Wyoming Hardware (An E. R. Slade Western Book 3) Page 9

  “He’s not on their side, I assure you,” Hastings said. “You know those Texans we’ve been wondering about the last couple of weeks?” He explained that they were the ones responsible for the missing equipment. “Wrecked it,” he told them, and described what he’d seen. Then he related what had happened when Buck went to confront Calpet, dwelling on the threat. He said, “We have got a problem, gentlemen.”

  “How do you know he didn’t haul that stuff out and dump it himself?” sneered Tole. “He’s going to lose it all anyway. I think it’s a trick.”

  “No, it’s not,” said a tall, bald-headed fellow with black eyebrows. “He was out at Parker’s place. My sister lives out that way and she told me so herself. Saw him arrive and saw him leave.”

  Hastings was giving Buck a meaningful look, so he cleared his throat and said, “I was mad last time—maybe you can understand why—and I said some things I shouldn’t have. I’m here to make the same offer I did before. But something else on top of that. I’m going to do what I can to help you get your money back from McFee. It may not be possible, but I’m undertaking to try. Obviously it’ll do all of us good if I succeed.”

  Even Gabriel Tole looked taken aback at that announcement.

  “I admire your courage,” said the tall man. “But if I vote to make a deal with you it will not include asking you to do that.”

  “I agree,” said another. “It would only be provoking. We want a man with courage, but we have to make a distinction here between courage and foolhardiness.”

  “That’s my feeling also,” Hastings said. “But Mr. Maxwell’s willingness to confront Snake Ed speaks very plainly about where he stands. Under the circumstances, I don’t think we can afford to turn down his offer—exclusive of trying to get the money back from the cattlemen.”

  “It’s a bad time of year to have no hardware store,” one man mused. “I’ve already been hearing from people wanting to know how long it’ll be before the store’s open again. I assumed we would run it ourselves until we could find a buyer, but if those Texans are trying to shut the place down we could have trouble finding either buyers or clerks.”

  Another agreed, then asked Buck, “Did you really slug the county sheriff this morning? Somebody told me that, but I didn’t know whether to believe it or not.”

  “Yep.”

  There were murmurs of amazement.

  Hastings said, “It’s quite true. I was standing not five feet away when it happened. But that’s not all. Afterwards, he shot the hat off his head and the gun out of his hand—at about a hundred and fifty yards.”

  This created such a sensation probably nobody heard Buck say, “Not over seventy-five yards.”

  “Markham?” Tole demanded. “You took a shot at Markham? What made you do that?” Tole was determined to find the flaw.

  Buck looked Tole in the eye. “Tried to arrest me,” he said.

  Hastings jumped in to explain that Buck had merely gone into the store to get his personal things and that Markham wouldn’t back off when Hastings said he would take responsibility.

  “You mean he decided to ignore us, take back the store by force.” Tole’s face was flushing with anger—maybe he thought he’d almost been fooled. “This ain’t the kind of man to have,” he said. “He’ll never pay any more attention to our rights—or anybody else’s rights—than the rest of them cattlemen do. He figures to shoot his way to whatever he wants.”

  Buck clamped his mouth shut hard.

  “I’ll remind you, Gabriel,” said Hastings, “that Mr. Maxwell came to me about the wrecked machinery—it wasn’t me going to him. And I certainly never suggested to him he ought to offer to get our money back from Snake Ed.”

  “Window dressing,” Tole said in disgust.

  “Meeting called to order,” Hastings said. “This being a special emergency meeting we’ll dispense with the usual preliminaries. I move we allow Buck to keep his store if he will agree to pay back the lost money within five years, as he offered.”

  “I think we need a promise he won’t attempt to get the money back from Snake Ed and will otherwise avoid provoking him,” said the tall man.

  “Good point, Bob,” Hastings said. “I’ll make that part of the motion. Do I hear a second?”

  “Wait a minute,” said the man with the long drooping mustache, the first he’d spoken. “I would like to further amend that motion to stipulate that Mr. Maxwell agrees to take cattle in trade. There are a lot of farmers and small ranchers that have stock to sell, but the Stock Growers’ Association won’t deal with them.”

  “There’s already plenty to think about without that,” Buck said. “The cattlemen will be around checking brands and it’ll be hard for me to be sure where the cattle came from—whether they were rustled, I mean.”

  Gabriel Tole’s eyes narrowed. “Now that’s just the same line as we got from the Stock Growers’ Association. Every farmer’s a rustler. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No,” said Buck, “it’s not. But all it takes is doubts about one animal and lead is apt to fly. Hardware is enough for me to try to handle. I don’t even have a corral. I ain’t set up for it.”

  “I amend my notion to include the stipulation that Buck will accept cattle in trade. Do I hear a second?” Hastings looked from one man to the next.

  “Second,” said the tall man.

  “Somebody’s going to have to do something about Snake Ed someday,” Buck said.

  “Dealing with criminals is not our function,” Hastings said. “We are simply asking you to recognize it is not yours, either.”

  “If Snake Ed or anybody else bothers me again, I’m not going to wait and see if Olinger will do something about it.”

  “We would, of course, expect you to defend your store,” Hastings said carefully. “As any of us would.”

  “Just so you understand.”

  “I have a seconded motion,” Hastings said. “Is there any more discussion?”

  “If we vote to do this, we might as well kiss our money goodbye,” Tole said. “You mark my words. This will be a disaster.”

  “We ain’t got a lot of choice, as I see it,” said the man with the drooping mustache. “You want to clerk in the hardware store for us with them Texans around?”

  “Wouldn’t be so dangerous if Maxwell hadn’t made it a point to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Tole grumbled. “He’s even got the sheriff against us now. There’ll be a shootin’ war before this is over, and all because of Maxwell.”

  “Markham was never really for us,” the drooping mustache said. “It may be unfortunate that Maxwell confronted him the way he did—may have repercussions. But my wife’s sister is a widow because Markham shot down Hank as he was plowing in the field. Hank was no more rustler than I am. I have to say that if Maxwell had killed Markham this morning it wouldn’t have bothered me a bit.”

  Buck was interested to see a general nodding in agreement to this sentiment. Maybe there was hope for the future of High Plains after all.

  “I have a seconded motion,” said Hastings. “I’m taking a vote.”

  This time it was six to one in Buck’s favor, only Gabriel Tole sticking to his doubts.

  “Congratulations, Buck,” said Hastings. “I hope that’s the right word. You’re free to reopen. Just remember, you’re obliged to take cattle in trade. That shouldn’t be so bad. You ought to know stock by now, I should think. From that point of view you’d be the best man to take up that kind of trading.”

  “I guess,” said Buck doubtfully.

  Chapter Twelve

  Word went out in no time. He hadn’t been open an hour when he saw the first of a long, heavy stream of customers. Most everybody knew about the deal with the Committee, but what had made the biggest impression was knocking down Markham and shooting his hat off. Several men wanted to shake his hand for that. Many more had bitter stories of Markham’s deeds—the confiscations of property, harassment of wives and daughters, threats, and five different shoo
tings of innocent men Markham had called rustlers. Markham was a thoroughly hated man, that was plain.

  Buck had put a notice in the window that he was hiring, and by ten o’clock he had a man at work painting out “E. Skeetland, Prop.” and replacing it with, “Buck Maxwell, Prop.” Not long after, Buck was able to send several men to retrieve the machinery, and he hired the blacksmith to help him assess its value and salavagability and begin work on what repairs were worth doing. By nightfall all the machinery was back in the lot and a couple of plows had been restored to working order.

  The next day, Friday, farmers and small-time ranchers began to bring stock to trade. Buck set his four men to work building a corral. He gave them rifles and told them to keep an eye out for trouble. Meanwhile machinery—much of it just as it came from the bottom of the canyon—moved quickly at Buck’s bargain prices.

  Saturday saw a heavy trade in livestock. People even started bringing pigs, sheep, and chickens. Having gone into the stock business, Buck figured he might as well go whole hog, and had his men throw up some makeshift pens and a poultry fence. He went along to the feed store to strike a deal on grain and hay.

  That evening he was up quite late trying to figure out whether he was ahead or behind. He now had sixteen milk cows, most past their prime or dry, ten steers that he’d looked over very carefully for brands (there were none), two sows, one boar, six scruffy little sheep, three unbranded horses, and five hens that probably weren’t laying much. He’d managed to sell, sometimes for cash but mostly on credit, almost a hundred and fifty dollars worth of decent milk cows, oxen, horses, and sheep. But even so, if things kept on at this rate it wouldn’t be long before he’d need to find other markets.

  He had moved nearly a quarter of the salvageable machinery, though it didn’t amount to much in dollars. It was hard to make anything trading wrecked mowing machines for worm-ridden sheep or elderly hens. It was a good question whether paying men to haul it all back here had been worthwhile. Sometime soon a shipment of new machinery Skeetland had ordered—and fortunately already paid for—was due in Cheyenne. He had sent, via the stage driver, to have it brought on to the new railhead at Casper. Once that stuff arrived this junk wasn’t going to seem very interesting to anybody. He was able to sell it now because it was all there was to be had, and farmers had crops to plant. On the other hand, bargains attracted customers, and many men came to look at the machinery and ended up buying other things.

  On balance, things were looking up. There had been enough cash buying to keep him ahead of wages and expenses, plus something that might even be called a profit. The corral was finished and the four men had agreed to come back the next day and start work on a barn to keep hay and small stock in. Another man had agreed to do the chores, including milking any cows that needed it, in return for credit.

  The most encouraging thing was that he’d had no trouble with either Snake Ed or Markham. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any, but so far so good.

  And he had Mary Ellen to thank for it. It wasn’t likely he’d have made the effort to avoid a fight but for her.

  He sat back from his desk and looked at the pattern of lantern light on the ceiling. Half an hour went by unnoticed. Then the lantern dimmed for lack of fuel and he sighed and stood up.

  He had gotten into bed before it registered that the next day was Sunday—deadline day for Snake Ed.

  Of all the things he didn’t feel like doing. Now he had his store back with the Committee’s blessing he wanted to think about Mary Ellen, not Snake Ed.

  Nobody else wanted him to tangle with Snake. Mary Ellen didn’t. The Committee didn’t.

  Maybe they were right.

  If Snake Ed hadn’t brought back the money by now, he wasn’t going to. Confronting him wouldn’t change that. The money was gone.

  But it would be the first time he’d ever failed to make good a threat.

  He yawned.

  There was going to be a decision to make tomorrow.

  ~*~

  Sunday morning, Buck strapped on his Colt before breakfast. After breakfast he loaded a double-barreled twelve gauge and laid it under the counter, stood a Winchester in the corner of his quarters, and a Remington just inside the rear door of the store.

  His men arrived to work on the barn and he said to them: “Go on home and come back Monday.”

  They were puzzled. One of them, a grizzle-chinned farmer named Darholm, said, “I don’t mind working on Sunday, Mister Maxwell. I need the money.”

  “There’s something might happen today,” Buck said. “I got reason to think Snake Ed could get ornery. There’s no point in you getting shot at.”

  But Darholm’s grizzled chin knotted. “We’ll side you, Mister Maxwell. Leastways, I will. We knowed there might be trouble when we hired on.”

  The others looked less certain, but they echoed Darholm’s sentiments.

  “I appreciate that,” Buck said, impressed. “Keep a sharp lookout and holler if you see anything of Snake Ed, Markham, or them Texans. Keep your guns handy.”

  “I got my rifle right here—we all do.” Darholm reached and picked it up, hefted it.

  Here’s a start against Snake Ed, Buck thought as he went back into the store. Maybe Darholm would make a good councilman.

  Hastings’ Dry Goods, the millinery shop, and a few others closed in respect for the day, but all the saloons were open, the livery never shut, Dunderland paid Sunday no mind, nor did the feed store or the blacksmith. Buck found customers waiting at the door by seven o’clock, so he decided to open.

  After the initial rush, things slowed down, and Buck took to going to the door to look up and down the street every few minutes.

  It made him nervous, having men at risk. An unfamiliar feeling. On the ranch risk was just something that came with the territory. He’d always figured any man who managed to make it that far into nowhere could handle danger and was responsible for himself. But these men were just farmers. He kept picturing Darholm’s big awkward hands holding onto the rifle. Could he hit anything with it? In a battle would he even try to fire it? He remembered a farmer once in Missouri who thought a rifle was the same thing as a club.

  Wagons gathered at the hitch rail down the street and people went in for their church service. He saw the Parkers’ wagon and wanted to go down and sit with them. He wanted to tell Mary Ellen the decision he’d come to this morning—that he was going to leave Snake Ed alone as long as Snake left him alone. He wanted to tell her he’d decided that way because of her.

  But he couldn’t do that today.

  He hauled out his pocket watch, then five minutes later did so again, then again two minutes after that. There were still twenty minutes to the end of the service. Not that it meant anything.

  Unadmitted in the back of his mind was an idea of being on the sidewalk when they came out so he could catch a glimpse of her before they drove off.

  A customer came in and Buck made the wrong change—twice—got an odd look from the sour old cowpoke.

  He resolved to get hold of himself. But the first thing he got hold of was his watch ...

  There was gunfire in the rear.

  Buck darted out the back, saw Darholm lying on the ground, the other three men down behind the corral fence shooting at somebody in the wagon shed.

  In that dimness a rifle barrel swung toward him. He stepped back into the store just as a bullet sang past.

  He grabbed the Winchester from his quarters and opened a window that looked in the direction of the shed. The rifle barrel swung toward him again and he slammed the Winchester to his shoulder, kneeling.

  There came a barrage from the farmers and the rifle tipped down, fell to the ground. Out of the shadows sprawled Snake Ed’s nephew, Fred Smithly.

  Buck lowered the Winchester and went out.

  Smithly was dead.

  So was Darholm.

  “He just started shooting,” said one of the surviving farmers, shaken. “We never saw him.”

&nbs
p; I’m the one should have seen him, Buck was thinking, looking at Darholm.

  “That’s Snake Ed’s nephew,” Buck said. “Go home, boys.”

  The three men looked at each other.

  “I reckon I’ll stay,” said the sandy-haired fellow, whose name was Horsely. His dander was up.

  “Go home,” Buck told them again. “It’s no shame to you to stay clear of a battle with Snake Ed McFee.”

  “If you’re willing to fight Snake,” Horsely said, “we ought to be. You go down, we all go down.”

  “It’s our battle, too,” another said.

  Just what he’d been hoping to hear from somebody. Only now he felt responsible, and things looked different.

  “He was a good friend of mine,” the third man said.

  He looked from one man to the next. Their determination was ironclad. But so had Darholm’s been.

  “All right,” Buck said, suddenly impatient with his unfamiliar sense of responsibility.

  He went to get Dunderland while one of the men rode off to tell the dead man’s wife she was a widow. Buck felt he should have done that, but with Snake Ed liable to appear at any moment there wasn’t much choice.

  When Dunderland saw Snake Ed’s nephew, his mouth screwed to one side.

  “I ain’t sorry to see the end of that little bastard,” he said. “But who’s going to pay for his funeral?”

  “Not me,” Buck said. “I will pay for Darholm’s.”

  “I ain’t touchin’ the kid unless Snake Ed comes and tells me to.”

  “Then I’ll put him out beyond the corral. I don’t want him there.”

  Dunderland sized him up with calculating eyes. “This farmer will be fifty dollars. That includes the coffin and everything else.”

  “You’re nothing but a stickup artist, you know that?”

  “Payable in advance,” Dunderland said firmly.