Eight
Falcon saddled up and was gone before dawn, Jack Stump riding along with him. The men had fixed a pot of coffee at the bunkhouse and eaten a couple of cold biscuits before setting out.
Stumpy was a man who usually had little to say, only occasionally engaging in idle chitchat. He was not a dour man, just a man who kept his thoughts to himself. He was a man who enjoyed solitude. But he could be a very dangerous man when crowded. He was no quick-draw gunfighter, but he almost always made his first shot count. Falcon didn’t really know how old Stumpy was, guessing him to be in his early sixties. He rode a Palouse, a tough-bred mountain horse that could go all day and still have some bottom left.
“Dan shore was glad to get shut of that woman.” Stumpy surprised Falcon by opening a conversation. “She had gettin’ hitched up permanent on her mind.”
Falcon smiled.
“Woman had three of the most worthless growed up kids a man could ever see. I met the whole kit and caboodle of ’em ’fore we rode up here. Sorry bunch.”
And that was the extent of the conversation until the men reached the trading post.
As they topped the ridge overlooking the creek and the store, Jack grunted. “Looks like we’re gonna run into a crowd.”
There were a dozen horses at the hitchrails, and the horses appeared to have been hard-ridden. When the pair of Rockingchair men drew closer and could make out the brands, they were unfamiliar to them.
All but one.
Stumpy smiled. “That’s Dick Wheeless’s mustang in the corral. I was with him when he caught it a couple of years ago. I don’t know them other brands.”
“You can bet they’re not drifting cowboys just passing through,” Falcon said.
“I already gleamed that, Falcon.”
Falcon laughed at the expression on Stumpy’s face and swung around to the rear of the old trading post. Stumpy walked over to Dick’s horse and tried to stroke the animal’s nose. The mustang tried to bite him.
“Son of a bitch!” Stumpy jerked his hand back and cussed the once wild horse. “Got the same disposition as Wildcat—lousy!”
The mustang peeled back his lips and showed Stumpy his teeth.
Walking back to Falcon, Stumpy said, “I told Wildcat when he caught that damn horse the best thing he could do was shoot it. But no, he said he just had to have it ’cause it was purty. Goddamn worthless hammerhead.”
“Dick or the horse?”
Stumpy grinned. “Both of ’em.”
Falcon pushed open the rear door of the old store and stepped in, quickly moving to one side to allow his eyes time to adjust from the bright outside light. Stumpy stepped in and moved to the other side. The men stood there for a moment, listening to the rough language and hard laughter coming from the saloon side of the store.
They walked through the storeroom and entered behind the store. The owner looked up from the counter and nodded his head, then cut his eyes to the closed door leading to the saloon. Falcon nodded his understanding and looked over at the half dozen tables. A small man was seated at a far table, his back to a wall. He grinned at Falcon.
“Howdy, you young squirt,” Dick “Wildcat” Wheeless said. “Who’s that damned ugly old reprobate trailin’ you?”
“Go to hell, you midget,” Stumpy said, in the form of a greeting between two old friends.
“Been there. Didn’t like it. Too damn hot.” He waved a fork at his platter of food. “Steaks is good. Sit and eat.”
“I reckon I could eat a mouthful of food,” Stumpy said.
“Considerin’ the size of your mouth, that’s ’bout enough grub to half fill a hungry alligator.”
“I really don’t know why I put up with this half-pint,” Stumpy said, walking over to the table. “He ain’t never got a kind word for anybody.”
“Do too,” Wildcat said. “I like the company you’re ridin’ with. But I’m sure he makes you ride fifty feet behind him, considerin’ the fact that you probably ain’t had a bath in six months.”
Falcon smiled at the insults that were flying between the two old friends and began speaking in low tones to the store owner. The man nodded his head and looked over the sheet of paper Falcon handed him.
The deal settled and a pickup date for the supplies agreed on, Falcon walked over to the table and sat down with the two men, who were still busy insulting one another. A younger woman, a half-breed that Falcon figured was the daughter of the couple who ran the store, brought over a pot of coffee and two mugs. She returned a few minutes later with two plates of food and left without changing expression or speaking a word.
“Woman ain’t half bad to look at,” Wildcat remarked. “But she sure talks a lot, don’t she?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “You ought to see ’bout cuddlin’ up with her, Stumpy. Man of your advanced age needs a good woman to take care of him durin’ his declinin’ years.”
Stumpy spent the next several minutes calling Wildcat every vile name he could think of, then added, “I’ll be ridin’ the high country when it comes time for you to use a ladder to get in your wheelchair, you half-baked buffalo turd.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Wildcat said. “Such language in a public place.”
Falcon shut his mind to their insults, for he knew it would go on for hours, and kept one eye on the door to the saloon while he ate. Wildcat hadn’t been kidding about the steaks being good. They were delicious. The meat was smothered in gravy, the fried potatoes tasty with spices, and the bread hot.
Falcon ate slowly, but steadily, for he knew that when the door to the other side of the store opened, odds were good that there would be trouble.
The owner of the store walked over, glanced toward the saloon, and said in a low tone, “Hired guns. They drifted in about an hour ago. They bought several bottles and told me to get out of the room.”
“They ask anything else?” Wildcat queried.
“The shortest way to the Snake ranch.”
Falcon had looked around and spotted a rack of Greeners on the wall: mean-looking sawed-off shotguns. “How come you have so many shotguns?”
“I ordered them for the stage line that used to run past here. They went out of business before I could get paid for them. You want them? I’ll make you a real good deal.”
“I’ll take three of them now and put the others in with my order when it comes.”
“Comin’ right up.”
“And all the boxes of buckshot you have.”
“That’s three cases!”
“Well, give us a handful each and put the others with the order.”
“I like a shotgun,” Wildcat said. “Buckshot don’t leave no room for doubt.”
“Wonder if the store owner can loan us a hammer and some nails?” Stumpy asked.
Falcon looked at him. “Why?”
“To nail Wildcat’s boots to the floor. If short-stuff has to shoot one of them Greeners, the kick is gonna knock him clear over into the next county.”
The insulting between the two old friends started anew.
When the door to the saloon area finally open, the sawed-offs had been inspected and loaded up and were laying on the table, the noon dishes cleared away. Only a pot of coffee and three mugs remained on the table with the Greeners.
The hired guns took a glance at Falcon and his friends, then grabbed a harder look as they spotted the shotguns on the table. One of them beat it back into the saloon. Soon the mercantile side of the store was filled with men, most of them wearing two guns, some of them even having a third six-shooter tucked down behind their belts.
The hired guns mumbled and whispered among themselves for a moment before one of them stepped forward.
“Damn, he shore ain’t much to look at,” Stumpy muttered.
“What’d you say, grandpa?” the gunny asked in a too-loud voice. “If you was talkin’ ’bout me, speak up, you old fart.”
“If he don’t watch his mouth, he ain’t gonna have time to get much uglier, either,” Wildcat opined in low tones.
“Now the dwarf is whisperin’, Bonnie,” one of the gunnies said, then took a slug of whiskey straight from the bottle.
“Bonnie?” Wildcat said, then laughed. “Your name is Bonnie? Does your mommy know you’re runnin’ with such a rough crowd, my dear?”
Falcon could not contain his laughter at that.
“Now the big ugly one thinks it’s funny,” another hired gun said.
“Are you makin’ fun of my name, you old goat?” the man named Bonnie shouted.
Wildcat smiled at him.
“Let’s put it this way,” Stumpy said, “anybody who would hire on with Miles Gilman and his bunch is low enough to crawl under a rattler’s belly.”
The hired guns were standing shoulder to shoulder, all crowded up in one part of the large room, and Falcon could tell several of the older gunnies realized they were in a lousy position to start any gunplay. They started spreading out.
“Stand still,” Falcon said. “Or I’m going to think you boys are about to start something that’s going to get a lot of you hurt.”
One of the older hands told Falcon to go commit an impossible act upon a certain part of his anatomy.
“My goodness!” Wildcat said, staring at the gunhand. “I’m deeply offended by your vulgar language.”
“Yeah, me too,” Stumpy said.
Several of the newly hired mercenaries had confused expressions on their faces. They couldn’t figure what the three men at the table were up to. All three of them were sitting there making jokes.
“You boys don’t really want to sign on with the Snake, do you?” Falcon asked.
“Why not?” a man asked.
“It might be real bad for your health, that’s why.”
“Yeah, it’s plumb unhealthy over on the Snake range,” Stumpy said.
“How’s that?”
“Folks keep getting shot,” Falcon told him.
“The Snake didn’t hire us,” another hired gun blurted. “We was hired by the Double N.”
Wildcat cut his eyes to Falcon.
“Noonan and his people,” Falcon explained, for Wildcat did not yet know the entire story. Falcon had only touched on the high points when he could get a word in during the insults being hurled back and forth between the two men.
“Ah,” Wildcat said. “The plot thickens.”
“Do what?” Stumpy asked.
“I heard that in a play oncet. I liked the sound of it.” He glared at Stumpy. “You uneducated heathen,” he added.
“Who the hell is Plot?” Stumpy asked. “Is he part of the cattlemen’s alliance?”
“I’ll explain later,” Falcon told him.
“Don’t you call me no heathen, you popcorn fart,” Stumpy told Wildcat. “I read books.”
“Hey!” Bonnie shouted. “You want to talk to us?”
“Not really,” Stumpy said, momentarily returning his gaze to the gunmen.
The store owner, his wife, and his daughter were behind the counter, ready to hit the floor when the shooting started.
“You wouldn’t know what a book was if one fell off the shelf and hit you on the head,” Wildcat told his friend.
“Them three ain’t got good sense,” one of the older hired guns said. “I think they’re loco in the head.” He moved sideways toward the door, keeping his hands away from his guns. “I’m outta here.”
“I’m with you,” another said.
Ten left in the room, facing the three men at the table. Several of the ten looked as though they wanted to let the whole matter drop. But the younger guns weren’t having any of that.
“Have to be Rockingchair hands,” Bonnie said.
“Well, I’ll just be go to hell,” Stumpy said. “The kid figured it out.”
“Took him long enough,” Wildcat said. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if Miss Bonnie was touched in the head.”
“Miss Bonnie!” the gunhand yelled, his hands hovering over the pearl-handled butts of his pistols.
Two of the men hired on at the Snake for fighting wages began backing away, both of them holding their hands in front of them, signaling that they were out of it. They were old hands at hiring out their guns, and they realized there was something wrong with this picture. The three men at the table were too calm. That meant, to any experienced hand, the three of them had been down this road before . . . and lived to tell about it.
The two men walked out the door and mounted up and rode away. Both of them were breathing easier as they put distance between the old trading post and themselves. There would be another day, maybe. And just maybe the two men would forget the fighting wages and just punch cows. Let somebody else get shot full of bloody holes.
“Well,” Falcon said, after drinking the last of his coffee. “I think the time for talking is over.”
“Yep,” Stumpy agreed. “We done listened to the band, now it’s time to pay up or leave the dance hall.”
“The only way you three is leavin’ is for somebody to carry you out,” Bonnie made his brag.
“Then go for your iron, boy,” Wildcat slapped him with a verbal glove, “or shut your damn mouth.”
Bonnie reached for his guns.