Chapter 8

 

Bam! Bam! Bam! The banging noise woke Mort Quarry up. He had snoozed off while reading the paper. “Just a minute, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” He did not like to be disturbed at home. The squalid face of Charley Pratt met his gaze as he peered through the peephole. Quarry wrenched the door open. “Charley Pratt, this had better be important.”

“Y-yes, sir, Mr. Quarry, it is real important. Chris Armstrong done got himself all liquered up and shot Stretch Cassidy down at his bar.”

“What! How in the devil’s name did that happen?”

Charley Pratt relayed the story while Mort Quarry listened in stoic silence. When Pratt finished, Quarry rubbed his chin and pursed his lips.

“Charley, you did the right thing getting that idiot out to the line shack. I want you to ride out there and assign two of the men to stay with Chris. They had better not let him out of their sight. If they do, it will be on your head.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it. What if Cassidy kicks off, boss? What’ll we do then?”

“Leave that problem up to me. Now, you had better get out of here right away.”

Charley started to go when Quarry grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. Charley almost cried out in pain. Mort Quarry got right up in the small man’s face.

“Charley, do you know where Dude is?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Before you leave for the shack, get one of the boys to round him up. Tell him to meet me in the Golden Ace. Understand?”

Charley nodded yes, and Quarry turned him loose.

Hack Bonner and the Irish Kid walked out of the Calico Kitchen cafe rubbing their full stomachs and moaning about how much they had eaten.

“Dang it, son,” said Bonner. “Skinny as you are, I don’t know where you put all them vittles. You got a hollow leg, Kid?”

“You know I don’t eat real often, Hack, but when I do, I don’t mess around.” Both gunmen laughed and started in the direction of the saloon. They ambled along the dark wooden sidewalk talking and taking in the cool night air.

“Say, Kid, you ever seen anything as funny as Jim Butler tonight? I couldn’t hardly keep from laughin’ out loud.”

“Yeah, me too. I believe that was the best job of crawfishin’ I ever saw. He didn’t say a word, just pulled in his feelers and slid out backwards. I thought I was gonna bust a gut.”

“You boys think that was real funny, don’t you?”

The voice came from the shadows of an alley on their right. The click of a revolver being cocked echoed off the dry boards of the buildings siding the alley. The two men froze in place.

“You two funny boys turn around and back over here into this alley. We got to have us a little palaver. I see your right hand twitchin’, Cormac. A wise man never shoots at what he can’t see. Be easy.”

Careful to not make any false moves, the men eased their way backwards into the alley. They were ten paces in when the voice told them to stop and turn around.

“Howdy, fellers, how are y’all doin’?” It was Jim Butler.

“I knew it was you,” said the Irish Kid. “You are the only person in the world, besides my sainted mother, who calls me by my real name.”

“Dang, Jim, you sure had us buffa­loed.”

Hack Bonner had his hat off and was scratching his balding head. “Son, I’m gettin’ way too old for these kinds of shenanigans.”

“Sorry, Hack, but it just had to look real tonight. Hopefully, the Quarry bunch will be so confused about me that they’ll lay off, and I can have time to find out where my dad and my brother stand in all this. Y’all got here quicker than I thought you would. Bartender said you rode in this afternoon.”

“We been in that bar raisin’ Old Ned since around three o’clock. We were gettin’ hungry and thinkin’ maybe you weren’t comin’. We were about to head out for some grub when you showed up. What’s so important that you had to call me and the Kid in on it?”

“It’s a long story, Hack. So I’ll just hit the high points.”

Jim told his friends the story in as few words as possible. “So that’s why I don’t want anyone to know who I am, just yet,” he said as he finished.

The Irish Kid whistled through his teeth. “You sure have you a mountain­sized problem there, Jim boy. That’s for sure.”

“Kid,” said Hack Bonner, scowling at the Kid’s last statement, “you’ve always had a way of statin’ the obvious. Yeah, Jim’s got a problem, and if he’s got a problem, well then, we got a problem too.”

“I know that,” the Kid said, looking like he had just been scolded by his mama.

“You two cut it out,” said Jim. “I knew you would help me, so I worked out a plan for when y’all showed up. Our little ruckus in the saloon tonight was the beginning of that plan.”

He was about to explain his idea when they heard someone out on the street. The three men backed against a building and held their breaths. Two men walked by chattering like blue jays at a church picnic.

“I was there, I tell you.” It was a short, dumpy hostler from the livery. “I saw it all. That Armstrong kid shot Stretch Cassidy in cold blood. Old Stretch never had a chance.”

“Is he dead?” said the other man, whom Jim did not recognize.

“Lord knows. They carried him over to Doc Wither’s place. I reckon he’s still there. That is, unless the undertaker already has him.”

“Stretch was a good man. They catch that kid, they’ll hang him for sure.”

The men disappeared down the street. Jim took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Stretch is dead and Chris is on the run for his murder. Something isn’t right. Did you boys see any of this?”

“No, Jimmy, we left right after you did.”

“Your brother was sure snookered when we left the saloon. He was rantin’ on about you bein’ a coward and all. Said he knew that you wasn’t no man. He said—”

“All right, Cormac, I get the idea,” said Jim. “Be quiet while I think this out.”

The Irish Kid started to say some­thing else when Hack Bonner grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. Jim stood in silence for a long time before he spoke.

“Hack, I want you to ride out to the Double-A-Slash Ranch and tell my father you are an old saddle pal of mine looking for work. If he hasn’t heard about Chris, tell him. There is an old friend of mine cowboyin’ there named Shank Halsey. He knows I’m alive. Get with him and anybody he can trust and y’all wait for word from me.”

“Cormac, I want you to hire on with Mort Quarry’s bunch. Tell him you and Hack split up. You’ll think of a reason why. Try and find out where they are hiding Chris. I’m going to the doctor’s place to check on Stretch. I’ll be in touch.”

Double-checking that the street was deserted, Hack and Cormac drifted out in five minute intervals. Jim edged down to the back of the alley and scooted along the shadows behind the buildings until he came to Doc Wither’s place.

Jim crept up the side of the building and peered around the front. The street was empty. He could see lights coming from the saloon, and from the sound roaring out of the place, everything was going strong despite the earlier shoot­ing. Stepping up onto the sidewalk he peeped through a window. Lights were on in the back room. Jim knocked on the doctor’s front door. In a moment a shuffling noise brought someone to the door.

“What now?” said an old man in a night shirt, as he opened the door.

“I came to check on Mr. Cassidy,” said Jim.

The doctor looked this stranger up and down. He moved the lamp he was carrying close to Jim’s face. Jim raised his hand to shield the light from his eyes.

“Good Lord Almighty!’ said Doc Withers. “You’re Badger Armstrong.”