Frontier of Violence Page 4

  “My apologies, Marshal, for not notifying you in a more timely manner,” Gafford was quick to say. “I assure you, however, that I do recognize the risk of the guns attracting bad intentions from scoundrels looking to seize them. That is why I didn’t announce anything about the prize guns earlier and why I have provided my own security to guard them until they are transferred to the possession of the contest winner. I certainly didn’t mean to exclude you and your deputies from any involvement but, by the same token, neither did I want to burden you unduly on top of all your other responsibilities.”

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve taken some reasonable measures, at least,” Bob allowed. “When you say you’ve got your own guard looking out for the guns, can you give me a name?”

  “Simon Quirt. He’s a former Pinkerton man who comes with high recommendations.”

  Bob nodded. “I’ve heard of him. A former Pinkerton and a few other things. But, from all reports, a competent man to have on your side.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  “I didn’t say that. Not exactly. But you’ve already got him on the job so that’s what we’ll have to work with. I’ll naturally want to meet with him after he gets in. Once those guns make it to town, they’ll still fall under the general responsibility of me and my deputies, even with Quirt in place.”

  “I understand.”

  “Where will you be keeping them between when the train gets in and the day of the contest?”

  “Abraham Starbuck has agreed to keep them in his bank’s vault during the overnight hours and whenever they’re not on display.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Bob said.

  “Mr. Starbuck has also agreed to be one of the judges in the shooting contest,” Gafford went on. “I’ve also lined up Angus McTeague as a second.”

  “You’re roping in some of the town’s best men, I’ll give you that,” Bullock said grudgingly. “Nobody will question the outcome of the judging with the likes of Starbuck and McTeague making the calls.”

  “But I still need a third, a tiebreaker if necessary,” Gafford pointed out. “At one point I was thinking I would ask the good marshal here. But now that the notion has arisen for him to enter the contest himself, that clearly falls by the way.” The businessman paused to clear his throat before fixing his gaze directly on Bullock. “Another name frequently suggested to me, friend Bullock, was yours. Given how much disfavor you’ve exhibited toward me and my entire undertaking, I suppose it’s a waste of breath to ask—but would you consider serving as a judge for the contest?”

  Bullock blinked rapidly two or three times and looked sort of like a man who’d been asked to try on a pair of frilly bloomers. Then that look shifted into his familiar scowl. “You’ve got a hell of a lot of guts, Gafford. There’s something else I’ve got to give you. And, for me, that usually goes a long way toward taking the measure of a man.”

  Now it was Gafford’s turn to look disconcerted. “You saying you’ll do it?”

  “Go ahead, Mike,” Maudie urged. “It’s going to take place with or without you. Show your measure by being part of it and meeting the challenge of the competition head on.”

  Bullock’s scowl held firm. “Never let it be said that I came up short when it was time to match guts with anybody . . . Bring it on, Gafford. You’re damn right I’ll be your third judge.”

  CHAPTER 5

  When Bob went home for supper that night, he was immediately ambushed by his ten-year-old son, Bucky, who was armed with a ton of questions about the afternoon shoot-out at Bullock’s.

  “Me and some of the other fellas from school heard about it as soon as classes let out,” explained the freckled, wide-eyed boy who shared his father’s flaming red hair. “Naturally, we ran straight downtown to find out as much as we could. But you were still inside with a bunch of other people so I couldn’t get no closer. I mean, seein’s how I know better than to ever go in a saloon.” He paused, his face forming a somewhat disgruntled frown as he cast a furtive glance over toward Consuela, Bob’s housekeeper and cook. “Then Consuela showed up and made me leave. She said you’d probably be busy for quite a while and wouldn’t have time to be bothered by a bunch of questions from us kids. She said it could wait until you got home.”

  “Plus,” Consuela added sternly, “the proximity of a saloon, even on the outside, is no place for a young boy to be hanging around.”

  Consuela Diaz was a pretty young woman of Mexican blood who also served as a surrogate mother to Bucky since the passing of Bob’s wife, Priscilla, nearly three years earlier. Moreover, Consuela had been part of the family, in a manner of speaking, since before Bucky was born. Her father, Alberto, was the ranch foreman for Bob’s dad back in Texas. And her older brother, Ramos, had been Bob’s best friend throughout their teenage years and into early manhood.

  When Ramos was savagely gunned down by a hired thug working for the greedy cattle baron trying to squeeze out everybody else—including Bob’s father—within the territory he sought exclusive control over, Bob retaliated vengefully. This earned him the brand of an outlaw, dubbed “the Devil’s River Kid” because of the wilderness area into which he fled to elude capture, and for a year and more he was also forced to avoid all but the most fleeting and secretive contact with his family, including his young wife and baby son.

  It was during this period that Consuela, having blossomed seemingly overnight into a smoldering, dark-haired beauty from Ramos’s gawky, irritating kid sister who’d had a crush on Bob since she was eleven, first began to assist in the care of Bucky. This was necessary due to the frail, failing health of Priscilla, whose condition was only worsened by the emotional strain of Bob’s outlaw status.

  Following a manhunt that chased Bob into the teeth of a fierce blizzard and left him believed to be dead, Consuela had accompanied Priscilla and Bucky to Chicago, where Priscilla originally hailed from and where they intended to start a new life away from the turmoil and painful memories rooted in Texas. It was there that Bob caught up with them, revealing himself not only to be very much alive but also freed now from the attention of those sworn to hunt down the Devil’s River Kid.

  Assuming the new surname of Hatfield over the Hammond that Bob had been born with, all four of them (Consuela included, in order to continue helping look after Priscilla and the toddler Bucky) had struck out to build a new life together. This eventually brought them to Wyoming, where Priscilla’s poor health finally took its toll. Bob, Consuela, and Bucky had gritted their teeth and forged on until finally settling in Rattlesnake Wells, where Bob’s decency, bravery, and skill with a gun had soon won him the job of town marshal. Together, they’d been building on that foundation ever since.

  “As usual,” Bob said now, in response to what had just been related to him over the kitchen table, “Consuela had it right. I’d like to think that I can always make time for you, Buck, but the truth of the matter is that certain things, like my job, will sometimes get in the way. You can understand how a shooting is a pretty serious matter, right?”

  “Well sure, Pa,” Bucky agreed as Consuela began filling their plates with generous servings of potatoes, peas, and pork chops. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right . . . And then I wanted to hear the details about how you blasted those three low-down hombres who were threatening to kill everybody in the joint!”

  Bob grinned. He couldn’t deny that he liked being hero-worshipped by his son. But at the same time, he recognized he had to be careful not to glorify the practice of settling problems with guns. There were plenty of others who’d be quick enough to fill a boy’s head with those kinds of notions.

  “That sounds like a pretty good story, pal,” Bob said, digging a fork into his mashed potatoes. “But, as usual with those kind of things, I guess it didn’t take long for it to be exaggerated. So let me tell you what really happened . . .”

  Around bites of the delicious meal and in between questions from Bucky, Bob told the straight of how the incident had
played out. He neither embellished nor altered anything, except for cleaning up the crudity of Jax’s remarks to Maudie.

  “So you see,” he summed up, “there were three hombres involved, right enough, but only two of ’em actually tried to bring their guns into it. Plus, I had help from a gal throwing a whiskey bottle and from Mike Bullock throwing a walloping right cross.”

  “Wow, I’d’ve liked to’ve seen that!” Bucky exclaimed. “There are folks around town who say Mr. Bullock can throw a punch as hard as John L. Sullivan.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Bob said. “But he’s gotten pretty good with his fists over the years from breaking up saloon brawls, that much is sure. I guarantee I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his punches.”

  “But you still saved the day,” Bucky insisted. “Shooting the gun out of one skunk’s hand after he already had it drawn and aimed, and then winging that second fella before he ever cleared leather. Sundown Bob galloped into action again!”

  It was obvious that Bucky had been keeping up to date on his share of the dime novels that circulated among the boys in town, despite their parents’ best efforts to confiscate the lurid tomes. Bob couldn’t suppress another grin, even as he said, “You know I don’t care for that name.”

  “I know, Pa. I wish you did like it better, though. I think it’s pretty neat.”

  “Pretty neat for a character in a dime novel, maybe. But in real life folks just have regular names, and mine’s Bob Hatfield. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Okay, Pa.” Bucky squirmed in his chair. “I’ve cleaned my plate,” he said. “Could I be excused now?”

  “Excused to go do what?” asked Bob.

  “I promised Skinny Hutchins and some of the fellas that I’d let them know the real details on what happened at Bullock’s after I got the chance to talk to you. There’s almost an hour of daylight left—I thought I’d go do that. They’re counting on hearing from me. Can’t I go?”

  “For dessert, I saved part of the pie from yesterday. And I have some cold buttermilk,” said Consuela.

  “Couldn’t I have the pie later, after I get back?”

  “Pretty risky, leaving me alone with pie and cold buttermilk. Don’t know if I can promise there’ll be any left when you get back,” said Bob.

  “Aw, you wouldn’t do that, Pa. I trust you.”

  Bob looked at Consuela. “Boy must be powerful anxious to talk to his friends if he’s willing to risk his pie like that. Okay, Buck, you can go ahead and make your report. But you be back before dark, hear?”

  Bucky took off like a shot. When Consuela rose to go fetch his pie and buttermilk, Bob got up from the table, too. “Mind if I take that out on the porch, ’Suela? It’s a pretty nice evening. We won’t be getting many more before the chilly edge of winter starts slicing in.”

  “Sí. I will bring your dessert out.”

  Bob went out and sat down in the old wooden rocking chair he kept on the front porch. As part of his morning ritual in good weather, after he ate breakfast inside, Bob would bring a postmeal mug of coffee out here and sip it down slowly before heading out to assume his marshal duties. Coming out here of an evening was more intermittent, but he nevertheless enjoyed it whenever he did.

  Bob’s house sat at the top of a gradual slope overlooking the town. Directly below was what had come to be called the Point, the joining spot where New Town’s Gold Avenue branched off to the northwest, toward the Prophecy Mountains where the gold strikes were, and Front Street, the main drag of Old Town, angled to the southwest. The old and the new; the quiet and settled contrasting with the boisterous and booming. Either way, it all fell under the responsibility of Bob and his deputies to keep the lid from blowing off.

  At the moment, all looked peaceful and calm. Bob enjoyed such moments, savored them. But, on the other hand, he grudgingly admitted to himself that it would be mighty boring if there weren’t other moments, like the one today with Jax and his cohorts, to spice things up a bit. As long as it didn’t swing too far one way or the other, he told himself, he could be content.

  Abruptly, Consuela was at his elbow, holding out a glass of buttermilk and a saucer on which sat a fork and a thick piece of apple pie. Bob took the fare, saying, “Thank you.”

  Consuela paused for a moment, examining the side of his head. “That bullet nick to your ear is healing nicely,” she said. “There’s going to be only a minor scar with very little meat missing.”

  “With no real scar to spark interest, it’s gonna make a pretty lame story for me to tell in my old age,” said Bob.

  Consuela swept her skirt under the backs of her legs and sat down on the edge of the porch. “I’m sure you’ll think of some ways to adequately embellish it between now and then,” she said with a smile. Then, glancing upward, she abruptly switched subjects, noting, “It is a nice evening, isn’t it?”

  “For a fact,” Bob agreed, sinking his fork into the pie. After he’d taken a bite, he said, “Aren’t you having any of this?”

  “Not right now. I’m too full. If Bucky leaves any, I’ll have some before I go to bed.”

  “I’ll see to it that he does leave you some.”

  “You needn’t bother. He’s a growing boy—let him eat.”

  “You spoil him sometimes.”

  “And you’re too hard on him sometimes.”

  It wasn’t a new disagreement between them. But, on this occasion, it didn’t seem worth getting into any deeper.

  Bob finished eating his pie. Consuela tipped her head back and leaned against a porch post. The fine, graceful curve of her throat was outlined in a golden glow of the twilight while the rich blue-black of her long hair trailed down in deep shadow. Looking at her, Bob found his final bite of pie somewhat harder to swallow. He washed it down with a hurried gulp of buttermilk.

  “I went down to Bullock’s as soon as I heard about the trouble that had taken place. I got there ahead of Bucky and his school amigos,” Consuela said, speaking quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone. “I looked through the window and saw you sitting and talking with the woman Maudie—the one who threw the whiskey bottle.”

  “That’s right,” said Bob. “She was kinda shook up by what happened. I was trying to calm her down.”

  “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she? And she dresses in a manner to assure that men take notice of her.”

  “Well, yeah,” Bob said. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he knew he wasn’t particularly comfortable with it. “She’s a bar maid in a saloon, ’Suela. Dressing the way she does sorta goes with the job. But you’ve met Maudie before, you know she’s an okay gal . . . I mean, she’s not, er, one of the upstairs girls or anything like that.”

  “Yes, I know. If she was that, I wouldn’t be so troubled.”

  “Troubled by what?”

  “By the way she was looking at you while you were ‘calming her down.’”

  “Aw, come on, ’Suela. You’re reading more into it than there was, or is even close to being. Yeah, Maudie is kinda, well, flirtatious, I guess you’d call it. But it don’t mean anything.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Consuela told him. “You foolish men are sometimes the last to see certain things.”

  She stood up to go back in the house. “It is never spoken between us, Bob, and I realize I may be stepping out of bounds to mention it even now. But you know how I feel about you, how I have felt since I was a mere girl. And I believe that, if you’ll admit it, you have developed similar feelings for me. Yet I also recognize and respect that you are not done mourning your wife . . . So I wait. And will continue to wait . . . But not forever, and certainly not for another woman.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Bob remained on the porch after Consuela had gone back inside. Dusk thickened into nearly full darkness. Bucky returned home just ahead of pushing it past his time limit.

  “Your buddies satisfied with your report of the facts?” Bob asked.

  Bucky nodded. “Oh yeah. They tho
ught it was a great yarn, even if you only blazed it out with two gunnies instead of three. Skinny thinks you’re the toughest lawman since Wild Bill Hickok. He says if you’d let people go ahead and call you ‘Sundown Bob,’ you could probably be almost as famous.”

  Bob chuckled. “I ain’t looking to be famous, Buck. I just want to do my job and help keep our town a decent place to live.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a pretty good thing, too,” Bucky said somewhat reluctantly, clearly thinking it might be better for his pa to be more Wild Bill–like in his ambition and fame.

  “I held back from eating all the pie, so you better go have yourself some,” Bob told him. “Then what about schoolwork?”

  “I did most of it earlier. But I’ve still got a little left.”

  “Best take care of that after the pie, then. I’ll be in after a bit.”

  “You’re not taking a turn around the town tonight?”

  “Not tonight, no. The Macy brothers are taking care of that. Everything’s pretty quiet and I’ve had enough excitement for one day, thanks.”

  “Okay, Pa. See you inside then.”

  The screen door creaked and slapped shut and Bucky was gone.

  Bob settled back in his chair and his thoughts returned to Consuela and the things she’d said. None of what she’d put into words was really new or startling, other than her unexpected jealousy over Maudie. It was true that Bob and Maudie had been carrying on a flirtatious relationship for some time. But, at least in his mind, that’s all it was. He was certainly aware that Maudie was attractive and vivacious, and he supposed that played a part in why he enjoyed and looked forward to visiting with her whenever he stopped by Bullock’s. And he supposed, too, that he enjoyed thinking she also found him attractive and interesting to talk to. Yet he’d simply never imagined the thing between them to be headed toward any kind of romance, serious or otherwise.

  Where Consuela was concerned, however, it was a different matter. While he’d fought hard since the passing of Priscilla not to allow himself romantic feelings toward anyone, he nevertheless was aware that he’d grown very fond of Consuela. Hell, he loved her. Him, her, Bucky—they were a package, a family. He couldn’t imagine them not being together . . . And yet he’d never expressed that to anyone—barely even to himself, and for sure not to Consuela.