Shotgun (26 page)

Eli turned the strop over, and struck the razor against the linen side to heat the blade. Crutcher smothered his face with his hands, running his palms over his jowls, “What the hell are you doin'? I already got a shave and it feels fine. Not ‘tip fine,' but good enough.”

Crutcher started out of the chair and the razor was instantly at his throat, forcing him to sit back. Crutcher strangled the armrests as Eli leaned in close with a quiet, “Do you remember the time I told you your mouth would get you killed?”

“What . . . ? You never said nothin' like that to me.”

“Look in the mirror—look! And think!”

Crutcher tried to focus on the mirror, sweat and Bay Rum dripping into his eyes, but all he could see were the distorted faces of two men who were being beaten by their lives. “I'm lookin' and sure, I know what you're talkin' about now. I know.”

Eli pressed the razor, opening a small cut above Crutcher's Adam's apple. “You always were a liar. You get scared and you say anything to get you out of it. That's why I got my damn fingers blown off !”

Crutcher was afraid to swallow. “Bayonet?”

“You've been in that chair twenty times and you never really looked at me once, did you?”

“W-well, you're the b-barber. And The Bayonet I knew, he was just a kid. But I always said you was a good barber.”

Eli let the blade slip closer to the jugular. “Bayonet was a name I didn't even want, but it got me a place with Jess Archer's Foothill Gang. Remember now? The night I rode into camp, you laughed and called me a runt. One of the boys said I should kill you right there, but Jess put a cork in him. Anything coming back, Clyde?”

Crutcher shut his eyes and murmured, but it wasn't a prayer. A hairline of blood trickled down the side of Crutcher's neck, spotting his collar. Eli dabbed the blood with a tissue, but kept the blade pressed against the throbbing vein. “You were the gunslinger from the Canadian side who'd killed ten men. Funny, you claimed to be from up North when you really hailed from Prescott. Funnier still, I never saw you draw down on anyone. You were all mouth until The Blackhawk.”

Crutcher hid his words in the back of his throat so it wouldn't move against the razor when he spoke. “I . . . didn't do nothin'.”

“That's right—you didn't.”

 

 

Eli angled his horse across the bend of a trail that led to a narrow gorge where Jess Archer was waiting. Archer stood up in his stirrups, his trousers and coat neatly pressed, and looked down at the drop from the rocky slope into a miniature valley that was bridged by a cross-braced trestle. The structure narrowly supported tracks for a mining train, with barely a foot of clearance on either side.

Jess tapped his bowler for attention, which was his habit. “Looks like it would collapse if you sneezed, but it's served the Blackhawk miners for ten years.”

Eli peered into the gorge, “That's a hell of a fall, Mr. Archer.”

“And that's good for us, son, not them.”

Clyde Crutcher rode up on the side of Archer, jerking his horse to a stop. Archer checked his pocket watch.

“Sorry I'm late, Mr. Archer. Now what are we doing here?”

“I've been explaining it for two weeks, Clyde.”

“I mean, what do you want me to do?”

“The other boys will be dropping a barricade that'll stop the train right here, with half the cars still on the trestle. Take care of one guard and the rest will fall into line. They'll be trapped like a pig in a well. We've all made the papers, and they're just miners working a strike. They won't want to shoot it out.”

Crutcher laughed, “Not with me. What about the runt?”

Eli didn't say a word, but Archer turned to Crutcher, “You claim quite a reputation this side of the Canadian, but everybody knows about Bayonet. They'll turn over the gold. I want you boys to be ready, but nobody has to get hurt.”

 

 

Crutcher's eyes were wet as Eli worked the razor against his Adam's apple, “We faced a dozen miners with Henrys and Winchesters. They were layin' for us, Crutcher.”

“But you—you got away.”

“Jess Archer didn't, and neither did the others. We were shot to pieces right there by the tracks. I got one in the leg and they blew my hand off. You know what they told me? The miners made a deal with the infamous Clyde Crutcher. They paid you to ride on because they were afraid of you.”

Crutcher let out a half laugh and said, “They gave me more than any share I would've gotten. That's just good business. You should know about that.”

Eli's hand shook as he pressed the razor against Crutcher's throat, laying open a slit of skin. “Tell me straight, how many men have you killed?”

“In a straight-up gunfight? None. I killed a fella by accident in a fight. He was kind of famous . . . and then people started to talk. I never faced nobody else for real. I swear to God.”

“And by running away?”

“I-I don't know.”

“I've killed six, I think. Six. For real.”

“Hell. Preachers an' the penny books all say an outlaw's life'll catch up to him. If this is my time, then get it over with.”

Eli said, “I should,” then pulled the blade away from Crutcher's throat and folded it into its ivory handle. “The Bayonet Kid's dead. Now I'm just a barber.”

Crutcher leaped from the chair, pressing the cotton bib against his neck. Eli faced him. “Did you know I saw you on the street the day I went to the Palace for a job? If I had my right hand, you wouldn't be standing here now. But I found this place and I've done just fine over the years; better than I deserve.”

Crutcher grabbed his beat-to-hell hat from the rack, his coat flaring open to reveal the holster by his arm.

Eli held out a blue towel. “You want to really use that thing?” He unfolded the towel to reveal a long metal spike, with leather wrapped around one end. “It's up to you.”

Crutcher stared at the spike. “You're pretty good with your left.”

“You want to find out?”

Crutcher shook his head. “I'm just a fat old man who works in a bar.”

“And I'm the cripple who cuts your hair. What kind of showdown would that be?”

Crutcher put his hand on the doorknob. “None at all. And I know it.”

“That's two bits for the shave and haircut.”

Crutcher handed Eli a dollar. “Keep it.”

Eli smiled. “A tip from The Stickman of the Year. Must be my lucky day. Yours, too.”

Crutcher stepped from the barbershop and made his way down Whiskey Row. Eli watched him shake a few hands and slap some backs as he walked, not seeing the man trailing behind him. Eli wrapped the spike in the towel and dropped it in the trash as the man in the street quick-walked toward Crutcher. A patch covered one of his eyes and he was drawing something from his belt.

Eli Greene took a razor from the drawer and began to strop it back and forth against the hanging leather with an even, deliberate motion. He didn't stop as he heard the muted pop of pistol fire, but kept stropping back and forth.

Back and forth.