Elijah Kramer saw the pair of riders coming in across the flatland to the east. They must have come down out of the distant hills and were on their way in towards the post. He stood in the open door, arms folded across his chest, watching until he was able to make the pair out cleanly. Kramer sighed when he recognized them.
‘My luck must be out,’ he muttered.
Joe Lagrange and Josh Stringer. Two of Lew Gallman’s bunch.
Kramer was well used to having visits from all kinds of men. Good, bad, indifferent. Men on the run. Riding the Owlhoot. Drifters and wasters. Out of work cowhands. Looking for a place to rest for a while. As long as they paid their way—and often if he took to someone because of their circumstances—Kramer would offer a man credit. He knew that in most instance they would pay him back. It might take time but Kramer figured if you gave a man trust he would usually honor it. He tolerated them all because he ran an open house.
But even he had his own personal dislikes. Not many but he did not like the Gallman bunch. Kramer found the whole lot of them beyond redemption. He knew their way and he despised them for it. A bunch of hard, unrepentant killers without a single good bone in their bodies. They were to man simply butchers. So when he recognized Lagrange and Stringer he saw trouble riding in.
As it was Kramer was on his own that day. The two Crow Indians who helped him around the place were away visiting family. It left Kramer alone, though he was also glad the Indians were not around. He didn’t want anyone else around who might fall foul of Lagrange and Stringer.
Kramer never carried a weapon on him, though he had them placed around the store where they could be reached quickly if needed. A rifle and two hand guns. From where he stood in the doorway there was, on his right-hand side, a loaded, cut down shotgun. It rested on wooden pegs, driven into cracks between the wall timbers. All he needed to do was reach across with his right hand and lift the shotgun off the pegs. It was an old weapon. A Greener, its barrel sawed off to allow it to be employed quickly. Kramer looked after the shotgun, as he did all his weapons. It was cleaned and oiled on a regular basis, keeping the workings smooth and ready. He changed the loads every once in a while so he knew he wouldn’t end up with a malfunction. Kramer didn’t get involved in firefights very often, but he understood the need to keep his weapon ready. It was too late to discover a fault when the other feller was already making his play. A dead man didn’t get a second chance if he messed up his first.
Now Kramer didn’t move from the doorway. He understood how Lagrange and Stringer operated. If he stepped inside the door, for no apparent reason, once he had seen them, their minds would shout trap. They were a touch paranoid in that respect. So Kramer stayed exactly where he was watching his problem become larger as the pair rode in. Halted by the empty corral and tied their horses beside the water trough. Each man took his rifle, stood stamping the cricks out of their legs before they came across the yard.
‘Long time,’ Lagrange said.
‘I’ll wager he forgot us,’ the one-eyed Stringer said.
‘Hell, boy, it was a struggle but I done managed it.’
Stringer made an angry sound. He might have made a move if Lagrange hadn’t placed a massive hand against his chest and held him back.
‘Ease off, Josh. The man is funnin’,’ he said. ‘Ain’t that the truth?’
Kramer smiled, easy, knowing he had trod dangerous ground.
‘Come on, fellers, you know I make everyone welcome. I got a free drink inside.’
Now he deliberately turned his back and led the way inside the one-room post. Threaded his way between the stacks of trade goods of all kinds to where he had his bar set up. He stepped behind it and watched the pair as they came on. Their eyes searched every corner of the room, checking shadows and searching for any sign of other presences.
‘Pretty quiet, Kramer,’ Lagrange said.
‘That’s the way it goes. Come tomorrow I could be seein’ ’em piled high.’
‘Had any callers today?’ Stringer asked, leaning against the bar.
‘Nary a one. You fellers are my first in the last couple of days.’
‘The storm could have kept ’em away,’ Lagrange said. Still wary. Still looking around. He placed his rifle on the scarred bar top. ‘Where’s that drink?’
‘On its way.’
Kramer reached behind him and took a bottle off the shelf. Picked up a couple of shot glasses and placed them down. He uncorked the bottle and poured the whisky.
Lagrange tasted his slowly. At his side Stringer tossed his off in a quick gesture and held out his glass for more.
‘You boys lookin’ for supplies?’
‘Just lookin’,’ Lagrange said and offered nothing else.
Stringer turned around and leaned against the bar. He could see the open door and the spread of the flatland.
‘You got food?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We just rode a distance. Couple of big steaks be nice.’
‘Sure. Be a while. I need to get the stove hot.’
‘Well I don’t see we’ll be going far for a time,’ Stringer said. ‘Why don’t you go get those steaks. And leave the bottle.’
Stringer picked it up and slouched to one of the tables close by. As Kramer turned to go in back Lagrange joined his partner.
Kramer didn’t asked any more questions. He took himself to the kitchen which was in the back, behind the bar area, and set to preparing the food. He stoked up the cast iron stove and set out the big metal fry pan to heat up. He went down into to the cool-cellar where he kept supplies and brought up a quarter side of beef. It was no more than a couple of days old since he had slaughtered one of his own beeves himself for fresh meat. He placed the meat on the smooth slab of wood he used for carving and took one of his heavy butcher knives, cutting off a couple of big, thick steaks. Once the pan was hot he dropped the steaks in, hearing them sizzle as they began to sear in their own juices. He caught each steak and turned them, then left them to slow cook as he stirred the pot of beans sitting on the stove. Kramer added a measure of molasses to the beans that gave them a slightly sweet flavor. The slow cooked beans thickened slightly as they cooked and would accompany the steaks as a vegetable.
‘Hey. Kramer, you got any coffee back there?’ Lagrange called.
‘I’ll bring you some.’
There was invariably a big pot of strong coffee simmering on the back burner. Kramer filled a couple of tin cups and carried them through. He placed them on the table.
‘You finished burning those damn steaks yet?’ Stringer said.
‘Couple more minutes,’ Kramer said and returned to his kitchen.
‘I don’t trust that dammed German,’ Stringer said.
‘Why not? And he ain’t German. He’s from Austria I heard.’
‘Still a damn foreigner. And I still don’t trust him.’
‘Kramer runs a good place.’
‘He’d spit on us given a chance.’
‘Josh, you got a weird way of lookin’ at things.’
‘Right now I’d like to be lookin’ at that damn bounty man ‘long the barrel of my gun.’
A couple of minutes later Kramer brought their food. He put the plates down and handed them eating utensils, then retreated to tidy some shelves. Out the corner of his eye he watched the pair, still nervous in their presence and still trying to figure why they had shown up. He didn’t believe it was an innocent visit. Not the way the one called Stringer kept turning to look out the open door.
Damned if they ain’t waitin’ on someone.
After a time he refilled their coffee, removing the empty plates.
‘Food okay?’
Stringer grunted some kind of reply.
‘Pretty good,’ Lagrange said. ‘At least your steaks don’t move around on the plate.’
Kramer’s eyes strayed to the open door. He saw a pair of distant riders, heading in the direction of the post. Stringer must have seen them at the same moment. He reached across the table and tapped Lagrange’s hand. The big man slowly swung his head around.
‘Yeah,’ he said quietly.
His eyes turned and he stared at Kramer. The expression in them made Kramer’s skin crawl. He knew why the pair were here now. They were waiting for the two riding in. For an instant his eyes travelled to the shotgun pegged beside the door. The Winchester behind the bar. They wouldn’t do him any good. Lagrange and Stringer were too good to be caught napping.
And there he’d been thinking it was going to be a quiet day. It just went to show you couldn’t know what was coming.