The bartender, a paunchy, balding man with round eyes and a trailing mustache, was standing inside the doorway. He turned as Shawn entered, hurried to get in behind the counter which was immediately adjacent to the batwings.
“What’ll it be?”
From habit, Starbuck glanced around the semi dark room. It was deserted. Leaning against the bar, he nodded, pushed his hat to the back of his head. The edge had not faded entirely from his voice.
“Rye ... some water first.”
The balding man set a stone pitcher and a tumbler on the counter before Shawn, reached for a shot glass and a bottle, covertly studying him all the while. It was as if he were calculating the wisdom of launching into his usual companionable conversation with strangers.
Starbuck solved the problem for him. Downing a second glass of water, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the street.
“What’s going on out there?”
The bartender’s brow pulled into a frown. “Been a killing,” he said, filling the shot glass with liquor and placing it in front of Shawn. “Four men. The marshal’s trying to make up a posse and go after the outlaws that done it.”
“Not having much luck, seems.”
“He won’t around here.”
Starbuck’s brows lifted. “I figured he was the local lawman.”
“He is—but he won’t be after next month. Folks just plain ain’t got no use for Harry Brandon. Election’s coming up and he won’t get another term.”
Shawn stirred. “It’s still the law. If he needs help people ought to give it to him.”
The bartender’s shoulders twitched. “Well, it ain’t only that it’s Brandon asking, it’s the fact that the gold them outlaws took off with belonged to the Paradise Mine, and there ain’t nobody going to turn a hand to help that outfit.”
“I heard something about that when I rode up. What’s everybody got against the Paradise Mine?”
“They had a chance to set up their office here, and do their buying of supplies from the local merchants. Instead they picked a town on the other side of the mountain. Can’t nobody forget that.”
Voices in the street rose briefly, fell again to a murmur. Starbuck said, “They probably had a good reason.”
“Maybe, but they’re going to find out right quick that it’d been smart—and a powerful lot cheaper—to’ve settled here in Wolf Crossing … A hundred thousand dollars cheaper.”
Shawn whistled softly. “Lot of money. What happened?”
“They was sending it to Dodge City—some special deal. Usually all the gold goes the other way, to Denver, but this was different, and it was all real secret like. The gold was on two pack mules and they had four guards with them. Was passing themselves off as engineers. Only it didn’t work. Somehow the outlaws, was three of them, got wind of the truth about it.”
“They pull the holdup here in town?”
“Nope, about a mile east of here. Ambushed them. Brandon heard the shooting, got out there fast as he could, but the outlaws were already gone. One of the guards was still alive, barely. Told the marshal what had happened.”
“When was this?”
“Just around noon. Guards had spent the night here, was heading out for Dodge. Brandon brung the bodies in, then sent word to the Paradise people. He’s been trying to get a posse together ever since.”
Shawn sipped at his whiskey. “Won’t the company be sending him some help?”
“Probably, but it’ll be this time tomorrow at least before they can get here. Them outlaws will be long gone by then.”
The sounds in the street lifted again. Shawn listened idly for a few moments. Harry Brandon, he gathered, was still having no luck.
“Your marshal holds off much more himself, he’ll be too late, too. Better settle for those three who did volunteer.”
The barman cocked his head to one side, smiled wryly. “If you was him, would you be willing to go after three killers with the town drunk, a greenhorn and a nigra handyman?”
“It’d be a mean choice,” Shawn replied, shrugging. “I don’t know any of them, but seems they’d be better than nobody at all.”
“Doubt that. The greenhorn—name’s Walt Moody—blew in here a week or so ago. From St. Louis. Got himself some kind of woman trouble. All he’s done is mope around, head hanging and acting like he wish’t he was dead. The nigra’s been working for some cattle outfit west of here. He got laid off ... There’s something peculiar about him.”
“Peculiar?”
“Well, I mean he’s sort of had some learning. Talks real good for a nigra, which is sort of funny.”
“A colored man can be educated same as a white. I’ve known a few in my lifetime.”
The bartender nodded. “Sure, I know that, only it sort of surprises a man. You just don’t expect it, somehow.”
“He got a name?”
“Calls himself Able Rome ... Third fellow is Dave Gilder. Lays around here drunk most of the time. Now and then he gets himself a job on some ranch where they don’t know him, but it never lasts long. I figure he’d make a pretty good man if he was to get his snout out of the jug and straighten up.”
Starbuck finished off the rye, refilled the tumbler with water. The bartender looked at him closely.
“You looking for work? I heard Brandon say he was paying five dollars a day and keep. Good chance the Paradise people will come through with a little reward, too, if they get their hundred thousand back.”
Shawn drank the water, shook his head. “No thanks. I got a job of my own to do—looking for my brother.”
The man behind the counter paused in the process of wiping the varnished surface of the bar. “He live around here? Maybe I’ll know him.”
“Name’s Ben Starbuck. Good chance he goes by Damon Friend, however.”
The bartender resumed his polishing in thoughtful silence. Finally he glanced up. “Nope, don’t recollect nobody by either of them names. What’s he look like?”
“Probably a little like me. Could be shorter, heavier.”
“You talk like you ain’t sure—”
“I’m not. Haven’t seen him in over ten years or so. Ran off from home after a squabble with my pa.”
“I see ... You got some reason for thinking he’s here in Wolf Crossing?”
“No, I’m just passing through on my way to Santa Fe. I make a point of asking about him wherever I happen to be. Been doing it for a long time—all over the country.”
“Must be mighty important that you find him.”
“It is. Can’t settle Pa’s estate until I do ... The Grand Central Hotel, that the best place to put up for the night? Been a rough day and I can use a good bed.”
“It’s the only place, but it’s good. Best you do your eating at the Antelope Cafe, howsomever. Vittles are a mite better. How long you aim to be around?”
“Moving on in the morning,” Shawn replied. “How much I owe you?”
“Two bits’ll cover it ... You mind me saying something?”
Starbuck dropped a coin on the bar. “Depends.”
“About the way you handled them two smart alecks out there in the street. I was standing in the door watching. You—you’re powerful fast with that iron of yours.”
“A man learns.”
“You—maybe, well—could be you sometimes hire out to somebody—”
“If you’re wondering if I’m a hired gun, the answers no.”
The bartender nodded, looked down. “No offense.”
“None taken, and there’s times when I have hired on a job where a gun was part of the deal. But only a part.”
“I see ... This here brother of yours that you’re hunting for, if he ever shows up, what ought I to tell him?”
“Could be you won’t have to tell him nothing, Ed,” a voice said from the doorway. “Could be I know where he is.”
Starbuck drew himself upright, wheeled quickly. Harry Brandon, light filtering in from a window glinting against his star, was facing him.
“What was that?”
The lawman came on into the saloon. Beyond him in the street Shawn could see that the crowd had broken up. The three volunteers for the posse now stood at the hitch rack.
“I said I might could tell you where this fellow—”
“Brother—” the bartender supplied.
“This brother of yours, name of Ben, could be.” Starbuck studied the marshal’s weathered features narrowly. Then, “Where?”
“Like as not he’s one of the outlaws I’m setting out after.”