CHAPTER 14
Tinhorn, Texas was once again the dull, peaceful little town it was before the arrival of Jed Tubbs and Ralph Cox. For almost two weeks after the attempted jailbreak that took Kyle Trask’s life, nothing much was required of Deputy Flint Moran. The cell wall was completed and Prisoner Ralph Cox seemed content to wait for his trial. He’d been given his choice of cells and chose to move back into the larger one with the solid wood wall.
Nolan Carson had framed two tiny windows near the ceiling that provided a little bit of light to shine through, even with the lamp out. Buck had declared that the wall would have no windows, but decided Nolan was right when he advised the windows for light and ventilation.
It crossed Flint’s mind that maybe a deputy wasn’t needed at all and that he might be fired just as suddenly as he’d been hired. He took the time to visit his family. His father and brothers asked if he was ready to put his stint as a lawman aside and return to the farm. His response to that was how much better things were at the farm without him. “Besides,” he had suggested, “it might be an impossible job to persuade Mary to move.”
His brother Nate had laughed, remembering how quickly his eleven-year-old daughter had claimed Flint’s old room.
“I’d have to build another room onto the house,” Flint joked. “And I ain’t no better carpenter than I was as a farmer. I reckon I’ll hang on a while in the sheriff’s office.”
There was another reason he was hesitant about giving up his job as a deputy. He had grown to appreciate Sheriff Buck Jackson and was reluctant to leave him without someone to back him in the event trouble did show up. Buck had obviously made a commitment to win his battle with the whiskey bottle, but in the couple of weeks of peaceful existence, there were signs that Buck was sliding back into his old habits. He had begun retiring to his room right after supper again and eating a late breakfast at the saloon.
In effect, Flint was the nighttime sheriff once more, as he had been when first hired. He sometimes wondered if he was now filling Roy Hawkins’ old job, and that was simply to watch the office while Buck was retired for the night.
It was unrealistic for him to think the peace would last indefinitely in Tinhorn, however, and that fact was brought home to the residents when Blackie Culver rode into town. Blackie called himself a shootist, based on his ability to draw his weapon and fire it before his unfortunate antagonist could draw his. He built his reputation in the gambling houses and saloons in West Texas. In the town of Waco he’d been arrested by Sheriff Buck Jackson that resulted in a twelve-year prison sentence and the end of his fame as a shootist.
During the entire twelve years, Blackie never forgot the promise he had made to have his revenge on the man who had put a stop to his growing list of kills. After searching most of Texas for the past year, he’d found that Jackson had taken the sheriff’s job in the little town of Tinhorn.
Thirteen years after his arrest, Blackie knew he was older, but Buck Jackson was older, too. Otherwise, he was not likely to have crawled into the oblivion of a small town like Tinhorn. It was time for Buck Jackson to stand up to the challenge made to him thirteen years ago—to settle the trouble between them face-to-face.
Riding a white horse, Culver entered the town at the south end, past the stable. Looking the town over as he rode up the street, he came to the saloon on his right, which would ordinarily be his first stop, but he saw the sheriff’s office and jail a little farther up on his left and decided to go directly to Buck Jackson’s office in an attempt to save some time.
He pulled up at the rail and dismounted. Looking up and down the street before he went up the steps, he unconsciously eased his Colt .45 up and down to make sure it was riding freely in his holster. He considered the notion to pull the weapon as soon as he walked in the door and drill Jackson as he was sitting at his desk. It would settle the debt he thought he was due, but it would not give him the satisfaction of facing the sheriff down.
He walked up the two steps to the door. Through the glass, he could see someone sitting at the desk, facing the door, but he couldn’t tell if it was Jackson. Culver opened the door and stepped inside to find a young man wearing a badge seated behind the desk.
“Can I do something for you?” Flint asked, when the man said nothing.
Of average height, judging by the space between the top of his hat and the top of the door, the stranger had shoulder-length hair streaked with gray extending from under his hat. Flint noticed a Colt riding at a height convenient for a fast draw.
“I’m lookin’ for Sheriff Buck Jackson,” Blackie finally answered. “Is he in?”
“No, Sheriff Jackson ain’t in at the moment. I’m Deputy Moran. Can I help you?”
“No, I need to see Sheriff Jackson,” Blackie insisted. “Do you know where he is?”
“Nope. I’m sorry I don’t. He just went out to patrol the town. If it’s something to do with the law, maybe I can help you.” Flint knew exactly where Buck was.
At that particular time, he would be sitting in Jake’s Place, eating one of Rena’s greasy breakfasts, and planning to have a shot of whiskey afterward.
But Flint was not inclined to furnish that information to the rather suspicious looking stranger. “You sure there’s nothin’ I can do for you?”
“My business is with the sheriff. I’ll just go look for him,” Blackie insisted. He turned and went back out the door.
I wonder what that business is? Flint thought. The man didn’t look like the kind of businessman Buck wanted to deal with. I better go see if I can find Buck and let him know this fellow’s looking for him. He opened the cell room door and told Ralph he would be out of the office for a while, locked the cell room door, and went out the front door.
The stranger had left his horse tied in front of the jail. That indicated to Flint the man would be coming back to the jail to wait if he didn’t find Buck. Flint took a look up and down the street in case the man might see him go straight to the saloon. Not seeing him outside any business, Flint locked the door and walked toward the saloon.
Sitting at a small table at the back of the saloon, near the kitchen door, Buck looked up from his scrambled eggs and ham when someone walked inside. Although he didn’t recognize the man, something about him seemed familiar. The saloon was dark and Buck’s eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be, a fact he never admitted to anyone. The man had paused just inside the door to look over the room and squinted his eyes trying to get a better look at the man sitting at the table.
Buck continued to watch the stranger, who appeared undecided as to whether he wanted to talk to Rudy, or advance closer to the table where Buck sat. He went to the bar, talked to Rudy for a few moments, then turned to look at Buck when Rudy pointed to him.
So far, nothing to worry about, Buck figured. Somebody looking for the sheriff for some reason.
As the man walked toward him, it struck him—Blackie Culver! An older version, but there was no mistaking the confident walk and the long hair that was no longer solid black. Buck thought quick. It was too late to reach under the table for his six-gun without prompting Blackie to go for his, and he knew Blackie could draw from the holster quicker than he could get to his gun, wedged up against the arm of his chair as it was.
Deciding it best to talk his way out of a shoot-out, Buck blurted, “Well, I’ll be damned. Blackie Culver! If that ain’t somethin’. Served your time and now a free man. Set down, Blackie, and I’ll buy you some breakfast.”
Blackie was stopped for a moment by the unexpected welcome, but he quickly recovered. “You ain’t buyin’ me a damn thing. I come to kill you.” He stood poised, hoping Buck was dumb enough to reach for his gun.
“Nonsense, Blackie,” Buck continued. “All that business was over and done with years ago. Don’t you want a cup of coffee, at least?”
“Hell, no!” Blackie roared. “I don’t want no coffee. You ain’t talkin’ your way outta this. You took the best part of my life away from me in that prison. It’s your turn to pay the price for that.”
“Now, Blackie, you gotta admit you killed that woman when you poured that whiskey down her throat till she strangled and died. I thought it was mighty lucky the judge ruled it was just manslaughter and gave you a prison sentence. And twelve years at that. You gotta admit, that wasn’t much for killin’ a woman.”
“You got a choice, Jackson. Stand up and face me, man to man, or I’m gonna shoot you right where you sit. You ain’t gettin’ outta this.”
“You reach for that gun and you’re a dead man.” Standing in the kitchen doorway, Flint was only a few feet away, his six-gun aimed squarely at Blackie’s chest. “Murder is against the law in Tinhorn.”
Realizing he had no chance against the already drawn weapon, Blackie insisted he had challenged Buck to face him in a duel. “It ain’t got nothin’ to do with murder,” he insisted. “He’s got a debt to pay for somethin’ he done to me, and I’m callin’ him out to stand up to me.”
“Duelin’ is against the law in Tinhorn, too, as is threatenin’ an officer of the law,” Flint said. “You’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your back.”
“I’ll be damned,” Blackie blurted defiantly. “I’m not goin’ back behind no bars.”
Buck spoke up then. “I don’t see as how you’ve got any choice. Do like he told you and put your hands behind your back. You were wrong thirteen years ago, and you’re wrong now. You didn’t learn a damn thing in prison, did you?”
“All right,” Blackie finally conceded. “You win. I’ll put ’em behind my back.”
Flint slowly shook his head as he placed one round in Blackie’s chest when he snatched his gun out of the holster while pretending to put his hands behind his back.
“Yep. Ain’t learned a damn thing.” Buck looked over toward the bar where Jake and Rudy were standing with mouths agape and eyes stuck wide open. “Rudy, I think I want that shot of whiskey now.” To Flint, he said, “Partner, you were a welcome sight, standin’ in that doorway. I don’t know if he got any of his speed back, but before I sent him to prison, he woulda put three bullets in me before I got to that gun. And the way I’m wedged into this chair sure didn’t help.”
Flint couldn’t help thinking an evening of drinking the night before would have had a hand in his reaction time as well. He walked over and checked to make sure Blackie was dead.
“How did you know he was here?” Buck asked, especially when Flint had slipped in through the kitchen, instead of coming in the front door.
“Hell, he came to the jail, lookin’ for you. I reckon he was plannin’ on shootin’ you right there in the sheriff’s office.”
“Did you tell him I was over here, eatin’ breakfast?”
“No, I told him I didn’t know where you were. This is just the first place he went to look.” Flint shook his head as if disgusted with Buck’s question. “It was the obvious first choice to look. I’ll drag him out front and go get Walt.” He took hold of Blackie’s boots and started to pull him. “He’s pretty heavy. Gimme a hand, Rudy.” While he waited for Rudy to come out from behind the bar, he asked Buck, “What was his name?”
“Blackie Culver,” Buck answered, still thinking how smart he was to have hired Flint Moran.
“I’ll tell Walt, in case he wants to know who he’s burying.” He and Rudy each grabbed an ankle and dragged Blackie out to the boardwalk in front.
Flint looked back down the street and saw Walt Doolin standing halfway outside his shop. He was holding the door open and looking toward them, obviously having heard the shot and checking to see if it meant business for him. Flint gave him a wave of his hand and Walt signaled back, then went to get his cart.
Calling back to Buck, who was still sitting at the table, Flint said, “I’ll see you back at the office. Ralph likely heard that shot and he’ll wanna know what happened.” He went across the street, telling himself that, like it or not, he was becoming a permanent part of the town.
All his thinking about quitting or being fired was nothing more than a waste of brain cells. The incident that had just popped up showed him the definite need for a deputy sheriff. And Buck Jackson was in definite need of backup. Flint only hoped he could do the job required of him. It was difficult not to wonder how many other ex-convicts were riding all over Texas, looking for Buck Jackson.
“Mornin’, Deputy Moran,” the postmaster’s wife greeted Flint politely from the doorway of the post office. “I heard a shot. Is it all right if I walk past the saloon?”
“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s all right now.” He realized he didn’t know her name. “You know, it would be a good idea if you stayed on this side of the street. They’ve got to clean up something from the boardwalk right in front of the saloon. If you like, I’ll walk with you.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir.”
He walked her past the saloon on the opposite side of the street, trying to keep her view blocked with his body. Then he turned around and headed in the direction of the jail.
“Thank you, Deputy,” she called after him.
It never occurred to him that he was met with more friendly greetings from the people of Tinhorn every day.
He stopped to talk with Walt Doolin as he came out of the alley, pulling his handcart. “His name is Blackie Culver, one of Buck’s old friends who came to shoot him. There won’t be anybody comin’ to claim the body unless it’s the devil.” He held up the gun belt he was carrying. “I took his guns. Don’t know if he’s got anything else on him or not.”
Walt got only a modest fee for taking care of the bodies, so it was the usual policy to let him keep anything of value on the body as part of his fee. The exceptions were guns and horses, and of course, any money resulting from robberies, which was returned to the victim of the robbery.
* * *
“We heard there was a shooting in the saloon this morning,” Clara Rakestraw said to Buck when the sheriff came to the dining room for dinner. “Walt Doolin said Flint shot an outlaw who came looking for you. Is that right?”
“That’s a fact,” Buck told her.
“Is Flint coming to eat dinner with you?”
“Flint’s eatin’ dinner at Hannah Green’s today. He said you charge too much and it ain’t as good as Myrna’s cookin’.”
“He did not.” Clara was well accustomed to the sheriff’s japing. “He has to eat there once in a while to keep from hurting Hannah and Myrna’s feelings.” She was thoroughly confident her Margaret was without peer in the cooking department.
“I’da bought his dinner for him today. That’s for sure,” Buck declared. “If it weren’t for him, I might notta been sittin’ here right now. I told him I owed him, but he said it’d been a while since he ate at the boardin’ house. And it’s included in his rent, anyway.”
Mindy came to the table with a cup of coffee and glanced inquisitively at Clara.
“Flint’s not coming to dinner today,” Clara told her, causing an immediate frown on Mindy’s face.
“Stew or meatloaf?” Mindy asked.
Buck said meatloaf without hesitation. When he saw the frown still in place on her face, he asked, “What’s the matter? Were you hopin’ I’d take the stew?” He laughed when she did an about-face without responding to his teasing.
As always, Clara was interested in getting a more detailed report on the shooting at the saloon that morning, but she was interrupted when Harvey Baxter came in the door.
Before she could come to greet him, he spotted Buck sitting near the back, and walked directly to his table. “Sheriff, mind if I join you?”
“Not a-tall. Have a seat,” Buck replied, as Mindy came to take the mayor’s order.
Baxter looked at Buck’s plate. “That meatloaf looks pretty good. I think I’ll try that.”
“It tastes pretty good, too, but you’ll disappoint Mindy if you don’t eat the stew.”
Unaware Mindy was being teased, Baxter hesitated, looking at her curiously. “Oh, is that a fact?”
“No such a thing,” Mindy said. “That’s just the sheriff with some of his teasin’. I think you’ll enjoy the meatloaf or the stew.”
The mayor stayed with his first pick. Mindy went to the kitchen to get his meatloaf, and Clara returned to her usual position near the outside door.
Baxter inquired about the latest incident involving the sheriff’s department. “I heard about the shooting this morning at Jake’s Place. Heard it was Flint who shot that fellow.”
“That’s right.” Buck told Baxter what had actually occurred while he was eating some breakfast at the saloon, who Blackie Culver was, and why he had come to Tinhorn.
“But it was Flint who shot him,” Baxter repeated.
“If he hadn’t, you’d be settin’ at the table with a dead man,” Buck promptly told him. “Flint was fixin’ to arrest him, and Culver went for his gun. Flint didn’t have no choice. There weren’t nothin’ I could do in time to help him.”
Baxter said nothing for a few moments but nodded slowly as if he was thinking about it seriously. “I’m glad to hear your firsthand version of the incident,” he finally commented. “I’ve had conversations with a couple other members of the council, and everybody is in agreement that we hired a truly capable deputy sheriff. One of the members raised an issue that caused some concern, however, what with all that’s happened in the last few weeks.”
Somewhat surprised, Buck had to ask, “What kind of concerns?”
“Frankly, the fact that it’s been Flint who has done all the killing,” Baxter answered. “There was speculation that perhaps Flint might be building a reputation for himself, and consequently, a reputation for Tinhorn as well. One that we certainly don’t want. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. I’d very much like to hear your opinion.”
Buck hesitated for a moment before answering, lest he say something that might offend the mayor. Then in a calm voice, he said, “Mr. Mayor, a reputation is the last thing that young man wants. I guarantee that. It seems to me those members of the council are complainin’ because we hired a man who’s doin’ just what we hired him to do. The town has been mighty lucky not to have any trouble for the past few years. And we’re just as lucky we hired the right man to help me when we got hit with some real trouble. You need to tell your council members that. With Tinhorn startin’ to grow a little bit, we’re gonna attract more trouble down the road. Be glad you hired Flint Moran and we’ll keep workin’ on buildin’ our reputation as a town that don’t tolerate troublemakers.”
“That sounds good to me,” Baxter concluded. “I’m glad I heard your position on the question. Now, hand me some of that gravy.”