Chapter 7

 

The saloon was brimming with patrons. Jim recognized some of the men from his previous encounter with Dude Miller. Over in a far corner, he noticed his old friend Shank Halsey playing cards with three other men. One of the other card players was Rusty Puckett. The third man was the cowhand who had retrieved the note Mort Quarry had left in the pecan tree. The fourth player was unknown to Jim.

Down at the far end of the bar were two rough looking hombres. They were the ones whose horses Jim had recognized. The two men were drinking beer and talking loud. Jim sidled up to the end of the bar that was closest to the swinging doors.

“Howdy there, feller,” said Stretch. “How ’bout a beer on me? It’s still the coldest in town.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Jim, “but there’s no need to give away your profit. I can pay.” Jim plunked a handful of coins onto the bar.

“Next round, my friend. This one’s on me. I never thought I would see the day when Dude Miller got his comeuppance. A word to the wise, though. There’s Armstrong men in here tonight, and Quarry men, too. They don’t get along none too well. Chris Armstrong’s over in the corner gettin’ pie-eyed drunk. It could get real ugly in here tonight. I’m keeping my Greener right close at hand, just in case. Better not drink too much so’s you lose your edge. It just might be fatal.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Jim answered.

Stretch Cassidy nodded and moved away. Jim began to drink the beer, lost in his thoughts.

Out of nowhere, the face of Melinda Quarry sprang into Jim’s consciousness. He gave himself a mental slap to drive her from his thoughts and chugged the remaining contents of the mug. He was about to order another one when Stretch appeared, fresh mug in hand. Jim insisted upon paying for this second mug and, after mild protest, the bartender accepted the payment.

The lanky bartender leaned down until his long hound dog face was inches from Jim’s. “You see those two gunnies at the other end of the bar? They’re a couple of real bad ones. The big one is Hack Bonner. Man, he must weigh near two hundred and fifty pounds. They say it’s all muscle and he knows how to use it. Cat quick with a short gun, too. Fast as he is, he ain’t near as swift as that skinny one standin’ beside him. That one’s name is McCafferty, but he goes by the handle of the Irish Kid. Some say he’s the fastest man with a short gun anywhere. They rode in this afternoon. Rumor has it they are here to run Bale Armstrong out of the country. If that’s true, there’s gonna be a whole bunch of innocent people in a lot of trouble. Bale Armstrong is the last chance this town has to keep Mort Quarry from owning everything. He wants my saloon, but I ain’t sellin’ unless Armstrong gets whipped. If he loses his ranch, well…” Stretch Cassidy’s voice trailed off into silence. Fear showed in his eyes. He lowered his head and walked away.

A loud commotion from the opposite end of the bar grabbed everybody’s attention, including Jim’s. The big gunslinger and the little one were arguing.

“I know you’re fast, Kid, but there are those that’s faster.” The sound rumbled like thunder rolling from the mouth of the big man, Hack Bonner.

“Ain’t nobody faster than the Irish Kid,” said the skinny one in a thick Irish brogue. He was shuffling his feet and wiggling his long, bony fingers.

“There’s one for sure who is,” Hack Bonner said.

“I said there ain’t a livin’ soul who can pull iron with me.”

“I heard you crawfished to Jim Butler over Arizona way a year or two back.”

Cormac McCafferty, alias the Irish Kid, turned purple. “That’s a ­bald-faced lie. I never even seen Jim Butler. And if I ever did come up against that faker, I’d back him down so quick it would make his dear sainted mother’s head swim. That’s a fact, boy.”

Chris Armstrong was headed up to the bar for another bottle of red eye when he overheard the gunmen’s conversation. He had seen Jim Butler come into the saloon, but hadn’t had the nerve to approach him.

“Say there, fellers,” he said, his speech slurring. “I heard you boys talkin’ about the great Jim Butler, and how fast he was with a six-gun.”

“You got a problem with that, son?” Hack Bonner towered over Chris’s six feet like some malevolent giant.

“No, sir, I sure don’t. It’s just that I thought you’d like to know that ol’ Jim Butler, himself, is right here in this saloon this very night.” Chris beamed like he’d just swallowed the prize canary.

“Where’s he at?” said the Irish Kid. He was all business.

Chris pointed a wobbly finger at Jim. The bar top cleared in an instant with everybody moving into the crowd around the poker tables. Shank Halsey grabbed Rusty Puckett by the shirtsleeve and yanked him out of his chair. Playing cards flew in every direction. Puckett started to protest when Shank whis­pered something into his ear. Rusty Puckett gasped and stared at Jim Butler. His eyes slowly filled with recognition, and a smile cracked the corners of his mouth. The two old cowboys edged up closer to the front of the crowd.

Jim stood rooted in place. The saloon got coffin quiet as the Irish Kid swaggered toward Jim. Stretch Cassidy let his hands rest on the Greener shotgun under the bar.

“You Jim Butler?” asked the Kid.

Jim didn’t answer.

“Look at him, Irish,” said Bonner. “He’s too danged scared to talk.”

“You a coward, Butler?” It was the Kid again. “You don’t look like no big time killer to me. I think your reputation must have been made on farmers and store keepers. That sound about right? Yeah, I think that’s right. What do you think, Hack?”

“He don’t look like no bad man I ever seen, Kid. He looks, to me, like he wants to leave this fine gathering.”

Jim Butler still did not move or speak.

“All right, boys, the party’s over. No one gets killed in my place if I can help it.” Stretch pointed his Greener right at the Irish Kid’s belt line. “Butler, you best back out of here and ride while you still can. I’ll hold off these boys. Go, now.”

Jim hesitated a moment then began to slide backwards out through the swinging doors. Once outside, he disappeared into the night.

“I’ll be hog-tied if I ain’t ever seen a man run so fast in my life,” said Hack Bonner. “It was sure a sight to see.” He was laughing and slapping the Irish Kid on the back. “Come on, Irish, I’m gonna buy you the biggest piece of cow they got in this town.”

Both men headed out of the Golden Ace, spurs jangling and jaws flapping, headed for the Calico Kitchen.

“Did you see it, boys? Did you see it?” Chris Armstrong was roaring drunk and spouting off. “Mr. High and Mighty Jim Butler has a yellow streak when he has to face a real man. I should have gunned him down the other day when I had a chance. Next time I see him, I might just make him eat dirt. That sure would be a funny sight, wouldn’t it, boys?”

Shank Halsey and Rusty Puckett stomped out of the saloon. They had just seen their old friend ‘Badger’ Armstrong crawfish, and their night of fun was over.

Chris whispered something to the men closest to him and they erupted with laughter. He raised his hands for them to be quiet and then he weaved his way up to the bar. “Say, there, Cassidy,” said Chris, trying to look serious, but not succeeding. “How come it is that you always pull out that old shotgun every time somebody sneezes in your saloon? We all know you ain’t got the guts to use it.”

“One of you men take this boy home before he makes a statement he can’t back up,” said Stretch.

A couple of the more sober-looking Quarry men got up and started toward Chris. One was Charley Pratt.

Chris was not ready to go. “I ain’t leaving here ’till I’m blamed good and ready.” He pulled iron and waved it at the two approaching Quarry men.

“Come on now, Chris,” said Charley Pratt. “Mr. Quarry will skin you alive if he finds out you been raisin’ a ruckus in the saloon. Come on, go with us. I got a bottle in my room. We can keep on drinkin’ there.”

“Mr. Quarry,” said Chris, in mocking tones. “He ain’t nothing but a horse shooter. Yeah, a horse killer, that’s all your Mr. Quarry is. Well, my name ain’t Quarry. It’s Armstrong, Chris Armstrong, and me and my daddy got the best ranch in the whole panhandle country. You can tell Mr. Horse Murderer that I’m going back where I belong, the Double-A-Slash Ranch. And Charley Pratt, you little weasel, you tell old horse killer that he ain’t welcome on that ranch any­more. If I see him, I’ll shoot him on sight.”

Chris was still waving his pistol around and staggering all about. Stretch rolled his Greener over the bar top and pointed it at the drunken man. Chris caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and snapped a shot in that direction. The slug hit Cassidy high in the chest. He reeled against the back bar and dropped to the floor. His bartender rushed over and kneeled beside him.

“Somebody get Doc Whithers, quick! I think Stretch is dying.”

“Oh, my Lord!” yelled Charley Pratt. “Some of you boys grab the kid and get him out of town.”

“Where do we take him?”

“Take him to that line shack up in the hills. I’ll get Mr. Quarry.”

A dozen hands latched onto Chris Armstrong, who, in his drunken state, continued to protest. They hoisted him up on their shoulders and carried him out to the horses. In a flash they were gone.

Charley Pratt looked dazed as he stumbled out into the crisp night air. He mounted his horse and took off at a gallop to find his boss.