Slip Gun (24 page)

Having crossed the centre
bridge, the peace officers made their way along Shivers Street. The
main business section south of the river, the street had two
saloons on its length. Near the river was the Brand Book, haunt of
the cowhands. Closer to the edge of town and on the opposite side,
stood the farmers
’ gathering place, the Busted Plough. Several horses which
looked more suitable for light haulage than full-time saddle-work
stood at the hitching rail of the Busted Plough.

A cowhand was riding towards the
Busted Plough, instead of making to where half-a-dozen cow ponies
awaited their masters
’ pleasure outside the Brand Book. Dismounting, he fastened
his reins to the hitching rail. Then, with Smith and the deputies
increasing their pace, he strolled into the farmers’ saloon. The
batwing doors had barely swung outwards behind him when a rifle
cracked and he reeled out again clutching at his chest.

‘
Hit
the side doors, Ric, Ottaway!’ Smith barked, sprinting towards the
building. ‘Stan. See to the cowhand.’

Breaking away from his
companions, Frith ran along the alley towards the nearer
side
’s door.
Ottaway dashed on, turning at the other end of the saloon.
Following Smith, Jeffreys dropped to one knee beside the wounded
cowhand and rested his shotgun against the end support of the
hitching rail. The Texan went on to the sidewalk with a bound,
crossed it and thrust open the doors. Landing on spread-apart feet,
rifle held ready for instant use, Smith swung a quick gaze around
the room. The rear door swung closed. At the bar stood two men who
were enough alike to be twins. Behind the counter and scattered
about the room, the bar-tender and several customers stood in
strained, worried postures. Smith’s eyes went back to the possible
twins. They had the appearance of farmers, yet wore gunbelts and
carried revolvers in fast-draw holsters. Neither of them had a
rifle, but the one on the right held a revolver which he slanted in
Smith’s direction.

Not for long. Flying open, the left side
door admitted C. B. Frith behind a shotgun. Across the room,
Ottaway came in equally ready for trouble.

‘
Drop
the gun,
pronto
!’ Smith commanded.

Cold, suspicious eyes glared at Smith. As
always when carrying out the duties of a peace officer, he looked
clean and tidy. Smith had never heard of psychology, but practical
experience had taught him that an appearance of cleanliness and
neatness impressed people more than a slovenly aspect. However, the
brothers did not like what they saw. Apart from his boots, Smith
might have been a cowhand or a reasonably prosperous rancher. He
was certainly a Texan, hailing from a State with its very roots
buried in the cattle business.

No matter how they might regard
Smith personally, the
brothers knew better than refuse to obey. So the
one holding his revolver twirled it flashily and returned it to his
holster.

‘
Round
the back, Mr. Ottaway,’ Smith requested. The one with the rifle’s
gone that way.’

‘
Yo!’
Ottaway replied and left the room.

‘
Who’re
you?’ asked the second of the brothers sullenly.

‘
Name’s
Smith. I took over marshal yesterday.’

‘
Marshal!’ spat out the first brother. ‘They didn’t say
not—’

‘
Shut
your mouth!’ barked the second, then swung his gaze around at the
other customers. ‘Are you going to let these cattlemen’s John Laws
take us?’

‘
They
are,’ Smith stated. ‘You don’t figure they’re going up against
shot-guns to save your hides. Even without the other.’

‘
What
other?’ demanded the second brother.

‘
Article Eleven, Section Twenty-Three, Item Sixty-One of the
Wyoming Criminal Justice Code,’ Smith elaborated, watching the
farmers rather than the brothers. ‘It says, any man who offers
succor and assistance to a wanted person where-by the said person
escapes arrest, will be taken into custody and held until said
person is captured. So you gents just carry on with whatever you
was doing while I arrest the Joneses for slow-elking.’

‘
Slow-elking?’ gulped the first brother, seeing no sign of
support amongst the other customers. ‘So that’s why you’re
here!’

‘
Neither of you’s got a rifle,’ Smith drawled. ‘So it
couldn’t’ve been you who shot the cowhand. I’ll get round to that
when my deputy comes back.’

The left side door opened and Ottaway
returned on his own.

‘
He got
away, marshal. They’d got three hosses out back and he took off
with all three of them. Was too close to houses or people for me to
cut loose with a scatter or handgun.’

‘
All
right, you pair,’ Smith said. ‘Shed those gunbelts,
pronto.’

‘
We
didn’t shoot him,’ Morgan Jones said, looking uneasy.

‘
Like I
said,’ Smith answered. ‘I’m arresting you on that slow-elking
warrant you run out from.’

‘
Marshal!’ Jeffreys called, standing up on the sidewalk and
speaking over his shoulder without taking his attention from the
street. ‘I think you’d best come out here.’

‘
I’m
coming,’ Smith replied, guessing why the request had been made.
‘Take over here, Ric.’

‘
Y
o!’ Frith answered. ‘Get them gunbelts shed and
fast!’

There was a quiet, deliberate
menace in the burly man
’s voice which caused the brothers to obey.
Unbuckling their gun-belts, they let the weapons slip to the floor
and stood glowering after Smith as he headed towards the
door.

As he crossed the room, Smith
could see what was going on outside. Two cowhands had arrived and
Jeffreys stood facing them. Before Smith reached the door, the
young deputy turned away from the pair and started to point along
the street. Like a flash, the taller of the pair lifted up a Colt
revolver and slammed its barrel against the back of
Jeffreys
’
skull. Although the Stetson took some of the impact, Jeffreys
stumbled to his knees. Ignoring his companion, who had dropped to
kneel by the shot man, the cowhand charged through the batwing
doors.

Down swung
Smith
’s Colt
rifle, its foregrip slide flashing to the rear and staying there.
The cowhand skidded to a halt, eyes flaring widely as they looked
into the muzzle of the rifle. Then he swung his gaze by Smith and
halted it on the Jones brothers at the bar.

‘
Get
off of my trail, marshal!’ the cowhand ordered.

‘
That’s
not what I’m hired and paid to do, friend,’ Smith replied
gently.

‘
I
don’t want to kill you, marshal,’ the young cowhand warned. ‘But
I’ll do it to get at them pair of bastards for what they done to
Alvin.’

‘
Thing
for you to figure on,’ Smith said in the same even tone, ‘is if you
want to kill them enough to die for doing it.’

‘
Huh?’

‘
You
can only do it after I’m dead. And you can’t kill me without taking
lead yourself.’

The cowhand
’s Colt lined just as squarely
at Smith’s chest as the rifle’s barrel pointed his way, its trigger
depressed and the hammer retained at full cock by his thumb. Nobody
else in the room made a move. Although Frith threw a quick look at
Smith, he kept his shotgun lined on the brothers. Ottaway turned
and his ten gauge’s twin tubes circled the farmers in an
all-embracing, menacing gesture. For his part, Smith stood as if
made of stone and his eyes stayed on the cowhand’s face, forcing
the other to meet his gaze.

‘
How do
you mean?’ asked the cowhand.

‘
Look
at this rifle I’m pointing at you,’ Smith advised. ‘It’s not like
any you’ve seen, likely. As soon as my left hand loosens on the
foregrip, it’ll go forward and fire. So, even if you shoot me,
you’ll die right after.’

‘
I
don’t want to shoot you!’ the cowhand protested. ‘It’s them
Joneses—’

‘
Neither of them shot your
amigo.’
Smith interrupted. ‘Take my word on it.
Now put up your gun and leave me find out who did.’

‘
Leather it, Robbie!’ ordered Poona Woodstole’s voice from
outside the saloon. ‘Go on. Put it away. It won’t solve
anything.’

‘
That’s
real sound advice, cowboy,’ Smith confirmed, having been giving so
much of his attention to Robbie that he had not noticed the
rancher’s arrival. ‘You don’t want to kill me, or them.’

‘
Alvin’s dead!’ Robbie groaned, lowering the
revolver.

‘
We’ll
get the man who killed him,’ Smith promised, taking his rifle out
of alignment. ‘And when we do, it’ll be the right one.’

Then the Texan walked by Robbie.
Rubbing his head, Jeffreys came into the room after Woodstole. The
young deputy looked anxious and miserable as he met
Smith
’s
questioning gaze.

‘
It was
my own fault, Wax,’ Jeffreys declared.
‘I
looked away when Robbie said Poona was
coming.’

‘
You’ll
know better next time,’ Smith guessed. ‘Take him to the jail-house
and put him in a cell.’

“‘
Jail!’ Robbie yelped. He had turned as Smith went by and
started to holster his revolver.

‘
You
pistol-whipped my deputy,’ Smith replied. ‘That can’t be
overlooked. And, happen you reckon I was kidding about my
rifle-’

With that, Smith released the
foregrip. It rode forward, feeding a bullet from the tubular
magazine into the chamber
. With the trigger portion of the action removed,
there was nothing to hold back the hammer and it slammed home to
ignite the primer. Flame belched from the barrel, which he had
angled upwards above the batwing doors and the bullet winged off
over the opposite building. Almost before the sound of the shot had
died away, Smith pivoted to face the cowhand.

‘
Trouble being,’ the Texan drawled. ‘I have to fire it every
time I pull back the slide.’

‘
Go
with Deputy Jeffreys, Robbie,’ Woodstole ordered, knowing that
Smith could not do other than arrest the cowhand. ‘I’ll help you
get things straightened out with the marshal.’

‘
Sure,
boss,’ Robbie answered. ‘How about Alvin?’

‘
I’ll
see to him,’ the rancher promised.

‘
Ric,’
Smith called. ‘Take the Joneses down to the jail. Put them in a
cell away from the cowhand. If they want a law-wrangler, see that
they get one.’

‘
Yo!’
replied the burly man. ‘What’ll you be doing?’

‘
Finding out just what did happen here,’ Smith said grimly.
‘See my deputies by the cowhands, Mr. Woodstole. Then I don’t
reckon any of these gents will object if you come back and hear
what they have to say.’

‘
Just
remember, us Joneses are farmers like you!’ Morgan yelled. ‘We’re
on your side—’

‘
But
I’m not on yours when it comes to murder!’ barked a dour-faced old
man in a tone that suggested Scottish birth. ‘And that’s what’s
been done this day.’

Giving the brothers no time to
continue their arguments, Frith and Ottaway forced them to leave
the saloon. Woodstole followed them, speaking to the small knot of
cowhands who had gathered on the street. It said much for the
respect earned by the Englishman that the cowboys accepted his
order to let the Joneses pass. Arranging for the body to be taken
to the undertaker
’s shop, Woodstole returned to the bar-room. Smith was
placing his rifle on the counter and looking around.

‘
What
happened?’ the Texan asked the bartender, picking up the Jones
brothers’ discarded gunbelts.

Being
part owner of the Busted Plough, the
bartender drew most of his trade from the farmers. So he hesitated
and looked around his customers as if seeking guidance. The
dour-featured Scot rose and approached the bar.

‘
It was
deliberate, cold-blooded murder, marshal. The Jones boys must’ve
seen Alvin ride up, they were stood with their backs to the bar. I
saw Evan say something to the other two. Then, as soon as Alvin
walked in, Evan whipped up his rifle and shot him.’

‘
Why’d
a cowhand come in here?’ Smith asked.

‘
He’s
going with Joe Gladwin’s daughter,’ another farmer
answered.

‘
Evan
had no reason to shoot him,’ the bartender went on. ‘Alvin’s been
in here plenty of times and never caused any trouble. He didn’t
make a move towards his gun, but Evan upped with his Ballard and
shot him.’