wagon and take him down to the depot.” He gave Deekus a piece of paper. “This is the bill of lading. Give it to the freight master. Shorty’s passage has already been paid for.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you’re all finished there, come down to the Hog Lot Saloon. I’ll buy the drinks.”

“Yes, sir!” both Deekus and Arnie answered enthusiastically.

Bob Gary, still wearing the sling from his encounter with Shorty, moved down to the end of the bar where Jessup was standing.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“You the fella that Shorty shot the other day?” Jessup asked.

“I am.”

“I’m Clint Jessup, owner of the Bar-J. Shorty McDougal rode for me.”

“Yes, sir, Major Jessup, I know who you are,” Bob said. “I remember you from last year.”

“I apologize for you being shot.”

“No need for you to apologize,” Bob said. “You didn’t shoot me, and the man who did do it is dead.”

“Yes,” Jessup said. “Killed by your piano player, I’m told.”

“Don’t let Hawke hear you say that,” Bob said. “He’s some kind of particular about what folks call him. He likes to be called a pianist.”

“A pianist? Isn’t that what you call someone with concert training?”

“I reckon it is.”

“That’s sort of taking on airs, isn’t it? I mean somebody who plays piano in a saloon calling himself a pianist. Is he that good?”

“He’s good,” Bob said. “I don’t have any way of tellin’ just how good he is. I mean, I haven’t heard that many pianists. But he’s sure the best one that I have ever heard.”

“Well, I’d like to hear him sometime.”

“Stick around, he’ll be in shortly. It’s nearly time for him to start playing. Now, what can I get you?” he added, indicating that he had talked to Jessup as much as he cared to.

“Give me a bottle,” Jessup said. “And three glasses.”

“Three?”

“A couple of my men will be joining me soon.”

Bob nodded, got a full, unopened bottle and three glasses and put them on the bar. Jessup paid for them, then took them to a table where he sat quietly and watched as business gradually picked up in the saloon.

When Hawke came downstairs, Jessup didn’t have to be told who he was. He could tell by the way he was dressed.

“You look like someone who would call themselves a pianist,” Jessup said under his breath.

As Hawke walked by, Jessup called out to him.

“Would you be Mr. Hawke?”

Hawke stopped. “I am. Do I know you?”

“The name is Jessup. Clint Jessup. But most people call me Major Jessup.”

“Why would they do that?” Hawke asked.

Jessup was somewhat taken aback. He was used to exuding authority, both from his military background and, more recently, as the owner of a very large ranch. And by the content and tone of Hawke’s question, Jessup could see that he did not fit the pattern of those who were quickly impressed with him.

“I guess it has to do with the rank I held during the war,” Jessup replied. “What about you, Mr. Hawke? Were you in the war?”

“I was.”

“Which side?”

“There was no side,” Hawke said. “The entire war was insane.”

“I might agree with you on that point,” Jessup said. “Well, no matter which side you were on, that’s all behind us now. Here we are, I’m a successful rancher and you are a…” Jessup paused before he said the word. “…pianist.”

“Something I can do for you, Major Jessup?”

Jessup drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a moment before he replied.

“I’m told that when you killed Shorty, you didn’t even draw your gun until after he shot at you. Why is that? Are you that arrogant? Or are you that good?”

“I didn’t have my gun drawn because I didn’t have any intention of shooting him,” Hawke replied. “But when he shot at me, I had no choice.”

“Yes, well, not all of my cowboys believe that someone like you could do that to Shorty. Shorty had a reputation of being very good with a gun.”

“I suspect his reputation was a bit overblown,” Hawke said. “He wasn’t all that good.”

“I would think you would want Shorty to have the reputation of being good with a gun,” Jessup said.

“Why? What difference does it make?” Hawke asked.

“Well, if he was good with a gun, and you killed him, it would make you all the more heroic.”

“Killing someone doesn’t make anyone heroic,” Hawke replied.

“No, I…I suppose not,” Jessup said. “It’s just that the cowboys are young and impressionable, and they are having a hard time believing you are that good.”

“And what about you? Do you believe it?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how good you really are,” Jessup said. “I think I would like to see you sometime, to judge for myself.”

Hawke stared at him but made no reply.

“Play the piano, I mean. I’m told you are a very good pianist. I really would like to see that.”

“I am sure you will have the opportunity to find out for yourself sometime.”