Gunsmoke and Gold Page 3

  “That’s a real pity,” Sam said. “And a mistake.” Then he reached over the bar and dragged the man over the top, kicking and screaming and cussing.

  The men in the room then noticed that Matt Bodine had his hands full—of .44’s. He had drawn so fast that no one had even caught the motion.

  “Stand easy, boys,” Mister Dale said.

  Sam adjusted the bartender’s attitude three times. Two rights to the mouth and a left to the gut. The bartender sat down on the floor, blood running out of his mouth. He tried to get up. He got as far as his hands and knees. While his big butt was up in the air, Sam reared back, kicked him on his behind, and sent him out the batwings, rolling off the boardwalk and into the dust of the street.

  Sam walked back to the bar and behind it. He pulled two mugs of beer and tossed money down for the brews. Matt holstered his guns and picked up the mug. Together, the brothers walked to a table and sat down, their backs to a wall.

  Pete Harris seemed amused by the entire affair. Hugo Raner looked like a thundercloud and so did Blake Vernon. Mister Dale’s expression was bland, but his eyes were shiny mean.

  “I’ll go see about Charlie,” Tulsa said. “I do know how he feels,” he added.

  “I figured you boys would be hangin’ around over to the nester bar,” Hugo said. “I sure got a whiff of sheep-shit when you walked in.”

  “That’s probably your own underwear you’re smelling,” Matt told him.

  “Now, by God,” Hugo yelled, pointing a finger at Matt. “I warn you now, I’ll take only so much of this.”

  “You started it,” Pete spoke the words quietly. “That’s one of your problems, Hugo. You like to dish it out, but you just can’t take it right back.”

  “The hell with you all!” Hugo yelled, jumping to his feet. “Come on,” he snarled to his men. They trouped out en masse, almost tearing the batwings off their hinges.

  “Man has a hot temper,” Matt remarked.

  “He has some justification,” Pete said, shifting his chair to face the brothers. “His best water is fenced off.”

  “By farmers?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And they fenced it off . . . when?” Matt asked.

  Pete smiled. “You boys are cattlemen. I know that for a fact. You know how it started.”

  “Probably,” Matt said. He took a swig and set the mug down. “The farmer came in and legally filed on his sections. Hugo and his men then made life miserable for the man and his family. They’d ride over the man’s garden, shoot his milk cow and his pigs, scare his wife and kids half to death.” Matt noticed that some of the cowboys in the bar had embarrassed looks on their faces. “Takes a big, brave man to do things like that.”

  Some of the cowboys looked at the barroom floor and shuffled their boots. Matt knew then that those men were not bad people. They rode for the brand and did what they were told . . . but they didn’t have to like doing it.

  “So finally the farmer did the only thing he could do,” Matt continued. “He put up fences. I grew up different, I guess. My daddy put me behind a plow and a mule when I was about the size of a tadpole. He made me appreciate the fact that there is more in life than what can be seen from the hurricane deck of a horse. Any of you boys ever plowed an acre garden? I can tell you, it’s hard work. Has anybody tried to get along with the farmers and the sheepmen?”

  “I don’t aim to try,” Blake Vernon said. “I come here back in the fifties. I fought Injuns and outlaws and helped tame this country. It’s my land, and I’ll stand with a gun in my hand on it, and die and be buried in it, rather than give up any of it.” He stood up, a hard man in a hard land, but also an unbending man in changing times. “Come on, boys. Smells like sheep and hogs in here.”

  The owner of the Circle V stomped out with his men about the time that Charlie the bartender came lurching back in. He gave Sam a baleful look but kept his mouth shut. He went behind the bar and took to polishing glasses.

  “We’re gonna have trouble in this region,” Pete said, toying with his empty beer mug. “And good people on both sides are going to get hurt. Sad thing is, it could all be avoided.”

  “How?” Mister Dale said. “How, Pete? Blake and Hugo are not going to go kowtowing to the nesters and the sheepmen, hat in hand.”

  “The farmers and the sheepmen have gone to them to try to work something out,” Pete responded. “Hugo’s son dragged that one so bad he’s crippled for life. And your pet puma of a sheriff didn’t do one damned thing about it, didn’t even investigate it—right, Dale?”

  “It was his word against Carl and about fifteen other hands,” the mayor said. “There wasn’t even any point in bringing it to a court of law. And you know that’s right, Pete.”

  “Of course, the publicity it might have caused had nothing to do with that decision?” Pete asked.

  Mister Dale sighed audibly. “Maybe Hugo is right, Pete. Maybe you don’t belong with this group. Maybe you are siding with the nesters and the sheepmen.”

  Pete stood up and the mayor tensed. “I’m not wearing a gun, Pete,” he said.

  “No. You never do, Dale. People like you blow off at the mouth and don’t have the courage to back up your remarks with fists or guns. Hell with you, Dale. You’re a mealy-mouthed coward.”

  He walked stiffly from the barroom, his hands following him out, protecting his back.

  Matt and Sam drained their beer mugs and stood up. “Going to get real interesting around here before long,” Matt said. “Might be fun to stick around. What do you think, Sam?”

  “I think you’re right, brother. I believe we should stick around.”

  “Get out of my hotel,” Mister Dale said. “Pack your crap and get out.”

  “Sure thing, Mister Mayor,” Matt said. “Bed wasn’t very comfortable anyway.”

  After the brothers had left, the mayor looked at the bartender. “Charlie, what do you think about it?”

  “You want my honest opinion, Mister Dale?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Times are changin’. Cattlemen are gonna have to get along with farmers and sheepmen. And anyone who don’t think that’s possible is a bull-headed fool. And I think them two that just left here are poison—clear-through poison. They’re gonna side with the nesters and sheepmen and you ain’t got nobody on your payroll who can outgun ’em. And now you and Raner done made Pete Harris mad, and he’s gonna side with them, too. That’s what I think.”

  Mister Dale nodded his head. “Charlie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re fired.”

  * * *

  Sam and Matt checked out of the hotel—the desk clerk had told them they were no longer welcome in the dining room—and walked down to the Plowshare, carrying their possessions. Chrisman looked at them as they dumped their belongings on a table. There were several tables full of men, farmers and sheepmen and a few locals.

  “Tossed you boys out of the hotel, did he?” Chrisman asked.

  “That he did,” Sam said.

  “And being the law-abiding and gentle folk that we are,” Matt added with a smile, “we obeyed meekly.”

  One of the locals laughed at that. He had been one of the diners when the Lightning hands had jumped the brothers.

  Charlie walked out of the storeroom, an apron tied around his waist and a broom in his hand. He walked up to Sam and stuck out his hand. “I got my walkin’ papers too. Sorry about that remark of mine.”

  Sam smiled and shook the hand. “Sure. Forget it. Glad to see you got a job so soon.”

  Charlie grinned. “I got a wife and two kids to support. Mister Chrisman hired me right off. Looks like the farmers and sheepmen got another local on their side—me!” He turned and then stopped and once more faced the brothers. “Say, I just remembered: I got a shack right on the edge of town. It’s got a stable, of sorts, right in the back, and the roof to the house don’t leak. The kitchen pump works and there’s a cookstove. You boys wanna use it?”

/>   “That’d be great,” Matt said. “We’ll rent it on a weekly basis.” Charlie opened his mouth to protest and Matt waved him silent. “We won’t have it any other way. We’ll pay you the same thing we were paying for the rooms at the hotel. You toss in pillows and sheets—deal?”

  “You got a deal.”

  “There’s a Mex cantina and café right behind here,” Chrisman said. “They serve up good grub. Lots of folks have a drink or two here and walk right out the back to eat. I recommend the place. Juan and Anita run the café.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said.

  Chrisman introduced the brothers to the men in the room. There was Simmons, who owned the general store. Walters ran the saddle and gun shop. McClary was the blacksmith and owned the livery stable. Of the farmers having an afternoon beer were Rich Ansel, a big Swede; Paul Dennis—the first man in the area to farm, and the spokesman for the area farmers, and a quiet man named Reed.

  “He don’t say much,” Simmons said. “Kentucky man. Has four sons: Jake, John, Jesse, and Joe.”

  “Pleased,” the Kentucky man said, and returned to his beer and his Bible reading.

  “You, ah, always read a Bible in a saloon?” Sam asked.

  “Ain’t no better place in the world for it. Think about it.”

  Matt and Sam looked at each other and grinned. The man did have a point. They picked up their gear and looked over at Charlie.

  “Last house on the right, headin’ out of town,” he told them. “Thataway,” he added, pointing. “You can’t miss it.”

  “See you boys later,” Chrisman said. “And . . . thanks for sticking around.”

  The brothers smiled at the man and headed for their new home. They spent the rest of the afternoon sweeping and dusting and cleaning what windows remained intact. They found hammer and nails and boarded up the broken ones. Matt walked the short distance to the general store and bought a few essentials like coffee and sugar and flour and several boxes of. 44’s.

  Simmons tossed in a free box. “I think there’s gonna be a run on ammunition,” he said.

  Matt looked at him to see if the man was joking.

  He wasn’t.

  Four

  Someone out back was playing a guitar and singing a sad song in Spanish when the brothers entered the Mexican café just as twilight was fading into the velvet of Western Colorado night. They found a table and ordered tequila before looking at the supper menu.

  A lovely Spanish girl brought them their drinks and smiled at Sam. He smiled back. She lingered. Sam began to sweat. Matt began to feel like a dog that had just wandered into a party for cats.

  “Victoria,” her mother called from the kitchen, “you have other diners.”

  “Sí, Madre,” she said, her voice soft.

  Sam began to look like a calf that had just lost its mother.

  “This is pitiful,” Matt said.

  “Ummm?” Sam asked, without taking his eyes from the young lady.

  “I said you have a piece of straw sticking out of your ear.”

  “That’s nice,” Sam said dreamily.

  “Victoria!” the call came from the kitchen. “De prisa, por favor.”

  “Your mother wants you to hurry up, Victoria,” Matt said. He spoke enough Spanish to know that much.

  She shook her head and looked at him. “Sir?”

  “Your mother is calling from the kitchen.”

  “Victoria!” a man’s voice shouted.

  “Sí, Papa!” she called, and left the table at a fast walk.

  Sam rocked back in his chair and watched her walk away, stars in his eyes at the sight of her swaying hips.

  Matt grinned and stuck his boot under Sam’s chair and jerked. Sam toppled over backward and lay on his back on the floor. He cut his eyes to Matt, grinning down at him. “I’ll get you for this, Matt.”

  Matt lifted his glass of tequila. “Salud!”

  Victoria came rushing over to see if Sam was hurt and to help him to his boots. Juan and Anita came running out of the kitchen to join in. Matt sat in his chair, sipping his tequila and enjoying the spectacle.

  “Señor!” Juan said, brushing at Sam’s clothing. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, but he’s going to be in about an hour.” He pointed at Matt.

  “What’d I do?” Matt asked. “I can’t help it if you can’t hold your booze.” He looked at Anita. “He has this . . . ah, drinking problem.”

  “I do not!” Sam huffed.

  Momma and Poppa caught on immediately and both grinned. Victoria looked confused.

  Matt was going to milk the moment for all it was worth. But before he could heap more insults on Sam’s head, a noisy group of cowboys came stomping into the café/cantina. One of them had a very bad mouth on him.

  “Lightning Arrow bunch,” Juan said, disgust in his voice.

  “Call the sheriff and have them tossed out,” Sam suggested.

  Juan smiled sadly. “You do not yet understand the situation in this town. I would be laughed at if I did that . . . by the sheriff. All we can do is cope with them and hope they don’t break too much.”

  “Do they come in here often?” Sam asked, the tipped over chair and verbal insults from his brother forgotten—for the moment.

  “Only to make trouble,” Anita said. “And to see if there are any farmers or sheepmen and their families here. They make fun of them. Humiliate them. Try to make them fight. They are not fighters.”

  “Don’t bet on that,” Matt said, remembering the Bible-reading Kentucky man with the four sons. “They just haven’t been pushed enough.”

  “Git on over here, greaser!” one man hollered. “We want some damn service.”

  Matt stood up, shoulder to shoulder with Sam. The Lightning hands saw them and fell silent. Matt and Sam walked to the center of the big dining area. People got out of the line of fire quickly.

  “Your show, Sam,” Matt said quietly.

  “How do you figure?”

  “You’re the one making goo-goo eyes at the girl.”

  “Goo-goo eyes,” Sam muttered. “Oh, all right.” He raised his voice. “Brand new set of rules have just gone into effect for this establishment, boys. No loud noise, and absolutely no profanity will be allowed.”

  “And who’s gonna enforce them rules?” a man asked.

  “Me,” Sam said quietly.

  “Well, why don’t you come over here and git to en-forcin’, then?” he challenged.

  “I have a much better idea, loudmouth.”

  “Well, tell me, Injun boy.”

  “Why don’t you shut your damn mouth and fill your hand?”

  And there it was. Harassing people was one thing; a fist fight got you some sore hands, some cuts and bumps and bruises. But this changed the whole game.

  “Easy, Clint,” one of his friends cautioned. He glanced at Sam. “This ain’t no shootin’ deal, mister. The sheriff don’t mind us doin’ this, so I ’spect you just better back off.”

  Sheriff Jack Linwood pushed his way through the knot of unwashed by the door. “You want to go to jail, Injun?”

  “His name is Sam,” Matt said. “And if you think you’re hoss enough to put him there, deal yourself in this game. You’re pretty good, Linwood; but I’m better. Now you either enforce the law, fair and equally for everybody, or drag iron!”

  “That’s it!” Mister Dale yelled from just outside the door. “Get out of the way, damn it! Move!” He stepped into the café, shoving Lightning riders out of his way. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Very simple,” Sam said. “These loudmouth hands came in cussing and insulting people. I ordered them to leave. They refused. That one in particular.” He pointed with his left hand. “Then your pet sheriff comes in and threatens to take me to jail instead of ejecting the troublemakers. Tell me something, Dale: when are you going to wean him?”

  “Why, you god . . .” Linwood started to lunge at Sam.

  Dale pulled him back. “You boys are pushing,” he s
aid to Sam and Matt. “You’re pushing hard.”

  “No harder than your side pushes,” Matt reminded him. “What’s the matter, Mister Mayor, don’t you believe in equal justice for all?”

  Dale stared at Bodine. He pursed his lips and sighed. “No more trouble in here, Jack. Troublemakers get the same treatment. Understood?”

  “You mean to tell me . . .”

  “Yes, damn it!” the mayor yelled. “That’s exactly what I mean.” He grabbed the sheriff’s arm and pulled him outside. “Look, Jack. We play it close and safe. If nothing happens, those two will leave sooner rather than later. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Linwood nodded his head. “All right. Suits me.”

  “You gave in real quick, Jack. What’s the matter, are you developing a conscience?”

  Jack Linwood walked away without replying. He really didn’t want to lose this job. Best job he’d ever had.

  Mister Dale stepped back inside the café. “Break it up,” he ordered the Lightning crew. “If you can’t control your cursing, leave.”

  “We’ll leave,” one said.

  “Fine. There is to be no more trouble in here. You have my apologies, Mister Garcia.”

  “Thank you, Mister Dale,” Anita said. Juan said nothing; but his eyes shone hate and distrust at the man.

  The mayor stepped back into the night and the patrons of the popular café settled down and resumed their eating. Sam and Matt returned to their table. Juan came over and pointed to a chair.

  “Sure. Sit down,” Matt said.

  “Don’t trust Mister Dale too far,” the man spoke softly. “And be careful of the townspeople you might decide to trust. Even some of those you see eating here this night are in truth his friends and supporters; they listen and spy and report to him. This is a town filled with suspicion and fear. I tell you this because you took our side and stood up to those troublemakers. And,” he said with a smile, looking at Sam, “I think my daughter likes you very much.”

  “She is a beautiful girl,” Sam said. “You and your wife should be proud.”

  “Oh, we are,” Juan replied. “We are.” He sobered. “Be careful, boys. The night holds few friends. The sheriff is not a bad man, I think. I have seen a streak of decency in him. But I also think Mister Dale is playing a waiting game. He does not want trouble while you are here. He wants very much for the two of you to become bored and leave. Then he will strike.” He stood up. “Enjoy your meal, boys. It is, as the saying goes, on the house.”