Gunman's Song (21 page)

“Much obliged, Parker,” said Vincent. He and Buddy Edwards squeezed in beside the man. “Guess what I heard was true,” he said, fishing a coin from his trouser pocket and laying it on the bar for the drinks.

“If you mean about Renfield having a gunfight in the making, you're right,” said Parker Phelps. Then he looked surprised and said, “Say, what are you Turkey Track boys doing in here so early? I thought McNalty and Sully kept everybody busy till dark, even on Saturdays.”

“Did you think I wouldn't show up with Fast Larry Shaw, the fastest gun alive, coming to town? I'd have to be nailed to the floor with guns held on me,” said Vincent, grinning, lifting his shot glass in a salute while beside him Buddy Edwards did the same.

Parker Phelps laughed, returning the salute with his shot glass. The three tossed back their drinks in a gulp. Then Phelps licked his lips and said, “You don't have any notions about taking on Fast Larry Shaw, do you?”

“Naw, not me,” said Vincent, liking the idea that someone might even consider him worthy to face a man like Shaw. “Where'd you get such an idea as that?”

“Hell, it's no secret you're mighty handy with that pistol of yours. There's some already saying you'd give Mace Renfield a run for his money.”

“Not interested,” said Vincent. He refilled their glasses as he said, “Besides, Mace has too many pards always around. The man who outguns him would be lucky to make it out of town alive.”

“That might be true,” said Parker Phelps, accepting the full shot glass. “Want to hear what the smart money is saying?”

“Sure, tell me,” said Vincent. Beside him Buddy sipped his glass of whiskey a little slower now that the other two weren't noticing him. He wasn't about to admit it, but he had no real taste for whiskey, or beer either, for that matter. He drank when he came to town rather than hear the rest of the Turkey Track hands tease him over it. The truth was, Buddy liked the world to move slowly and steadily. He didn't like the way alcohol made everything spin out of control.

“Smart money has Shaw able to beat Mace Renfield ten to one,” said Phelps with a smile. “I bet Mace is madder than a pissed-on hornet over it.”

Vincent considered it, then said, “I can't see Mace Renfield beating Fast Larry Shaw either, come to think of it. I know Renfield is fast…but he ain't in Shaw's class. Few men are, I reckon.”

“Well, that's what the smart money is saying too,” said Phelps, “but to be honest I had to put a few dollars on Renfield. Just think what it will pay if he'd happen to win!” He winked. “Of course, it doesn't
hurt nothing either for a man like Renfield to see that I've got faith in him, eh?” He gave Vincent a friendly nudge.

Vincent grinned. “I suppose it never hurts to get on Renfield's good side.”

Before either one could say any more on the matter a young cowboy burst in through the front door and cried aloud, “Boy! Fast Larry Shaw just rode in! He's over at the doctor's right now!”

“Holy Moses!” said Vincent. He stared at Parker Phelps, his eyes wide, his face ashen. “This thing is
really
going to happen!”

“Damn right,” said Phelps, “it looks like it is, sure enough!” Drinkers turned away from the bar with their shot glasses and beer mugs in hand and crowded the open doorway, some spilling out onto the street for a better look.

“Until this very second,” said Vincent, “I reckon I didn't completely believe it! But hot damn!” He turned to Buddy Edwards in his excitement and pulled his hat down on his forehead. What do you think, Buddy? Is this the huckleberrys or what?”

Buddy quickly righted his hat brim and said, “I'll say it is! Look at my hands, Vincent…they're shaking so, I can barely control them.”

“Let's get out there where we can see,” said Vincent.

But Parker Phelps cautioned him with a hand on his forearm. “Careful, now, Vincent,” he said. “This is the time a man like you, wearing a Colt, ought to walk slow and watch where his boots lead him.”

Vincent just stared at him for a moment, then said in a serious tone, “Much obliged, Parker…you bet I will.”

In a long tent hostel filled with row upon row of cots and blanket pallets, Mace Renfield thanked the whiskey-sodden mule skinner who had staggered in and told him that Lawrence Shaw was in town. Renfield flipped the man a coin, then said gruffly, “Now get on out of here; the air ain't supporting you worth a damn.”

As the mule skinner snatched the coin in his palm and staggered out of the tent, Renfield turned to the two men standing beside him and said as he straightened his wide-brimmed hat on his head, “Well, gentlemen, let's let the games begin.”

The two men fell in behind him and followed him as he left the tent and walked toward the crowd of drinkers gathered out front of the Buck Horn Saloon. One of the men said, “Mace, want me and Harvey here to set something up, make sure Shaw don't walk away from this alive no matter how the chips fall?”

Mace Renfield stopped dead still and turned to face the man. “Let me tell you something, Red…you too, Harvey.” He pointed his gloved finger for emphasis. “There'd better not be any interference in this thing in any way!”

“Take it easy, Mace!” said Red Logan, noticing
how eyes were turning toward them all along the busy dirt street. “I just figured it would be like other times! You know, me and Harvey on hand to tip the odds if they need tipping?”

“I understand,” said Renfield, calming down, smoothing the front of his black brocade vest, “but this isn't going to be like the times before. This is a straight-up man-to-man gunfight…winner takes all.”

Red and Harvey gave each other a look. “Whatever you say, Mace,” said Harvey Tuell.

Mace stared at them. “I know what you're both thinking…I know Shaw is supposed to be the fastest gun alive. But I've got him cold! I can feel it in my bones!” He made a fist as he continued. “This is
my
time! I want nothing to tarnish how I bring this big gunman down. I know we've had to cut a few corners to get here…you boys have done your share of tipping the odds for me, and I'm obliged. But this is the big one…and I'm ready for it. Just watch me take him.” He turned and started walking again. Red and Harvey shrugged and followed.

Some of the onlookers out front of the Buck Horn Saloon hurried back inside when they saw Mace Renfield coming their way. Inside, they quickly crowded themselves along the bar, leaving a three-foot space in the center for Mace and his two followers.

Across the makeshift bar top from that open space stood a bartender with his sleeves rolled up and a short black cigar stub sticking out of his teeth. He set up a newly opened bottle of rye whiskey and stood three shot glasses in a line. Then he nervously tweaked his handlebar mustache and said to Mace
Renfield when he walked through the front door, “Welcome, Mace! It is always a pleasure having you join us here at the Buck Horn—”

“Stick your thumb in it, Winston,” Mace said to the bartender, cutting his words short. “I've been here every damn day for the past three weeks. Don't start acting like I just now arrived.”

“Certainly, Mace,” said Winston, the bartender, already lifting the bottle for Mace to see. “And will the three of you be having a drink…on the house, of course?”

Mace Renfield looked back and forth along the crowded bar and smiled proudly, saying for all three of them, “Well, we don't mind if we do.” His eyes found Vincent Mills and Buddy Edwards standing away from the bar over against a wall. “Vincent, will you join me in a drink?”

Vincent Mills's mouth almost dropped open when he heard Mace call out his name. For a moment he stood, stunned.

“Go on, Vincent,” Buddy Edwards whispered, coaxing him forward.

“Well, uh, yes…I don't mind if I do,” said Vincent, feeling a headiness engulf him. All faces had turned to him, all eyes looked upon him with envy, he thought as he walked over to the bar, seeing men scoot sidelong, making room for him. Buddy followed only inches behind.

Mace held out a shot glass of rye to Vincent. “Here you are,
mi amigo;
drink and enjoy.” He smiled. Seeing Buddy, Mace said over his shoulder to the waiting bartender, “Winston, pour one for Vincent's friend as well.”

Mi amigo!
Vincent repeated to himself, hardly believing
his ears. He had no idea that Mace Renfield even knew his name. Now the man was calling him his friend! This was too good to be true. Vincent needed the drink Mace had just placed in his hand, just to keep himself steady.

“Much obliged, Mr. Renfield,” Vincent managed to say.

“No, no,” said Renfield, wagging a finger, “not
Mr.
Renfield…not to you, not today anyway. Just call me Mace, Vincent. Now drink up!” He raised his shot glass in a high toast to everyone along the bar. Then he set down the empty glass and pushed it away. “That will be enough for me today. As all of you know, I've got business to attend to.”

A murmur arose along the drinkers. But in a moment they turned to one another in quiet conversation, as if to give Mace Renfield and Vincent Mills some privacy. “You know, Vincent, I've heard a lot about you since I got to the Turkey Wells station. You work for McNalty's Rafter spread, you mind your own business, and you're good with a gun.” His gaze turned flat and cool. “Does that about size you up, boy?”

Vincent didn't know quite how to take this slight shift of attitude. “Well, yes. I'm just a cowhand, like all the others out there on the—”

“That's good to hear,” said Renfield, interrupting him. “Just a cowhand…I like that. Because once I hear a man is real handy with a gun, the first thing I wonder is whether or not he might be overly ambitious…you know, wanting to make a name for himself. Get himself some quick fame by facing me off in a street somewhere.” His flat stare narrowed even farther. “But your being just a cowhand,
I reckon I have no reason to consider that you might be that way, do I?”

Vincent Mills had listened and began weighing Renfield's words. Now he wasn't too stunned or impressed to speak up. “You're asking if I'm going to want to take you on after your showdown with Fast Larry Shaw, ain't you?”

Renfield said with a smug grin and a trace of sarcasm, “Say, you catch on pretty quick, don't you?” He leaned back against the makeshift bar, laying his arms along the edge. “Yes, that's what I'm asking…are you going to be looking for me tomorrow, after this gunfight today?”

Vincent Mills considered his answer for a moment, then said, “With all respect, Mr. Renfield…let's wait and see if you're still
around
tomorrow, after this gunfight today.”

Mace Renfield stared at him blankly for a moment, a strange look on his face. Vincent wondered if he should have handled it differently. But it was too late to change it now. He returned Renfield's stare until at length the seasoned gunfighter chuckled under his breath. “Have another drink, Vincent. We'll let tomorrow take care of itself.

Before Vincent could respond, a man hurried through the front door and said in a breathless tone of voice, “Fast Larry's coming out! He's on the street!” Drinks spilled; glasses and bottles fell to the floor. The makeshift bar top trembled with the vibration of heavy boots scuffling and pounding across the plank floor.

“I've got ten dollars on this fight!” an excited voice called out. Vincent and Buddy stood firm; so did Mace Renfield and his two men. The five of them
watched the drinkers crowd and shove one another through the narrow door.

Mace Renfield had kept an eye on Vincent Mills, checking his calm reaction, his expression. “What about you, Vincent? Do you have any money on this fight? Did you bet it on me, or Fast Larry Shaw?”

“I've got no money to spare,” said Vincent, not revealing an answer.

Renfield nodded. “I see.” He took his time, lifted a long cigar from his breast pocket, bit the tip off of it, and ran it in and out of his mouth, all the while keeping a steady gaze on Vincent Mills. “You remind me of myself…about fifteen years ago,” he said, striking a match along the bar top and letting it flare against the tip of the cigar. “Will you at least be wishing me luck out there?” he asked quietly.

“Yep…good luck,” said Vincent flatly.

Leaving the doctor's office, Shaw felt numbness engulf the back of his right shoulder. His whole right arm was stiff, his hand swollen slightly. Yet he knew if he had to he could pull a gun. The question was, how fast could he pull it? What could he hit with it? Dawson and Caldwell flanked him right and left, a foot back, leaving him room. As soon as their boots touched the dirt street, Shaw noted that the street traffic had died down some. A crowd of drinkers stood out front of the Ragged Tent Saloon across from the doctor's office, and down the street at the Buck Horn Saloon as well. All eyes were upon Shaw as he said over his shoulder to Dawson, “We'll go straight across the street, get a drink, and ask about Willie the Devil…then we're gone.”