The Law of a Fast Gun (4 page)

“I’ll get the doc to come down to take a look at your shoulder,” he said. He nodded toward Cindy. “What about the girl? Does she have family in town?”

By now all the girls from upstairs had come down to be closer to Cindy. All of them were crying.

“I don’t think she did have family here,” Harder said. “Millie, you were her closest friend, I think. Where was Cindy from?”

“She was from Kentucky,” Millie answered in a choked voice. “But she didn’t have any family back there either. Her pa was killed in the war, and her ma died shortly after. She didn’t have anybody left.”

“She has us,” one of the other girls said. “We’re her family.”

“We’ll take care of her funeral,” Harder said. He looked at the cowboy. “I don’t plan to do anything for that son of a bitch, though.”

“Is he with the herd that just got brought up?”

“Yes, he’s with the Bar-J,” Harder said.

“Then I’ll send Robert Griffin down for him and the girl. And I’ll see to it that the Bar-J pays for buryin’ the cowboy,” Trueblood suggested.

The marshal didn’t have to send for the doctor or the undertaker. Word had already reached both men, and they arrived at about the same time. Doc Urban was carrying a medical bag, while Robert Griffin was wearing the top hat and tails of his profession. The doctor went over to look at Bob, while Robert Griffin stepped over to look down at Cindy. It was always Robert Griffin and never “Bob,” because the undertaker believed the diminutive of his name lacked sufficient respect for his profession. And it wasn’t just Robert either. He always insisted upon being referred to by both names.

“I want you to take good care of her, Robert Griffin,” Harder said.

“I take good care of all my customers,” Robert Griffin replied, somewhat haughtily.

“Yes, well, take special good care of her. I’m paying all the expenses.”

Robert Griffin nodded, then looked at Shorty. He pulled him some distance away from Cindy and lay him out on the floor. He framed Shorty’s body with the thumb and forefinger of his two hands, estimating what he would need for a coffin.

“Would a couple of you gents help me get these two bodies in the back of my wagon?” Robert Griffin asked.

“Uh-uh, no you don’t,” Harder said.

“I beg your pardon?” Robert Griffin said in surprise.

“Don’t you dare put Cindy in the same wagon with the son of a bitch who killed her.”

“I have to, John. I’ve only got one wagon,” Robert Griffin said.

“Then make two trips,” Harder ordered.

“All right,” Robert Griffin agreed. “Some of you help me with the girl. I’ll come back for the cowboy.”

The hearing over the shooting death of Shorty was held less than an hour after the incident itself. It was quick and uneventful, and after Judge Craig heard from all the eyewitnesses, he made his ruling.

“Mr. Hawke acted with prudence and judgment, drawing his gun only in an attempt to disarm the cowboy who, at the time of this hearing, is known only as Shorty. He did so in order to prevent any further injury. Eyewitnesses have all testified to that effect. Eyewitnesses also stated that Shorty fired at Mr. Hawke first, Mr. Hawke’s weapon then being sheathed, thus constituting no danger to Shorty’s life. It wasn’t until after Shorty fired that Mr. Hawke drew and discharged his own weapon.

“Mr. Hawke’s aim being better than Shorty’s, the ball from Mr. Hawke’s pistol struck Shorty in the chest, killing him almost instantly. This court finds no fault in Mr. Hawke’s action; therefore it is the ruling of this court, and it shall be so published, that no charges be filed now, nor at any time hence. Mr. Hawke, thank you for your attendance. This hearing is adjourned.”

Judge Craig slapped his hammer on the desk, and those who had come to the hearing began filing out of the court.

“It may not be over,” Trueblood said with a sigh.

“Why is that?” Hawke asked.

“Clint Jessup.”

“That’s the owner of the Bar-J?”

“Yes,” Trueblood said. “He’s sort of a hard case and we had some trouble with his outfit last year. He’s not going to like it that one of his men got shot.”

“You heard all the witnesses, Marshal,” Hawke said. “I didn’t have any choice but—”

Trueblood waved his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, Hawke,
I’m not blaming you for anything. I’m just commenting that Jessup may be trouble, that’s all. He’s a big man up there in Cherry County and I guess he figures that makes him a big man throughout the state.”

“Is he native to Nebraska?” Hawke asked. “The reason I ask is, John said he thought he was a Confederate officer during the war.”

“Originally I think he is from Missouri or Arkansas, or some such place. And John’s right, he did fight for the South. Also, he tends to hire Southerners to work for him. You get a bunch of Rebs in a Northern town, especially if they need to let off a little steam, and there’s just bound to be trouble.”

“Maybe I didn’t tell you, Marshal, but I fought for the South,” Hawke said with a smile.

“Yeah, I know you did,” Trueblood replied. “But since you’ve been here, this is the only fracas you’ve got yourself into, and you didn’t start this one.”

Trueblood was quiet for a moment. “Hawke, I know who you are.”

“I’m Mason Hawke.”

Trueblood waved his hand. “I know that. I’m not saying you are using a phony name. I’m just saying that I know who you are.”

“I sort of figured you might know about me,” Hawke said. “You’re a good law officer, Matt. I would think you would want to keep track of people who come into your town. But if you do know about my past, you know that I’m not wanted anywhere.”

“Maybe not, but I know that this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a shooting. In fact, you’ve been in quite a few of them over the last few years. And you’ve managed to develop yourself quite a reputation in some parts of the country as being particularly good with a gun. I have heard all about you, but, like you say, there are no dodgers out against you. And from all I’ve been able to find out, you’ve always been on the right side of every fracas. That bein’ the case, I
just figured that as long as you kept your nose clean, there was no sense in spreading it all over town. Because the truth is, once a man gets a reputation, it becomes harder and harder to avoid trouble. You always have some fool wanting to try you, wanting to establish a reputation of his own.”

“I appreciate that,” Hawke replied.

“Besides, you ain’t the only one that’s had a hard time comin’ back from the war. There’s quite a few folks who still have devils chasin’ after ’em, despite the fact it’s been over for better’n ten years.”

Marshal Trueblood was talking about the war veterans who had found it nearly impossible to return home and take up the plow, or go back to work in a store, repair wagons, or any of the other things that were the necessary part of becoming whole again.

There were also those, especially who had fought for the South, who had no choice, because they had nothing to go home to. They returned to burned-out homes, farms gone to seed or, worse, taken for taxes. These men became the dispossessed. Unable to settle down, many of them went West, where there would be less encroachment of civilization upon their chosen way of life. Some took up the outlaw trail, continuing to practice the skills they had learned during the war. But most were innocent wanderers with all bridges to their past burned, and the paths to their future uncharted.

Mason Hawke was such a man. When he found that he had nothing to return to, he became a wandering minstrel, playing the piano in saloons and bawdy houses throughout the West. The irony was that few of those who heard him playing “Cowboy Joe” or “Buffalo Gals” realized that he had once played before the crowned heads of Europe, that he had, in fact, been knighted by the Queen of England for his skills and talent.

But there was another, darker side to Hawke.

The same digital dexterity that made him a great pianist also made him exceptionally good with a gun. Hawke did
not openly seek trouble, but neither would he back away from it. Hot-headed hooligans would sometimes mistake the piano player for an easy mark.

But like the cowboy who killed Cindy, it was a mistake they only made once.

As Hawke and Marshal Trueblood left the courtroom, they saw another batch of cows being brought in to be loaded on the cars. The cowboys bringing them were as boisterous and animated as those who had brought the cows in the day before.

“Hey, Deekus, you goin’ to Pearlie’s after we get done here?” one of them asked.

“Not me. I’m headin’ for the Hog Lot,” the cowboy named Deekus replied.

“What you aimin’ to do?”

“I aim to drink me four beers,” Deekus replied. “Then, after that, I aim to get down to some serious drinkin’.”

The other cowboys who were within earshot laughed.

“It looks like they haven’t heard about Shorty yet,” Trueblood said.

“Either that or they are shedding no tears over the loss,” Hawke said.

As Hawke and the marshal were talking, a man picked his way across the street, carefully avoiding the many dung deposits left behind by the cows. He wore a black suit, a ribbon tie, and a low-crown, wide-brim hat. It was Gideon McCall, the pastor of Holy Spirit, a nondenominational church that was the town’s only house of worship.

“Hello, Parson McCall,” Trueblood said.

“Marshal, Mr. Hawke,” the parson replied.

Hawke nodded at the preacher.

“Marshal, do you have any plans as to the funeral of the cowboy who was killed?” McCall asked.

“Not really,” Trueblood replied. “I don’t think it’s my place to make plans. Seems to me that should be up to Clint Jessup. Why? Are you volunteering for the job?”

“Not exactly,” Gideon replied. “Though, of course, I would make myself available. Everyone deserves a Christian burial. I was just curious as to what arrangements are being made. Have you spoken to Major Jessup yet?”

“No,” Trueblood admitted. “I was hoping that he would come in with his men today, but it doesn’t look as if he did. To tell you the truth, I’m not looking forward to riding out there to tell him that he has to bury one of his men.”

“Marshal, if you’d like, I’ll ride out there with you,” Hawke offered.

Trueblood laughed. “Hell no,” he said. Trueblood glanced quickly at the pastor. “Excuse my language, Parson,” he said.

“That’s quite all right, Marshal, I know you are under a great deal of stress,” McCall replied.

Trueblood resumed his dialogue. “Hawke, did you forget that you’re the one that shot him? No, I think if I had you with me when I went out to see Jessup, it would just make matters worse. I’ll tell him myself.”

“Whatever you say,” Hawke replied.

“Mr. Hawke, I wonder if I might ask a favor of you,” the parson said.

“What is it?”

“The other, uh…ladies who are friends of Miss Carey have asked me to conduct her funeral. And they would like for you to play the piano.”

“I was under the impression that your wife played the piano for you.”

“She does,” McCall replied. “But Tamara is self-taught, and it is such a struggle for her that she would gladly put the burden down. I am told that you are quite a good pianist. I am also told that Cindy called you her friend. Is that true?”

Hawke nodded. “That’s true, but I like to think that I am the friend of all the ladies who work the bar at the Hog Lot.”

“Wealthy is the person whose life is enriched by friends,”
Gideon said. “And generous is the one who shares his friendship with others. Will you play?”

“Of course I’ll play,” Hawke replied. “I would be honored to play for her funeral.”

Gideon smiled. “Thank you. I know she would be pleased. The services will be at ten
A.M.
on Friday morning. And you are welcome to come try out the piano anytime before then.”

CLINT JESSUP HAD AWAKENED JUST BEFORE DAWN.
He rolled out of his blankets, pulled on his boots, then sat staring into the fire. Although Clint was an early riser, he was not the first one up. Poke Travis, the cook, had been up for an hour, and now he stood in the light of his lantern at the lowered tailgate of his wagon, rolling out biscuits for breakfast. He had already made coffee, and the aroma permeated the encampment area.

Just beyond the bubble of light created by the cook’s lantern and the campfire, the herd stood in the quiet darkness, watched over by three nighthawks. The rest of the Bar-J riders were still asleep, their snores renting the still, morning air.

Poke brought Jessup a cup of coffee. “Would you be wantin’ me to cook you up an early breakfast, Major?” he asked.

“No thanks, Poke,” Jessup answered. “Coffee will do for now.”

“All right. I’ll get back to my wagon, then,” Poke said.

Jessup took a swallow of his coffee as he stared into the fire, watching the flames curl around a piece of glowing wood.

His thoughts drifted back to another time and another place.

A dozen fires roared, sending showers of sparks climbing into the night sky, creating glowing red stars to compete with the little blue pinpoints of light that were spread across the vault of black, velvet sky. The raiders were laughing as they rode up and down the street of the little Missouri town of Sikeston, shooting every male over the age of sixteen.

“No! My boy is only fourteen!” a woman pleaded.

“He’s old enough,” one of the raiders said.

“No! No! He’s just a child!” the woman shouted. Her cry was followed by the sound of a gunshot.

“He’s old enough now. He’s dead, and you don’t get’ny older than dead,” the raider said with a high-pitched laugh.

There were more screams, gunshots, and laughter as the raiders continued to ride up and down the street, spreading terror to the small town.

Finally the leader called to his sergeant. “That’s enough.”

“Major, we ain’t collected from all the people yet,” the sergeant said.

“Did we get the money from the bank?”

“Yes, sir, but there was only a couple hundred dollars was all that was in there.”

“If that was all that was in the bank, then that means the people don’t have anything; at least, not enough to take a chance on our staying any longer. We’ve been here an hour, that’s long enough. We’re pulling out now. Call in the men.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sergeant fired three shots into the air, and within moments all the raiders were assembled in a formation. A few were holding items they had looted from the homes, a brass candlestick, a clock, a silver cup. One of the raiders even had a woman’s dress thrown across the front of his saddle.

“You’re going to get all dressed up for the cotillion, are you, Reeves?” the major teased.

The others laughed, and Reeves’s face got even redder in the light of the fire that was consuming the town.

“I was just goin’ to find me some gal to give it to,” Reeves replied.

“Leave it here.”

“But, Major—”

“Leave it here,” the major said again.

Reeves let the dress fall into the dirt.

“Column of twos,” the major said. “Forward, ho.” As they rode out of town, a burning timber broke in two, falling in on itself with loud snapping and popping.

One of the larger logs on the fire Jessup was watching broke in two, falling in on itself with loud snapping and popping. The fire blazed up more brightly, bringing Jessup out of his reverie.

Clint Jessup wasn’t his real name. If he had used his real name, there was a very good chance he would be arrested and hanged for murder.

The charges did not seem right to him. There were hundreds of thousands who were killed or who died as a result of the war. Why should he be singled out just because the unit he led had never been officially sanctioned by the Confederate Congress? Hell, he thought, the Confederate Congress itself had never been officially sanctioned, so what did it matter whether his little band of guerrillas had been recognized or not? It was war.

Jessup had changed his name two or three times in the first few years just after the war, always staying a few jumps ahead of the authorities. But he had used the name Clint Jessup for the last six years, ever since he bought the Double Bow and changed it to the Bar-J.

He felt reasonably certain now that he would not have to
change his name again. He had been enriched by his wartime activities and had invested that money wisely. He was now a respected businessman.

It was true, the old adage of “hiding in plain sight.” Nobody even suspected him. Besides, the intensity with which the authorities were trying to bring men like him to justice had eased up in the last few years. It was as if everyone was ready to put the war behind them.

By now the other riders for the Bar-J were beginning to wake up. They stretched, pulled on their boots, relieved themselves, then began joking and laughing as the cow camp became active.

“Hey,” one of the cowboys called. “Where at’s Shorty? Tex, you seen Shorty?”

“Not since last night,” Tex answered.

“Last night? What do you mean last night?”

Tex laughed. “Oh, that’s right, you didn’t go into town last night, did you, Carter?”

“You know I didn’t. I was one of the ones that was tolled out, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Well, you shoulda been with us yesterday,” Tex said. “After we delivered the cows, me ’n’ Brandt and Shorty went into town, had us a good supper at Lambert’s Café, then had us some drinks at Foley’s.”

“Did you go to Pearlie’s?” Carter asked.

“We was goin’ to, but Pearlie has only got five girls and they was too many there.”

“So we wound up at the Hog Lot,” Brandt interjected. “Besides which, the girls is prettier there anyhow.”

“So, you two are back. Where’s Shorty?”

“Well, that’s what we’re gettin’ at. You know them pretty girls I was talkin’ about? Well, Shorty didn’t come back ’cause he fell in love with one of ’em,” Tex said, laughing loudly.

“What do you mean, he fell in love? Who did he fall in love with?”

“Well, like Tex said, Shorty fell in love with one of them whores at the Hog Lot,” Brandt said. “I don’t recollect her name, but she sure was a purty thing.”

“It was Cindy,” Tex said. “Her name was Cindy.”

“Yeah, now that I recollect, I believe it was Cindy,” Brandt said.

“Tex,” Jessup said, interrupting. He had overheard the conversation. “Are you saying that Shorty is still in town?”

“Yes, sir, Major,” Tex replied. “It wouldn’t do but that he spend the night with his whore. Onliest thing is, he didn’t have enough money, so me ’n’ Brandt lent him a dollar so’s he could stay.”

“Yeah, you might say we was Cupid,” Brandt added, laughing.

“Well, he better get back here before we take the next batch of cows into town,” Jessup said. “Or it’ll take more than Cupid to get him out of trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Major, Shorty’ll be here,” Carter said. “He’s a good man. You know that.”

The cook began pounding on a steel ring then, and all the cowboys, with their kits in hand, hurried over to a breakfast of biscuits, bacon, and potatoes.

Throughout the rest of the morning, Jessup forgot all about Shorty as he went about the business of counting out the steers that would be taken in to the railhead for the next shipment. Because lunch for everyone, including Jessup, was jerky, which was eaten in the saddle, the outfit did not gather again, so the subject of Shorty’s absence didn’t come up until it was time to take in the cows.

“Deekus,” Jessup said.

“Yes, sir?”

“If you see Shorty, you tell him for me that he’ll be staying behind with the herd for the rest of the time we are here. And if he doesn’t like that, he can just ride away with only half his wages.”

“Yes, sir, Major, I’ll tell ’im,” Deekus said.

It was late that afternoon, while Jessup was out with the herd, that he looked up to see Poke riding toward him. The cook wasn’t alone. At first Jessup didn’t know who the other rider was, then he recognized him. It was Matthew Trueblood, the city marshal for Braggadocio.

“Major, this here is Marshal Trueblood,” Poke said.

“Yes,” Jessup said. “I know the marshal. Hello, Marshal.”

“Major Jessup,” Trueblood replied by way of greeting.

Jessup sighed. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “You’ve got one of my men in jail. It wouldn’t be Shorty McDougal, would it? He went into town yesterday and hasn’t come back. I figured it might be something like this.”

“I wish that’s all it was,” Trueblood said.

Jessup frowned. “What else could it be?” he asked.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Jessup, but your man, Shorty, is dead.”

“Dead? How’d it happen?”

“He was shot,” Trueblood said.

“Well, I trust that the son of a bitch who shot him is either dead or in jail,” Jessup said.

Trueblood shook his head. “No, sir, it didn’t happen that way.” Trueblood went on to explain how Shorty had killed Cindy Carey, shot the bartender, then shot at the piano player.

“So, who killed him?”

“The piano player,” Trueblood replied.

Jessup looked incredulously at Trueblood, then laughed. “Wait a minute, here. What are you trying to tell me? The piano player? Do you expect me to believe that the piano player shot Shorty?”

“I expect you to believe it, because that is what happened. After Shorty shot the bartender, he turned to shoot at the piano player. The piano player then drew his gun and shot back, killing Shorty.”

“Shorty shot at the piano player,
then
the piano player drew his gun and shot back?”

“That’s the way it happened.”

“Did you see it?”

“No.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Because even you know that’s not true. There’s no way a piano player could outdraw Shorty.”

“He didn’t outdraw him, exactly. I told you, Shorty already had his gun out and shot at the piano player before the piano player even drew his gun.”

“Yeah, well, so you say. There is going to be a trial, right? When is the trial? I plan to be there. I want to hear, firsthand, the story of how Shorty lost a gunfight to a piano player.”

“We’ve already had the trial,” Trueblood answered. “Actually, it wasn’t a trial, it was a hearing. The judge listened to all the witnesses and found that the piano player acted in self-defense. That’s the end of it. There will be no trial, because no charges are going to be filed.”

Jessup shook his head. “My men aren’t going to like that,” he said.

“Well, Major Jessup, I expect you to keep your men in line. After all, they do work for you. And you’ve had experience commanding men, haven’t you?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Jessup said. “But Shorty McDougal was very popular with the men. In fact, I liked him myself. He was a good hand, dependable and trustworthy. By the way, where is his body?”

“It’s with the undertaker, Robert Griffin. He has a place behind the hardware store.”

“I hope Robert Griffin does him up nice,” Jessup said.

“Well, that’s one of the reasons I came out here,” Trueblood said. “If nobody steps up to pick up the funeral expenses, the city is going to have to bury him. And anyone who gets buried at city expense gets no more than a wooden box.”

Jessup shook his head no and made a waving motion with his hand. “No, no, I want him done up right,” he said. “You tell Robert Griffin that I’ll be in town tomorrow when we
take our next batch of cows to the depot, and I’ll take care of it then.”

“All right, I’ll tell him,” Trueblood said, then turned and started back.

“Marshal?” Jessup called.

Trueblood turned around. “Yes?”

“What about the whore?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The whore,” Jessup said. “Didn’t you tell me Shorty killed a whore?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Tell Robert Griffin I’ll pay for her funeral too.”

“Thank you, that’s decent of you. But her friends are taking care of that,” Marshal Trueblood replied.

Jessup paused for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “I just thought I’d make the offer.”

“Major Jessup,” Trueblood said. “You know there will be other herds coming in, in the next few days.”

“Yes,” Jessup said.

“Well, you might want to hold your boys back a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“The folks in town aren’t all that friendly toward cowboys as it is,” Trueblood said. “Too much trouble and they might just tell the railroad to move their shipping operation somewhere else. There’s been some talk about that already. Now that might not bother you all that much, you’ve already started shipping and would probably be finished by the time they got the loading pens shut down. But it could make it hard on the other cattlemen, and I don’t figure you want to do that.”

“No,” Jessup said. “I wouldn’t want to make it hard on the others.”

“I’ll be getting back into town now,” Trueblood said. “I’m sorry about your man. But, like I said, he brought it on himself.”

“So you said,” Jessup replied flatly.

Three of the cowboys who had stayed back with the herd learned what happened to Shorty from Poke. They were discussing it as they were riding perimeter around the herd.

“I can’t believe they just let the son of a bitch go,” Cracker said.

“They let who go?” Brandt asked.

“The piano player, that’s who. The son of a bitch that shot Shorty. They had a hearing, and they let ’im go free.”

“According to what the marshal said, Shorty shot at the piano player first,” Tex explained.

“The hell you say,” Cracker said.

“Yeah, and not only the marshal,” Brandt added. “Ever’one that spoke at the trial said that’s what happened.”

“But it wasn’t no real trial,” Cracker said. “It was just a hearing. Even the marshal said that. And let me ask you, was any of our people there when they had the hearing? I mean we was all three in town yesterday, but we wasn’t there when it happened.”

“It happened this morning, after all the rest of us had come back,” Tex said.