‘’Scuse me, Marshal.’
Dwight looked the young man up and down. He seemed to bear no threat. He was average height, maybe five-foot-seven, muscular, at close to 150 pounds, tousled brown hair jutting from beneath a slightly smaller hat than cowboys wore. Clear brown eyes met Dwight’s with neither timidity nor challenge.
‘What can I do for you?’ the marshal replied.
‘Just wondered if you might know somebody in town that’s hirin’,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorta in need of a job.’
‘Didn’t strike it rich, huh?’
He grinned. ‘Didn’t try. Trompin’ around the hills turnin’ rocks over ain’t never struck me as a good way to make a livin’.’
‘What do you do for a livin’?’
‘Whatever’s available. Work with my hands. I’m pretty handy. I’m stout. I’m a good worker.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Where you from, Lester?’
‘Just Les, if you don’t mind. Missouri.’
Dwight grinned. ‘Les Goode. I ’spect you get a bad time about that now and then.’
Les grinned in response. ‘I’ve been ribbed about worse stuff than my name.’
‘You ever do any carpenterin’?’
‘Yeah. Quite a little, as a matter o’ fact.’
‘You any good at it?’
‘More’n just good. I’ve been told I drive nails like lightnin’.’
‘That so?’
‘Yup. My hammer never strikes twice in the same spot.’
Dwight chuckled. ‘Makes it kinda hard to get a nail driven, don’t it?’
‘Naw. It just takes a little longer. But havin’ to swing the hammer twice as much makes my arm stronger. Actually, I ain’t really all that bad.’
‘Well, Virgil Zucher’s lookin’ for a man or two. He’s got more work than he can handle, what with all the buildin’ goin’ on.’
‘The town does seem right prosperous. Where could I find Mr Zucher?’
‘You won’t find him at all if you call ’im “Mr Zucher”. He’ll just tell you Mr Zucher was killed in the war.’
The stranger frowned. ‘Why would he say that?’
‘’Cause his father was killed in the war.’
Goode grinned. ‘Oh. Well, then, where could I find Virgil?’
Dwight pointed at one of the streets running at rightangles to the main street. ‘His house is up that street. It’d be the fifth house, I guess. He’s got a shingle out front, so you can’t miss it. He’s more’n likely over at the bank now, though.’
‘The bank?’
‘The Headland Land and Mineral Bank, not the other one. They’re startin’ to build on. They’re gonna more’n double the size of the bank.’
‘That oughta be a good sized job. Banks build right good. “Hell for stout”, as the sayin’ goes.’
‘Makes folks feel like their money’s secure, that way.’
‘There’s a lot o’ money in the banks in this town, I’m bettin’.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, it’s good cow country, an’ beef’s pertneart six cents a pound, I hear, so the ranchers gotta be doin’ good. Then there’s all the gold comin’ outa the hills. Lots o’ people flockin’ inta the area means the merchants are makin’ money hand over fist. Yup, the banks oughta be plumb full o’ money.’
Something about the way he said it excited a brief flurry of activity by the spine chills that had been troubling Dwight, but the sensation disappeared almost as soon as it started.
‘There’s just the two banks,’ Dwight said absently. ‘Wells Fargo and Headland Land and Mineral Bank.’
‘The stage line belongs to Wells Fargo too, I noticed,’ Les observed.
‘Yeah. They could likely use a good man or two as well.’
‘The bank?’
‘No, the stage line. It’s run separate from the bank. They’ve been runnin’ kinda short on drivers and guards lately.’
‘Oh. Well, I guess I’ll see about the carpenter thing first. Drivers and guards on the stagecoach have a way of becoming targets too often for my taste.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a cowboy, whose gait was far from steady. ‘Hey, you! Marshal!’
Dwight turned to face the man, as Goode waved nonchalantly and sauntered away. ‘What can I do for you?’
The man’s voice was slurred but his response was instant. ‘You can give my friend his gun back, that’s what you can do.’
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Billy O’Leary, that’s who.’
Dwight nodded. ‘Well, I’ll be plumb happy to give him his gun back when he’s sobered up and ready to head out to the ranch.’
‘He don’ wanna wait. He’s wantin’ ’is gun back now.’
‘Well, I don’t think that’s too good an idea. He’s apt to get himself in a whole batch of trouble if he has it while he’s workin’ on drinkin’ up his wages.’
‘I don’ really care what you think. I think he oughta have his gun back now. I come to make you give it back to ’im.’
‘You’re Harley Jensen, aren’t you?’
‘Yes I am. An’ you’re Marshal Dwight Stern. See, I know who you are too. An’ Billy O’Leary’s my friend. An’ you’re gonna give me Billy O’Leary’s gun, so I can take it back to him.’
‘No, I guess that’s what I’m not going to do,’ Dwight disagreed. ‘And while we’re on the subject, I have an idea you oughta let me keep your gun too. That way you and Billy can both get just as drunk as you want to get, without either one of you getting in trouble.’
The young cowboy’s drunkenness seemed to diminish instantly. His eyes remained bleary and watery, but his stance straightened. His hand dropped to the butt of his gun. His voice was stronger and steadier as he said, ‘You ain’t takin’ my gun.’
‘If you don’t give it to me, I’ll have to take it.’
Harley jerked his gun from its holster with startling speed, considering his obviously inebriated state. Even sober, however, his draw would have been much too slow. He was all cowboy, not a gunfighter. He wore a gun to use on any rattlesnakes he saw, on mad cows if he was cornered, and for self-defense if necessary. It was more of a tool of his trade than it was a weapon in his hands.
In a blur of speed, Dwight swept his own gun from its holster and slammed it into the side of the cowboy’s head. Jensen dropped his own gun and fell sideways on to the board sidewalk. He immediately began to struggle to stand up.
Whether from the amount of whiskey he had consumed or the effect of the blow to his temple, or both, he had a great deal of difficulty doing so. With a monumental effort he fought his way to his feet. ‘You hit me,’ he mumbled accusingly.
Dwight nodded. His own gun was back in its holster. The cowboy’s gun was already safely tucked into his waistband. ‘Yeah, I did. I for sure didn’t want to have to shoot you.’
The cowboy shook his head in an effort to clear the cobwebs. It was the wrong thing to do. Instead of clearing it, it resulted in greater dizziness. He fell back against the front of the store they stood before. His eyes slowly focused again. ‘You gonna lock me up?’ he asked.
Dwight shook his head. ‘No, I’ll just hang on to your gun till you’re ready to head outa town. Stop by then and I’ll give it back to you.’
‘You couldn’ta done that, if’n I was sober.’
‘I wouldn’t have needed to, if you were sober.’
‘Do you know Doxy?’
‘Doxy? Who’s Doxy?’
‘She’s one o’ the girls at the Lucky Lady. The redhead. She’s one fine woman, Doxy is. I think I’ll go talk to Doxy for a while.’
‘Why don’t you do that,’ Dwight encouraged.
With an effort Harley pushed himself away from the wall that supported him. His knees far from steady and his feet too widely placed, he nonetheless began to pick up momentum as he headed back down the street toward the Lucky Lady.
‘Herdin’ drunks, hazin’ drifters, an’ facin’ down gunslingers,’ Dwight muttered as he headed down the street. ‘There’s gotta be a better way to make a livin’.’
As he continued along the street toward his office he walked toward the front of Lowenberg’s Mercantile Store. He took hold of one of the posts supporting the wooden awning, and stepped up on to the board sidewalk. His gaze habitually swept the length of the street. Just then a flash of sunlight caught his eye. He jerked his head toward it, hand dropping to his gun. Even as he did, he heard the unmistakable ‘thunk’ of a bullet burying itself in the post beside his head.
He dived to the board sidewalk and rolled, as the ‘thunk’ of a second bullet hit the outside wall of the store. He continued the roll, coming up on one knee, gun in hand. He snapped off a quick shot at the space between two stores on the opposite side of the street, the spot where he had seen the sun flashing on gun metal.
Some part of his mind heard yet another gun fire off to his left.
He sprang up and slid backward into the space between Lowenberg’s Mercantile Store and Glendenning’s Hardware. The street was suddenly as still as death. What pedestrians were on the street were pressed back against the walls of whatever business they were in front of. Most had hurriedly ducked into the nearest doorway, and were peering warily out.
Dwight left his cover and ran directly across the street, watching the space from which he was sure the shots had come. There was no sign of anyone there now.
Across the street, he hugged the store front and approached the space marked by the brief flash of sunlight. Removing his hat, he thrust his head out and back again swiftly. He studied the picture in his mind that that instantaneous glimpse had provided. Squatting down, he repeated the manoeuvre, his head no more than two feet above the ground. This time he left his head exposed an instant longer, to allow himself a better look.
There was nothing there.
Stepping cautiously into the space between the buildings, he moved to the back of the stores. There was nothing in sight but weeds, empty space, and a scattering of windblown trash.
He walked back to the front of the stores. He studied the sides of the building. He found where his bullet had buried itself in the cedar siding. Three inches in front of it another furrow was plowed into the siding.
‘I thought I heard somebody else shootin’,’ he muttered.
He holstered his gun and pulled out his knife. He dug into the cedar board just beyond the end of the furrow that marked that other bullet’s path. He was rewarded by a flattened piece of lead. He held it in his hand, studying it with a puzzled expression.
‘Smaller’n a forty-five or forty-four, either one,’ he mused. ‘Now who in Sam Hill carries a smaller handgun that’d be shootin’ at a guy that was shootin’ at me?’
‘Are you OK, Marshal?’
Dwight looked up at David Lowenberg, aware for the first time that the store owner had followed him across the street. He noted approvingly that the merchant carried a double-barreled shotgun. ‘Yeah, thanks, Dave,’ he responded. ‘Someone took a potshot at me.’
‘I heard the shots. Two from over here, then I thought I heard you shoot back, then I saw you runnin’ over here. I thought I’d see if you needed a hand.’
‘Did you hear any other shots?’
‘Other shots?’
‘Yeah. I thought I heard someone else shoot once.’
Lowenberg frowned in deep thought for a long moment. ‘No, I can’t rightly say I did. Of course I was busy grabbin’ my shotgun to see what was goin’ on, so I mighta just not heard it. What is goin’ on?’
‘I don’t know, Dave. I don’t know. I don’t like it, though; I can tell you that.’
‘Gossip has it that fella you shot the other day seems to’ve come into town just to call you out.’
‘Acted that way, all right.’
‘Someone out to get you?’
It was obvious that somebody was. More than one somebody. That knot in the pit of his stomach was getting bigger by the day. Twice in recent days he was the obvious target of somebody. Who wanted to get rid of him that badly? Why? If it was some personal grudge, it would have ended with the death of the first man who confronted him. That just wasn’t the case. He had never met that man before.
Now someone had tried to gun him down in cold blood from hiding. Was it someone who hated him for some reason, or someone hired to do the job? If he was hired to do it, by whom? And why? Why would it suddenly be that important for anyone to get rid of a small town marshal?
Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be long in coming, he was sure of that.