‘So you’re Waxahachie Smith,’ Lily Shivers said, after Bur-bury had performed the introductions. ‘I thought that Ric was joshing me when he told me your name.’
Seen up close, the blonde was even more beautiful than from a distance. She met Smith’s gaze with an air of equality. Accepting that she possessed considerable charm for members of the opposite sex, she did not try to play on it. There was an attitude of calm competence about her, as if she felt certain that she could match up to any man on his own terms and handle whatever play he chose to make.
‘I’ll go fetch us some drinks,’ Burbury announced, avoiding the question that Smith was preparing to fire at him. ‘Don’t reckon this place’ll run to wine, Lily.’
‘Whiskey’ll do,’ the blonde replied, keeping her eyes on Smith. There was neither promise nor invitation in them, only a cool appraisal. ‘This’s a mite north of your home range, Waxahachie.’
‘Man likes to see new places, ma’am,’ the Texan answered. ‘And you’d likely find “Wax” comes easier to your tongue.’
‘I’ll try, if you’ll say “Lily” instead of “ma’am”,’ the blonde promised, then she stopped smiling. ‘That was a trap if ever I saw one, Wax. Why’d they come gunning for you?’
‘Somebody hired ’em. But I couldn’t start to guess who.’
‘Maybe it’s somebody who doesn’t want you to get to Widow’s Creek. I heard you tell McCobb that’s where you’re headed.’
‘And I am.’
‘For the county fair?’
‘Why else?’
‘So play cagey,’ Lily sniffed. ‘Could be I can help you. I’ve seen those three up at the Creek. They came in the day before I left for Cheyenne.’
‘Did, huh?’ Smith said noncommittally. ‘Who’d they meet?’
‘You think maybe I trailed them around?’ Lily replied. They were together in my place, but nobody joined them. And I saw the gambling man coming out of the side door of the bank.’
‘Side door?’ Smith repeated.
‘Wil’s private office door,’ the blonde elaborated. ‘He’d likely been in there talking business. With Wil, it’d have to be business.’
Thinking back to Derham’s comments about Lily not getting on with Wil Jeffreys, Smith wondered if he should mention his employer’s identity. While the discovery might jolt the blonde into some enlightening comment, it could also have the opposite effect. Then all he would have achieved would have been to let Lily know that a rival—enemy even—was going to hire him. Smith decided that he would lose more than he might gain by taking her into his confidence. So he was not sorry to see Burbury returning with a tray of drinks.
‘Here we are,’ the burly man boomed, setting down the tray and handing one of its drinks to Lily.
‘Just how long have you known who I am, Ric?’ Smith challenged as Burbury sat down beyond the blonde.
‘Would you believe me if I said only since the old timer named you?’
‘Not ‘specially.’
‘He let on about it down to the barn. Come in while I was unhitching my rig.’
‘I figured you knew something,’ Smith declared. ‘You didn’t mention about me wearing my gloves while I was eating.’
‘Hey, fellers,’ Lily put in. ‘I’m still sat here. At least throw me a smile now and then. It’s bad for my reputation if I’m ignored.’
‘Sorry, Lily,’ Burbury grinned. ‘I reckon Wax’s a mite uneasy in his mind over what happened. And so am I. Those fellers were sure set on seeing him dead. Way I see it, they was using that put-and-take game so’s they’d have an excuse for doing it.’
‘By having that flashy-dressed yack call him down when he wouldn’t play?’ Lily asked. ‘He didn’t first time Wax said no.
‘Likely they wasn’t sure where I sat in the game,’ Burbury replied. ‘I raked at Hayward, but he took it. Wasn’t ’til I’d come over to you that it happened.’
‘What if Wax’d played the next time he was asked?’
‘He’d already said “no” once. So if he’d come in on that pot and took it, the other fellers in the game would’ve objected and given Hayward his chance,’ Burbury answered and took the top from his left side pocket. Turning it over on the palm of his left hand, he examined it. ‘I dunno if it means anything, but some of the edges are rounder than the others.’
‘That’s so it’ll fall the right way, if you know the gaff,’ Lily explained. ‘The top tends to roll off the sides with the rounded edges and stop on those which are sharp.’
‘What’s the gaff?’ Smith inquired, knowing the word to be a gambler’s expression for the secret which caused a crooked device to perform its dishonest function.
‘If you spin it clockwise, which comes natural to a right-handed feller,’ the blonde explained, taking the top and demonstrating, ‘it lands on a “put”. Turn it the other way and you get a “take” every time. I had a jasper from a crooked gambling supply house ’round trying to sell me some gaffed and straight tops a few weeks back.’
The drummers returned, cursing the weather and their lousy luck in being caught for such a stinking chore. Looking around, Smith found that the farmer and his wife had disappeared. Gilpin stood at the bar with the sheriff, while a couple of hostlers swabbed the blood from the floor. After throwing scowls at the Texan and Burbury, the drummers slouched across to the bar.
‘Hardy was spinning anti-clockwise all the time,’ Burbury reminded Smith.
‘That’d be so nobody’d be able to complain he’d changed his way when he used the gaffed top,’ Lily guessed.
‘Only he didn’t get ’round to using it,’ Smith pointed out.
‘Could be he was counting on you taking his offer, hitting a “Put All” and not wanting to pay,’ Burbury suggested. ‘That’d’ve given Hayward a chance to call you down.’
‘Know what I think?’ Lily asked. ‘I’m betting that Hardy hadn’t meant to have Hayward take you until he’d won the pot. Then he got a signal from that other feller to do it. Or he fumbled while he was trying to switch tops and thought he’d made the marks suspicious, so he might’s well get it over with. Hayward had already established that he wouldn’t let anybody disrespect Hardy. So nobody’d think too much about him calling you over refusing what looked like a friendly offer.’
‘We’ll never know for sure which it was,’ Smith predicted and looked at Burbury. ‘How’d you figure that Moxley hombre was tied in with ’em?’
That didn’t take much doing,’ the burly man countered. ‘They’d all got the same kind of mud on their boots, for one thing.’
‘Moxley looked primed for trouble when he come in,’ Lily went on. ‘He’d been wearing a slicker, but took it off before he came through the door.’
‘In the barn, or wherever he left his hoss,’ Burbury corrected. ‘That didn’t mean much. Feller with a price on his head likes to have a clear grab at his gun when he walks into a room full of strangers. Somebody among ’em might recognize him.’
‘Somebody did,’ Smith stated, staring pointedly at the burly man.
‘Us travelling-man from Schuyler, Hartley and Graham get around,’ Burbury answered blandly. ‘And I’ve always been real good at remembering faces.’
‘You’re real good at handling a gun, too,’ Smith complimented.
‘Man totes a wad of folding-money like I do, he needs to be,’ Burbury answered. ‘Talking of guns, I’d admire to see yours.’
Although Smith sensed that Burbury was deliberately changing the subject, he did not argue. He owed the burly ‘drummer’ his life, so figured that he could put up with the other’s reticence and evasions. If it came to a point, Burbury could be speaking the truth and might be no more than he claimed, with a valid reason for knowing how to handle a gun.
‘You mean how does a feller like me shoot it,’ Smith drawled.
‘No offence, Wax,’ Burbury said and sounded sincere.
‘None took,’ the Texan assured him, lifting out the Colt and placing it on the table. ‘Here, take a look.’
At first glance, the revolver—with its metal parts the deep blue of the Best Citizen’s Finish—might have passed for an ordinary Civilian Model Peacemaker. Closer observation revealed certain alterations. There was neither foresight nor trigger. The spur had been reduced in size, its checkering removed to leave it smooth and was fitted half-way down the curve of the hammer instead of at the top.
‘It’s a slip gun, isn’t it?’ Lily asked, studying the weapon. ‘I’ve heard of them, but the only one I ever saw just had its trigger tied back. Feller who used it fanned the hammer. He sure made a life-like corpse.’
‘Most folks who fan regular get that way,’ Smith admitted. ‘Which’s why I had this old plough-handle fitted up special.’
‘How?’ Burbury inquired and his interest had a genuine ring to it.
‘Had the trigger and its half of the bolt spring left off. That lil stud on the hammer, what they call the bolt-cam, ’s only half the regular size. Throws less strain on the bolt-arm and makes it work smoother. That short, slick spur’s set low on the hammer so’s I can thumb it back easier and the butt’s maybe an inch shorter to give me a better grip.’
‘You must have put some thought into getting it right,’ Lily praised.
‘Man with only one trade has to get the right tools, regardless,’ Smith answered. ‘Handling guns was just about the only thing I knew.’
Looking at the tanned, expressionless face, Lily sensed something of the long, hard struggle Smith had made to face life after the accident that had cost him both forefingers. Only vague rumors circulated about how the loss had occurred. What she did know was that Smith’s name had been prominent among Texas Rangers and he was said likely to become the youngest captain of that fabled law enforcement body. Receiving what would be regarded as a completely incapacitating injury had blasted his chances. Many men would have turned their back on guns and gun-fighting, but Smith did not. She wondered what deep, driving compulsion had helped him to overcome the handicap and develop such a deadly technique and a weapon so perfectly adapted to his needs.
Waxahachie Smith interested Lily for a number of reasons.
‘See you had the foresight took off to stop it catching on anything when you make that high cavalry twist-hand draw,’ Burbury commented, taking up the Colt for a closer inspection. ‘You wouldn’t need it, anyways. They do say a slip gun’s only good for close-in shooting.’ He glanced into the muzzle, stiffened and took a longer, more searching look down the tube. ‘Hey! The barrel’s not rifled.’
‘Like you said,’ Smith replied, retrieving the revolver and returning it to his holster. ‘A slip gun’s not much use over a distance. So I figured to give it a mite more range. I use three balls to a bullet, ’stead of one.’
‘Three!’ Lily ejaculated.
‘What they call a multi-ball cartridge,’ Smith elaborated. ‘Feller called Captain Wright designed them for the Army back in seventy-nine and I figured they’d be what I needed.’
Coming through the front door, looking disconsolate and close to nausea, the McCobb brothers slouched without a glance at Smith across to the sheriff. After listening to what they had to say, McCobb walked over to the big table.
‘Their hosses are down at the barn,’ the sheriff told Lily and her companions. ‘Moxley’s slicker was on his saddle, but there wasn’t nothing in their gear to help us.’
‘Wasn’t, huh?’ Burbury grunted.
‘No,’ McCobb replied. ‘I didn’t think there would be, but a peace officer has to make sure.’
‘Ain’t that the living truth?’ Burbury agreed solemnly, then he yawned and stretched. ‘Now me, I’m fixing to go to bed.’
‘Had they off-saddled, sheriff?’ Smith inquired.
‘Not none of ’em,’ McCobb answered. ‘You don’t expect that kind to care for their hosses, do you?’
‘Likely not,’ Smith admitted. ‘I reckon I’ll be turning in, too. There’s a long day’s ride ahead of me comes morning.’
‘I’m going, comes to that,’ Lily declared. ‘If I stay out here, I’ll have those drummers and—such—swarming all over me. It’s bad enough I have to “dovetail” all day with ’em, without being with them all night.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ McCobb announced.
‘I get the feeling you don’t like peace officers, Ric,’ Smith commented as the sheriff ambled back to the bar.
‘I don’t like some peace officers,’ Burbury answered. ‘And them’s’re put in as political office-fillers’re some of the some I don’t like.’
‘Quastel, over to Fremont County’s one of the some,’ Lily remarked. ‘Are you headed for Widow’s Creek, Ric?’
‘Sure. A county fair’s a good place for a selling-man to be. Folks have cash money in their pockets and’re just itching to spend it.’
‘Just happen I want to buy something, Ric,’ Smith said. ‘What sort of do-dads’re you selling?’
‘If it’s in the company’s dream-book, I sell it,’ Burbury replied. ‘Well, I’ll be saying good night.
‘That’s the first salesman I ever saw who didn’t try to sell something given half a chance,’ Lily commented, watching Burbury head towards the men’s sleeping quarters. ‘And was he fast, Wax. Real fast.’
‘Might not be a drummer, huh?’ Smith said.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Lily countered. ‘Good night, Wax. I’ll likely see you in the morning, but if I don’t, drop by the Happy Bull for a drink—after the stage gets in.’
While Lily glided off towards the women’s room, Smith followed Burbury. On entering, he found that the farmer was already in bed. The little undertaker stood by another bed removing his jacket.
‘If you gents’re going out back,’ the small man said. ‘You’d best ask the stationmaster for a new dream book. I used the last page and the covers’d be rough on the butt-end.’
The reference to the dream-book explained how the undertaker came to be in the building, although he had not passed through the barroom. If he had been using the privy, he could have entered the sleeping quarters by the back door.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ Burbury grinned. ‘I was just going.’
‘Rain’s stopped,’ the undertaker remarked to Smith as Burbury returned to the barroom.
‘That’s something to be thankful for,’ the Texan replied, realizing he had been so fully occupied all evening that he had been unaware of the aching which usually accompanied wet weather.
‘Gilpin’s gone to tell the dudes they don’t need to be scared anymore,’ Burbury announced, returning with a newspaper in his hand. This’s the best old Dad in there could do.’
‘If it’s a two-holer, I’ll come with you,’ Smith offered. ‘I have to go and there might not be any paper.’
‘A two-holer?’ Burbury grinned. ‘It’s a six-holer. The pride of Sweetwater County, I’ve been told.’
‘May I have a private word with you, Mr. Smith?’ the undertaker asked. ‘On a matter of some importance, for your ears alone.’
‘I reckon so,’ the Texan agreed. ‘You’d best go on ahead, Ric’
‘Sure,’ the drummer replied. ‘I’ve near on waited too long now.’
Letting Burbury get out of the back door, the little man stared at the farmer and made sure that he was asleep. Crossing to Smith’s side, he dropped his voice in a secretive, almost furtive manner.
‘I have something which might be of use to you.’
‘Such as?’ Smith asked.
‘Not so loud, I beg of you, sir,’ the undertaker hissed. ‘It is a sheet of paper I found in the third man’s pocket.’
‘I thought you was supposed to be helping the sheriff,’ Smith said dryly, but held his voice to little higher than a whisper.
‘In the Good Book, sir, we are told that the laborer is worthy of his hire. So I assume that I, Otis M. Capey, being a professional gentleman, should be even more so.’
‘Get to the white meat.’
‘Of course, sir. When I broached the subject of payment for my professional services, I was made certain that none would be forthcoming. So I considered myself ethically entitled to look out for your interests.’
‘And your own,’ Smith drawled. ‘Sure, I know. The laborer is worthy of his hire. Well, let’s see what you’ve got.’
‘Just a sheet of paper,’ Capey replied, taking it from his left hip pocket but not holding it out. ‘With a message on it—but we haven’t spoken of my hire.’
‘I haven’t heard anything that’s worth money,’ Smith pointed out.
‘The message reads, “Smith on his way from Laramie. Stop him getting here”.’
‘Is that all?’ Smith sniffed. ‘I know somebody sent them after me.’
‘There is something more, sir,’ Capey promised, still not offering the paper to the Texan. ‘A name. But it would not be good business to proceed further until money has been discussed.’
‘Twenty dollars,’ Smith suggested, showing none of the interest he felt. If the message should be genuine, it proved that somebody in Widow’s Creek had hired the three men.
‘Twen—!’ Capey began.
‘That’s a fair price and I’m too tired to bargain. ‘Specially when all I have to do is call in the sheriff, tell him and see what you’ve got for free.’
‘I could destroy the paper before he came,’ the undertaker blustered.
‘Not with me this close,’ Smith pointed out. ‘And if you did, you’d be in bad trouble. Maybe you don’t know, but Article Eleven, Section Twenty-Three, Clause Sixty-One of the Wyoming Territorial Penal Code, Withholding Information from a Duly Sworn Peace Officer, says you can get five years in the pokey for doing it. Double if you attempt to, or destroy said evidence.’
‘I don’t share your legal knowledge, Mr. Smith,’ Capey confessed. ‘But there is small need for unpleasantness. We are both businessmen. I accept your offer and, as evidence of my good faith, here is the document.’
‘Gracias,’ Smith said, taking out his wallet and exchanging two of its ten dollar bills for the piece of folded paper.
On opening it out, Smith found it to be a page torn from a notebook. Wanting a better view of his purchase, he took it under the small lamp which hung in the centre of the room. He did not doubt that the message would be as Capey had claimed, but wanted to check on other details. Although printed in block letters, Smith concluded that it had been written by a hand used to holding a pencil. The slight irregularities in the otherwise neat writing could be to disguise it, or caused by it having been written in a hurry.
‘I took the opportunity of examining it in the barn, sir,’ Capey commented quietly from Smith’s side. ‘A businessman must be aware of his wares’ value. There were slight scratches on the bottom of the paper. So I used my pencil and brought them into view.’
Smith was already looking at the marks left in the blackened area at the foot of the page. Somebody had been writing on the sheet which had been above the one he held in the book. By rubbing a lead pencil gently over the area, the undertaker had exposed the two words that pressure had imprinted upon it.
‘Well, sir,’ Capey breathed. ‘Have I been worthy of my hire?’
‘I don’t want the twenty simoleons back, if that’s what you mean,’ Smith replied, folding the letter. To himself, he continued, ‘Who the hell, or what the hell, is Poona Woodstole?’