Wyoming Hardware (An E. R. Slade Western Book 3) Read online

  “Shet your yap and get them boots out from under the desk. You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Buck tugged at his earlobe and, as though curious about his boots himself, sat back and peered down at them.

  Snake Ed’s chin jutted belligerently, but the certainty was going out of his expression.

  “Lemme see the bottoms of ’em.”

  Buck put one ankle on the other knee and regarded the sole of his boot doubtfully.

  “Lemme see your other boots,” Snake Ed demanded.

  Buck set his foot on the floor, stood up, his eyes getting a glint in them.

  “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing,” he told Snake Ed in a hard-edged tone, “but I ain’t got time for it. If you ain’t here to deliver ninety-eight hundred thirty dollars, you better git before I decide your hide’s worth more nailed to the barn than raising fleas.”

  Snake Ed looked surprised, then faintly amused.

  “You’re quite a talker,” he said. “Wisht you’d threaten me like that every week, storekeeper. Cheers me up.”

  Snake Ed left.

  “What’d he want to look at your boots for?” Payson asked. There were beads of sweat on his brow, but a determined squint to his eyes.

  “You’d be better off not knowing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “All right.” After giving a full account he said, “Now you’ve got a secret to keep.”

  “I ain’t much of a gossip. You didn’t really think he’d have the money stowed away in his room, did you?”

  “I was mostly hoping to find out who he’s working for.”

  “I thought that was pretty plain.”

  “Not to me.”

  “The Stock Growers’ Association—who else?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Calpet’s their man. And you saw them Texans out there yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “You think Snake’s workin’ on his own?”

  “You rode for Swan’s outfit. Can you picture them hiring on men like Snake Ed to do their fighting for them?”

  Payson was thoughtful. “That’s hard to say. None of us hands ever met Swan or any of his investors. We only knew the ramrod. I don’t picture him hirin’ Snake Ed for anything. But then, we was punchin’ cows, not trying to clear off sodbusters. Anyway, they’ve gone belly up, which is why I’ve took a little claim of my own. What’s it matter who’s giving him orders—if anybody is?”

  “Like to get back that money. If my brand’s blackballed and I have to go out of the stock business there’ll be trouble with the Committee.” He told Payson about his conversation with Hastings.

  “That Committee would run from a boy with a pea shooter. I don’t see where you got to worry much about them.”

  “Maybe not them, but if folks think I’ve got highhanded they’ll stop buying and I’ll be out of business.”

  Payson’s face screwed up, but he didn’t say anything.

  ~*~

  After lunch, Buck went to the south end of town, which was occupied by several joy houses. He knocked on the door of the first one he came to.

  A weary-looking woman with her hair down answered. After glancing him over she stepped back to let him in.

  Staying where he was, Buck asked, “Snake Ed McFee ever come here?”

  Her brow puckered. “No,” she said. “He goes to Kate’s.”

  “Which is Kate’s?”

  “Two doors down. He ain’t there now. Only comes after dark.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t fool with his Laurie,” she warned. “He gets ugly about that.”

  “Obliged for the advice.”

  Kate’s door was opened by an enormous woman with three or four extra chins. She was dressed elaborately and some exotic perfume wafted from her.

  “You Kate?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m looking for Laurie,” Buck said.

  Kate’s eyebrows peaked high on her forehead.

  “She’s a reserved property,” she said in a heavy, wheezy voice. “But I got other girls here just as purty.”

  “I’m only interested in Laurie.”

  She had a coughing fit which set off a rippling all over her. “Laurie is Snake Ed’s girl,” she said, when she had her breath back.

  “That’s all right with me.”

  Kate was suspicious. “He’d kill you, don’t you know that?”

  “That so. How much does he pay to keep her reserved?”

  “That ain’t your business, mister.”

  “All right. But I ain’t here for what you think I am. I just want to talk to her.”

  “Talk?” As though she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard of such a thing before.

  “That’s right. Talk.”

  “Talk. Man wants to talk.” She seemed to be marveling at the idea.

  “Yep.”

  “All right.”

  She stepped back and Buck went in.

  The place was opulent in the usual manner, from the heavy-pile rugs to the cut crystal chandelier. Through a doorway to the right Buck could see part of a piano decorated with gold leaf.

  Three girls, whose dramatic proportions were accentuated partially into view by their provocative costumes, sat on a brocaded sofa. They stopped their card game to regard him with interest.

  “Daisy, go tell Laurie she has a visitor who wants to talk to her.”

  One of the girls got up, but hesitated.

  “Well, go on,” Kate boomed, and off she went.

  In a couple of minutes Daisy returned, followed by a short girl of not more than eighteen with a long anxious face. She looked at Buck uncertainly, then at Kate.

  “Say what you got to say,” the fat woman told Buck.

  “Are you Laurie?” Buck asked the girl.

  “Yes,” she said. “Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Buck.” He stepped forward, pointed toward the door of the room containing the piano.

  “Hold on, mister.” Kate spoke sharply. “Anything you got to say you can say right here.”

  Buck faced her. “This won’t take long, but it’s private. You have my word I won’t poach on Snake Ed’s preserve.”

  “Not private, mister.”

  “Has to be,” Buck told her. “It ain’t like Snake Ed’s got to know.”

  “I told you, not private. You want private, go upstairs with Daisy.”

  Buck gestured Laurie toward the room but she didn’t move.

  “Get out,” said Kate. “Now.”

  Buck took hold of Laurie’s arm.

  “You hear me?” Kate’s voice rose piercingly.

  “We’re going to talk,” Buck told her. “Don’t bother us.”

  “Daisy, get Snake Ed McFee.”

  Buck said, “You want this room to look like a slaughterhouse after an earthquake?”

  “Daisy, you heard me,” said Kate.

  Laurie tried to pull away, but Buck had her in an iron grip. Daisy, meanwhile, hesitated at the door leading outside.

  “I wouldn’t,” Buck told Daisy. “Snake Ed’s in a wild mood right now. No telling what he might do to you.”

  “I’m scared, Kate,” Daisy said.

  “Go,” Kate said.

  Buck’s eyes narrowed at Kate. “You want to kill that girl, why don’t you just shoot her?”

  Kate glared back at him steadily for as much as a minute, found his gaze unrelenting. Then she gestured to Daisy to come away from the door.

  “Obliged,” Buck said. “This won’t take long.” He ushered Laurie into the adjoining room and closed the door.

  “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the piano bench. “Don’t worry, all I’m after is the answers to a couple of questions.” To emphasize this he walked around to put the piano between them.

  She didn’t sit, fingered her bodice ruffles nervously.

  “Snake ever mention to you what he did with the money he stole?”

  “I don’t kn
ow nothing about no stolen money,” she said quickly.

  “He still have it?”

  “I told you, I don’t know nothing about it.”

  “He work for Calpet?”

  “No.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “I got nothing to say to you. It’s none of your business.”

  “Always got plenty to spend?”

  “I said, it ain’t none of your business.”

  “You like Snake?”

  She fidgeted. “He comes here just to see me,” she said, carefully.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  She hesitated. Then, in a low voice, she said, “I know.”

  “Can’t blame you for being scared of him,” he said more gently. “You decide you can tell me more, come see me at Wyoming Hardware.”

  She nodded, her eyes searching his face.

  Buck let Laurie go ahead of him out of the room. Kate and her girls stopped their low talk. He put his hat on and headed for the street door.

  “Obliged,” he said to Kate. “Far as I’m concerned, this visit is nobody’s business but mine and yours. Snake or anybody else wants to know what I was doing here, just say it ought to be obvious.”

  Halfway back to the store he hesitated a step.

  Suppose it became “obvious” to Mary Ellen?

  ~*~

  Mary Ellen.

  He hardly knew her, had practically no chance with her, yet he missed her.

  And cared what she thought of him, whether that made any sense or not.

  “Foolish,” he muttered aloud, as he sat whittling behind the counter.

  What he needed to decide—before confronting Calpet—was whether Laurie had lied or told the truth about Calpet not being Snake Ed’s boss ...

  Would the Parkers come to Darholm’s funeral?

  “Be there or they won’t be,” he answered irritably.

  Would she be willing to talk to him? Or would it be just, “Good afternoon, Mr. Maxwell?”

  “Calpet,” he said, and made the shavings fly.

  ~*~

  At ten minutes to two, Buck turned the sign on the front door of his store to read “closed.” He and his employees went out into the drizzle to join the people gathering on the walk in front of Dunderland’s.

  No Parkers.

  But people were still arriving.

  Mrs. Darholm wept quietly, her children gathered somber-eyed around her.

  He knew he ought to say something to her, but nothing came to mind. The stares of the farmers and especially the children made him ashamed.

  “Mrs. Darholm,” he said respectfully, touching his hat. “I’m Buck Maxwell. If there’s anything I can do, just ask. To start with, your credit will always be good at Wyoming Hardware.”

  She turned her face up to him; she didn’t have to say a word to let him know what she thought of Wyoming Hardware.

  Buck was aware of faces, of what people must be thinking about him.

  “Your husband was a brave man who understood that avoiding a fight doesn’t solve the problem.”

  She turned her face away.

  Never should have left the Bighorns, he thought. He could have bought out Tar for a song and had no more to worry about than the weather and a few rustlers.

  Seemed like the procession would never start. The coffin was loaded. Dunderland had the livery horses hitched and stood in the boot jerking the lines trying to calm them down. But people were still gathering.

  Not the Parkers, though. Appeared they didn’t want to show up anywhere he might be.

  Somebody nudged Buck’s elbow.

  Snake Ed was stepping out of the Bucket of Blood. He propped himself against his favorite awning post, folded his arms. A couple of Texans came out to stand with their hands on their hips. One spat into the street.

  Buck was glad he’d decided to wear his .45—few other men wore guns and none carried rifles. He stepped to the rear of the group in plain view of the Bucket of Blood delegation and let his jacket open enough to show he was armed.

  Snake Ed smiled.

  Dunderland called to the fancy livery team and they lunged into their collars with such a will that the casket shifted, bringing a short scream of horror from the widow.

  Then, as the hearse pulled out into the street, a hog appeared from somewhere.

  Buck pointed it out to the farmers nearest him.

  “See what you can do,” he said quietly.

  Two men went after it first, then, when it got around them, other men joined the effort.

  Now came two more hogs, and three dogs chasing them. Some boys threw stones from an alley.

  “Fifty dollar funeral,” Buck muttered.

  The rock throwing was quickly stopped by the men nearest the boys, but keeping the animals any distance behind took a concerted effort. Then the horses spooked and away went the hearse, wheels flinging mud high into the air.

  The mourners straggled behind through the drizzle. Buck’s jaw muscles bulged.

  Dunderland finally got the team slowed down and was able to stop them at the graveyard. He still looked shaken when everyone else caught up. There was so much mud on the hearse it was impossible to see in the windows.

  The coffin was put on a pair of poles over the grave, with ropes alongside the poles, and the minister started eulogizing Darholm.

  Now along from town came Snake Ed and all five Texans, riding in a loose group. Three of them had strings of empty whiskey bottles slung behind their saddles.

  They rode tinkling by and around the little graveyard so as to be in full sight of the mourners. One of the Texans took a bottle off his string and threw it high in the air. Another, sitting his horse a short distance apart from the others, drew and fired. The bottle turned into shards which rained on the ground ten feet behind the minister.

  Startled, the minister shifted his footing and began his sentence again.

  But he’d hardly opened his mouth when the remains of the next bottle fell on him.

  The minister was an earnest, haunted-looking man of a reticent and mild nature. He hunched his shoulders against the glass rain and hung his head.

  Deafening gunfire shattered two more bottles almost at once. Shards from these rattled on the casket making the widow turn away putting a hand over her eyes.

  Buck had to work at resisting the temptation to start doing some shooting himself. There was no realistic chance of dropping more than two of them before the rest gunned him down.

  The Texans took turns throwing and shooting while Snake Ed watched Buck. Eager to see Buck get provoked enough to draw, no question.

  The minister tried feebly to keep on with his service while people huddled together, children crying, women turning their faces into their husband’s shoulders. The only thing Buck could find to do was support Mrs. Darholm as her body quaked with sobs.

  He thought of going to get a wagonload of weapons—the likely result would be a massacre of settlers. He thought of going to get his Remington to try to pick off the Texans from cover—but the nearest cover was too far away. There was nothing he could do.

  Nothing. Except fume at his own helplessness.

  The minister gave up, and four men let the coffin down on the ropes. The symbolic shovelfuls of dirt were thrown in hastily, the air full of shattered whiskey bottles as the Texans put on a grand finale, and then everybody hurried toward town.

  The shooting stopped, and along by came Snake Ed and the Texans, tipping their hats sardonically. Snake Ed gave Buck a derisive grin. Once past the little group of mourners the men kicked their mounts into a canter.

  “I’m sorry,” Buck said to Mrs. Darholm. There was nothing else to say. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  She declined help getting into her wagon and drove off without looking at him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Buck found Calpet and two hands branding in a corral north of the ranch buildings.

  “What do you want?” Calpet squinted across at him wh
ile his men roped another calf.

  “Your bill’s gone up. I’ll be expecting fourteen thousand dollars next Sunday.”

  “That a fact.” Calpet spat.

  “Ninety-eight hundred in church money, twelve hundred for the machinery, two thousand in store money that Skeetland was killed for, and a thousand for Darholm’s funeral.”

  “I got nothin’ to do with all that, except the machinery. Who the hell’s Darholm?”

  “Calpet, you ought to be ashamed to let a few sodbusters and some bad weather bring you low enough to wreck a funeral for a poor widow.”

  “What in tarnation are you talkin’ about?”

  “Don’t you even know what your men are up to?” Buck told Calpet what had happened.

  Calpet hit a cow pie dead center with tobacco juice. His eye wandered to where one of the cowhands was answering the call, “Hot iron!” at a run.

  “That ain’t my doing,” he said.

  “No? Bunkhouse full of lead punchers ain’t your doing?”

  “Maxwell, there’s one thing I know. Them sodbusters has got to be cleared out before they wreck the country. If you’re goin’ to take their side, you got to go, too. Now git. I’m busy.”

  “Fourteen thousand by Sunday, Calpet.”

  “Not from me,” Calpet said.

  ~*~

  Buck ate supper at Hilda’s, wound up dawdling over pea soup and coffee until after dark, telling an amiable cowpoke about the ranch in the Bighorns. By the time he started for his store he was nearly ready to drop everything and ride north.

  The drizzle, which had stopped about the time he’d left the Lazy L, was coming down again. Though his belly was full he felt miserable as a dog left out in the cold rain all night. The din of out-of-tune pianos and lusty off-key voices mingling in the street made him lonely and he considered going on along to Kate’s. An image of Daisy’s heavy, pushed-up wares came repeatedly and enticingly into his mind.

  But straight-backed, formal, distant, proper, “Good night, Mr. Maxwell” Mary Ellen broke that up. There was a lump in his throat as he unlocked the door.

  Inside, he crossed to his quarters.

  As he opened that door there was a sound.

  Buck leaped sideways, drawing his Colt.

  “Don’t shoot!” said a tense feminine voice. “It’s only me.”

  Laurie.

  “Come on out here,” he said, still holding the gun.