Thread: Sunset Stories : Banking On It And Others.

SUNSET STORIES : NUMBER ONE

BANKING ON IT

Two men, different as cheese and chalk, sat facing one another across a handsome oak desk in the manager’s office of the Mercantile & Stockmen’s Bank of Grizewood, Montana. In one of the two customers’ chairs was Ezekiel Dawson. A slim-built man of medium height, he had been among the first of the homesteaders to arrive in the area. Where others had gone under, he’d survived, though by a hairsbreadth. Now, at thirty-nine, he was on the verge of going the way of so many of his kind in that part of the world. He cut a sorry figure in threadbare homespun clothing and worn-out work boots. His thin, prematurely lined face was twisted in a bitter expression.

At the other side of the desk was bank manager Harry Brewer. Grizewood was a community where not many had prospered, but he was one of that number. Twelve years Dawson’s senior, he was also of middle height, but that was the only common feature the pair had.

Brewer was undoubtedly the wealthiest man for many a mile around, and it showed. His affluence manifested itself not least in circumference, for he seemed to overflow his massive brown studded-leather chair. Now, pudgy hands clasped across his fashionably-wrapped paunch, he spoke as sonorously as his high-pitched voice allowed. The florid, purple-veined face – evidence, some said, of decades of heavy drinking – registered ill-concealed satisfaction as he gave his decision on the settler’s request for a loan. He leaned back, his original chin resting on the makings of a second.

Dawson spread his hands in resignation. “So what you’re saying is that you aren’t refusing the loan. You’re just making the conditions so hard that you know I can’t meet them. You’re nothing but a damned Shylock.”

The banker reached for a cedar wood box, pulling out a seven-inch imported cigar. Any largesse he may have had did not extend to offering one to his visitor. “You have to be realistic,” he said. “Anyway, just tell me again why you want so much?”

Dawson flapped his hands. “I thought I’d made it plain enough.” He had, but he knew that Brewer was enjoying his applicant’s discomfiture. “I need a cultivator. I can get one by mail order for seventy-five dollars. Carriage costs fifteen dollars. That’s ninety altogether.”

“And you wanted a hundred.”

“That’s right. I thought I might treat my wife to a little something, and I need a new pipe. Look at this.” He brandished an ancient blackened briar, reaching across the desk in an effort to shove it under Brewer’s nose. The mouthpiece was half chewed away, the stem being held together in the middle by a ring of paper wrapped in button thread. “You’d hardly call that rich living, would you?” he snapped.

Brewer sniffed as though he’d been presented with a skunk. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said. “But I’ve given you my terms and you say you can’t comply with them.”

“Of course I can’t. If I get the machine, I’ll not see the benefit for a year, and there’s no way I can make payments in the meantime.”

Brewer, who knew that very well, puffed out smoke. “I’m sorry, Dawson,” he said. “The conditions I’ve offered are the best you’d get anywhere. One hundred dollars at ten per cent a year interest. That may seem high to you, but you have to consider that you’re a top-risk proposition.”

Dawson harrumphed his sarcasm. “I know, I know,” he said. “I heard that the first rule of banking is that you won’t lend anything to people who can’t prove twice over that they don’t need it. Anyway, you might like to know that you’re not the only one who can figure things out.”

“What do you mean?”

Dawson leaned forward. “All right, I’ll tell you. Now, I don’t single you out. Bankers are all the same. But, come the winter evenings, I get time to think about things and one matter I’ve thought about is how you do business. It’s a swindle from beginning to end.”

The complacent Brewer, having disposed of the main issue, condescended to hear out the homesteader. “Fascinating,” he said, smiling. “Tell me about banking.”

“Okay. Now look. You just told me that you’d lend me a hundred dollars at ten per cent a year interest, right?”

“Right.”

“And you said that a hundred dollars at ten per cent a year means repayment of a hundred and ten dollars. Right?”

“Also correct. So?”

“And you’d want me to make quarterly repayments at twenty-seven dollars, fifty cents a time?”

“That’s right. A hundred and ten dollars paid back. That’s your hundred dollars, plus ten per cent interest. What’s wrong with that?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. It’s a hell of a lot more than ten per cent a year.”

“Well, well,” said Brewer. “A homesteader-mathematician. How do you make that out?”

“It’s simple enough, even for me,” Dawson answered. “What it amounts to is that you wouldn’t be lending me a hundred dollars for a year at all.”

“Go on. You interest me.” In fact, Brewer was a little disconcerted.

“Well,” said Dawson, “what you’d be doing would be supplying me with a hundred dollars for three months until the first repayment. After that, I’d have the rest for a further three months before paying again, then I’d have what was left for a three more months, until the third instalment was due. Then you’d be lending me the last bit for a further three months, until I settled at the year-end. That isn’t lending a hundred dollars for twelve months.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’m no scholar, but what it amounts to, more or less, is that I’d be borrowing four lots of twenty-five dollars each, for a total of thirty months – twelve, plus nine, plus six, plus three. That’s like a hundred dollars for seven and a half months, and that’s the same as sixty-two dollars and fifty cents for a year. And for that, you’re asking ten dollars interest. That’s sixteen per cent, not ten.”

“You can figure it any way you like, Dawson, but that’s standard banking practice,” retorted Brewer, though he was now feeling decidedly ruffled.
“Maybe it’s standard, but it isn’t right,” Dawson replied. “Anyway, I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you, so I’ll go. I just wanted you to know that other people can work things out as well as you can. Thank you for your time.” Without waiting for a reply, he stood, wheeled and stamped out.

That left two men with a good deal to think about. Dawson started the four-mile walk back to his place. He knew he had made a valid point, but it hadn’t done him any good. He still wasn’t about to get a cultivator. He also knew what the next move would be. Brewer would let him sweat for a while, then call him in again and agree to lend the money, on condition that the loan would form a mortgage on Dawson’s homestead. As soon as Dawson defaulted on a payment – which seemed inevitable – Brewer would foreclose. That wouldn’t be the first time. It was by such methods that Grizewood’s banker had got his hands on half the land and businesses in the area. However, identifying the problem was one thing and dealing with it was another. Still, this was a rare slack period in the usually grinding round that faced the homesteader. He would have time to think, and as he had just demonstrated at the bank, Dawson was quite a thinker when circumstances permitted.

Back at the bank, Brewer was also pondering. Dawson’s words had struck a nerve. It was all very well for financiers to be aware of the misleading way their quoted loan interest rates related to the repayments demanded, but for a layman – and a hick farmer at that – to grasp the idea was dangerous. If such thinking were to spread, well, it just wouldn’t do.

Brewer, originally from the East, had started out in Montana as a hardware merchant, but had soon perceived that his talents lay in a different direction. Nevertheless, his sympathies were still with the ranchers. Over the years, he had – rarely and cautiously – loaned money to settlers, usually on the security of their land and property. Eventually, he had got his hands on a good deal of that real estate. True, it was mostly hardscrabble stuff, but Brewer had been as selective as possible. Most of the land he now owned was strategically placed. Soon, the railroads would come along, then he would sell out at a handsome profit, which he would invest in the other businesses he owned. It was a long-term proposition of the sort that only an already well-to-do man could entertain, but it was working out nicely.

Acquisition of Dawson’s land would be a handy step in the banker’s overall scheme. Had the sodbuster not approached him, Brewer would eventually have offered to buy the man out. He reasoned that, sooner or later, Dawson would come to grief, with or without his damned cultivator. After all, the homesteader was not entirely his own man. He had a wife and therefore responsibilities beyond himself – a complication in life that the self-serving Brewer had avoided. It would have suited the banker better if the Dawsons had had children, but Brewer accepted that a man had to work with what was available and Dawson’s situation was surely difficult enough.

The homesteaders’ position in the community was uncomfortable. There was little friendliness shown to them in Grizewood, where ranching interests were dominant. It might have been different if the farmers had been wealthier. As it was, they led frugal and largely self-sufficient lives. Only rarely was any of them seen spending much money in the town’s stores and saloons. Their contribution to the prosperity of the local businesses was therefore limited. It was nobody’s fault. The two ways of life were different. The cowpunchers – and less frequently their bosses – spent freely when in town. Consequently, sentiment in the commercial ranks ran against the homesteaders. After all, it was felt, the area would hardly be worse off without them. There was not much outright hostility. It was more a case of uneasy accommodation.

Dawson owned a buckboard, but he had not used it to drive into town. He had walked intentionally, to give himself time to burn off some of the feeling of frustration and humiliation that had been building inside him at the thought of finally having to ask for a loan. The rain, which had been threatening all day, came when he was still a mile from home. He didn’t much mind getting wet, as the downpour was welcome. By the time he reached the shack, he was well and truly soaked.

Removing his saturated clothing, Dawson told his wife what had happened at the bank. “It just isn’t right,” he concluded. “I was banking on that loan.” Then, struck by the unconscious irony of the remark, he managed a barking laugh.

Alice Dawson was a match for her husband in psychological strength and indomitability. “No use fretting about it,” she said. “There must be a way out. We’re not going to go down. What can we do?”

During his stolid march home, Dawson had been mulling over his predicament. There was no doubt that he and his wife were on their beam ends. Still, he’d had the glimmer of an idea, probably crazy but the sort of thing desperate circumstances engender at times. “Let’s just talk something through,” he said. “How many are we in all?”

“That’s easy. Eleven homesteads.”

“And how many are single men?”

“Four. Then there are three with just man and wife and four with parents and children.”

“Okay. Is everybody home now?”

Alice’s mind swept the area. “No,” she said. “Mr Bullman and Mr Swenson are away together, getting supplies at Mason’s Cross.”

“When will they be back?”

“Tomorrow, I suppose. They’re usually away for two days and they went yesterday.”

“All right. I’ll go round and see the others after we’ve eaten. We’ll have a meeting here tomorrow night. Can you cope?”

“Of course I can.”

The following afternoon, a Tuesday, all the men gathered at the Dawson place. They were keen to hear what their host had in mind, for when calling on them the previous evening, he had not thought his scheme through in detail. However, he had worked on it most of the night and all day. When he presented it, the idea caused a good deal of debate. At various times, five of the homesteaders had asked Harry Brewer for loans and all had been offered ruinous terms. They immediately endorsed Dawson’s idea. The others agreed, one by one. The consensus was that it seemed like a crackpot project, but that they had little more to lose. It was make or break for them. If they failed, they would have to leave, and none of them had any prospects elsewhere.

At nine o’clock on the Wednesday morning, Harry Brewer’s bank opened. The scene was one never before witnessed in Grizewood. Strung along the sidewalk from the bank’s door was a line of seventeen people – eleven men and six women. Alice Dawson had been excused to look after the homesteaders’ children.

Brewer had never needed more than one teller. The man, who had been with the bank since its opening, was a short crusty character of fifty-odd, accustomed to dealing with customers from his position of – as he saw it – social superiority. Like so many people attuned to a routine life, he was staggered by what confronted him when he opened the door. Shaking his head, he took up his position. Brewer, who no longer wished to sully himself by too much contact with day to day business, had entered by the back door and was in his office, oblivious of the developments out front.

First in line at the counter was Zeke Dawson. “I want to open an account,” he said.

The teller was puzzled. “You already have an account,” he said.

“I know that. I want to open another.”

The teller shrugged. “All right,” he said. “How much do you want to deposit?”

“One cent.”

The teller’s eyebrows rose. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “We can’t open an account for one cent. It’s just not worth the paperwork.”

Dawson, apparently having all the time in the world, rested his elbows on the counter. “This is a bank, isn’t it?” he said.

“Of course it is.”

“Well then, what’s the problem?”

“It doesn’t make sense, that’s all. Why, if we were to open accounts for everybody who wanted to deposit one cent, we’d never get any other work done.”

Zeke Dawson smiled. “No,” he said, “you wouldn’t, would you? That would be too bad. Anyway, as it happens, I’ve one or two other matters to discuss.” He proceeded to ply the teller with a variety of banking-related questions, all superficially reasonable and without exception absurdly trivial. The teller’s bemusement increased. On the one hand, he suspected what was afoot, while on the other he was not willing to be offensive. He had his position to consider. It was twenty minutes before Zeke Dawson was satisfied, then, registering his disgust at not being able to open the new account, he walked off. Outside, he went to the end of the line, ready for his next interview, lit his pipe and began waiting patiently.

Inside, Dawson’s nearest neighbour, Irving Blenkiron, was at the counter. A tall, gangling, lantern-jawed fellow of forty-five, Blenkiron was an enigma, even to his neighbours. He was clearly a well-educated man, but had always been withdrawn and taciturn. Today, he was a revelation. Something about Dawson’s scheme had tickled him and he threw himself into the proceedings with relish. He wanted to talk about a loan. How much? Ten dollars, spread over three years.

The harassed teller responded in much the same way as he had to Dawson, but Blenkiron was not to be placated. He fired questions, initially like a human Gatling gun. The queries were well prepared and, after the first burst, became of such length and impenetrability that sensible answers were virtually impossible. Finally, after thirty minutes, Blenkiron expressed his discontent and sauntered out, joining Dawson at the end of the line.

Next at the counter was Blenkiron’s wife, a woman of vast girth and, as it turned out, of no little theatrical talent. Hers was a bravura performance. First, she insisted on a modicum of privacy, demanding that those behind her keep a respectable distance, so as not to overhear her confidential business. This was utter nonsense, since in such a tight-knit community as the homesteaders formed, there were few secrets.

Mrs Blenkiron was superb. She intoned high and low, she hectored, she implored, stamped and flounced, lassoing the beleaguered teller with questions that rivalled those of her husband in complexity and far outdid them in illogicality. Her script was liberally sprinkled with such comments as “Well, I really don’t know” and “I never heard of things like this.” It took over forty minutes for the perspiring cashier to get rid of her.

Before dealing with his next ‘customer’, the teller retreated nervously to his chief’s office. Keeping an eye on the money, he knocked on Brewer’s door and called for his boss.

Harry Brewer was neither physically nor morally courageous. But what he lacked in bravery, he usually made up in cunning. That quality had driven his rise to riches. When the teller failed to respond to his call to enter the office, Brewer waddled to the door, demanding to know what was going on. His employee explained.

Brewer weighed up the matter with remarkable speed. “All right,” he said. “Keep going and don’t lose your temper. I’ll look into the situation.” With that, he slipped out at the rear, bustled along a couple of back lots and emerged to see the line of people outside the bank, the end of which now comprised the ample form of Mrs Blenkiron, calmly awaiting her next extravaganza.

By now, it was nearly eleven o’clock. Several townspeople had already tried to carry out their banking affairs and, seeing the throng of homesteaders, had thought better of it. Most of the business houses used the bank almost daily, depositing their takings and doing whatever else they had in mind. Even as he watched, two of Brewer’s best customers walked towards his establishment, gaped at what they saw, then returned to their premises. This was becoming serious.

Brewer was not a man to be outwitted easily. Within minutes, he conceived a couple of ways of tackling the problem. First, he would consult the town marshal. He knew that his chances there were not good. Over the years, he had had differences with several local people, including Marshal Tom Dwyer. Such things rankled in a small community. Nevertheless, Dwyer was a law officer, was he not? He would have to do his duty. Brewer hurried to the marshal’s office.

Having explained to the lawman what was afoot, Brewer, anxious to keep out of sight, waited in the office until Dwyer had inspected the quiet, patient line of settlers. “Nothing wrong there that I can see,” said the marshal on his return.

Brewer was distraught. “Look,” he said, “these people are trying to disrupt my business. Surely there’s something to be done?”

Dwyer shook his head. “They’re peaceable enough,” he said. “My job is to uphold the law. They’re not disturbing it. I can’t do anything.” A fleeting smirk indicated his true feelings.

Brewer, baulked but not defeated, wobbled out of the marshal’s office and along to that of attorney Andrew Mackenzie. The dour Scottish lawyer listened to the banker’s outpouring, then shrugged. “It may be inconvenient, Harry,” he said, “but they’re not contravening any statute that I know of. I sympathise with you, but I just can’t help.” In fact, Mackenzie was not in the least sympathetic. He was concerned primarily with the letter of the law, rather than its spirit. Furthermore, being a secretive man, he did his own financial business at Mason’s Cross, thirty miles from Grizewood, so had no particular local bond in that respect.

Brewer trundled down the side of the lawyer’s office and retraced his path to the rear door of the bank. Out front, the line was undiminished. Sixteen people still waited, chatting quietly. Inside, the teller was dealing with another attempt to open an account for a risible sum, having in the meantime fended off an effort by one homesteader to get a loan of five dollars. That had taken time, as the man in question, normally quite a chatterbox, had, it seemed, been struck deaf and mute overnight and was obliged to convey his requirements by use of a grubby sheet of paper, plus a stub of pencil, the point of which broke repeatedly.

Brewer cogitated. Satisfied that there was no legal recourse available to him, he was seeking an alternative method. Like some others of his kind, Grizewood’s moneylender had found it necessary to cut corners at times, and in the course of doing that he had made contacts – not always of the most refined sort. He didn’t like what he was thinking, but there seemed to be no other way. He would call upon the services of Jim Starr.

The idea was certainly drastic. Starr was a gunman and bully-boy, usually available for hire. Brewer did not know him personally, but the man had been recommended to him by a lumber boss, who had once used the services of the hardcase. Starr’s pedigree as an intimidator, strike-breaker and killer, was impressive. Among other things, he had operated as far away as the Pennsylvania coalfields, where he had been active in the battle against the Molly Maguires. He had a reputation for unpredictability, as well as violence. Also, he owed allegiance to the highest payer and had been known to change sides. Well, a successful banker was wealthy enough to buy the fellow’s services. And if Brewer’s information was correct, Starr could be contacted at Millboro, only forty miles south of Grizewood.

By midday, his mind made up, Harry Brewer went home and prepared his buggy for departure, then slipped back into his office and called in his by now frantic teller. “Just keep calm,” he said. “I have the answer. Talk to them, stall them, but try to avoid being offensive. We’ll soon have this settled.” With that disconcerting instruction, he left.
For the rest of Wednesday, the homesteaders besieged the bank, shutting out everyone else. At the close of business they dispersed, only to reconvene the following morning, to give a repeat day-long performance, before adjourning to prepare themselves for a third show. Their frivolous enquiries were in full spate at 9.30 a.m. on the Friday, when Brewer returned. Less than two hours later, Starr arrived. He was a tall grim-faced man, dark-clad, riding a handsome chestnut horse and wearing an ivory-handled Colt Peacemaker.

Starr was not a man to let grass grow under his feet. Within twenty minutes of his arrival, he had looked around the town and taken stock. That done, he strolled up to the settlers waiting outside the bank. His bleak grey eyes raked the line, picking out Dawson, who had been described to him by Brewer. “You Dawson?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“You’re the ringleader of these people?”

Dawson stepped forward. “We don’t have a leader,” he said, “let alone a ringleader. But I sometimes speak for my friends, if they’re agreeable.”

Starr maintained his cold, hard look. “You’d better come along with me.”

Seeing the six-gun thonged down to Starr’s right thigh, Dawson, mindful in particular of the presence of the women, nodded and moved off with the gunman. Starr led the way around the corner of the bank and along the adjacent alley. When they reached the back of the building, Starr stopped. “I guess you know why I’m here?” he said, patting the gun.

Dawson had half-expected this. He nodded. “I can imagine,” he said. “I suppose Brewer’s hired you to break this thing up?”

“That’s right. Whether it’s to be the hard way or not is up to you.”

“Mind if I ask what Brewer’s paying you?”

“That depends. If you stop this and go home, I get five hundred dollars, flat fee. If it comes to shooting, it’s the same, plus two hundred a man.”

“What about the ladies?”

“I don’t charge for killing women,” Starr said dispassionately. “I’ll try to spare them, but if they get in the way, I give no guarantees.”

Dawson was as prepared as he could be. “Well,” he said, “we’re not armed, and anyway, most us couldn’t hit a barn from twenty paces. We’re no match for you. But I have an idea that might interest you, if you’ll listen.”

Starr nodded. “I always listen to people,” he said. “Tell me what’s on your mind, but make it quick.”

“All right. Now, you know what today is?”

“It’s Friday. So what?”

“Not just Friday. It’s the last Friday of the month. Now, as I see it … “
Twenty minutes after Dawson finished talking to Starr, he was back in line outside the bank, having briefed the other conspirators on what to expect. It was now almost noon, and apart from the settlers’ subdued talk, the usual midday hush had descended over Grizewood. Inside, the teller was preparing to close for an hour, to get a meal and prepare for another harrowing afternoon. Suddenly, the somnolence was broken by a single, sharp noise. “That sounded like a gunshot,” said Blenkiron.

Seconds later, Starr appeared at the corner of the bank. Stepping up onto the sidewalk, he walked slowly along the line of farmers, went inside and up to the counter. He elbowed aside a man who was trying to open an account with ten cents. Drawing his six-gun, he pointed it at the teller, while using his left hand to produce an empty flour sack. “You know what to do,” he said. “Fill it, and don’t fool around. I know near enough what you have in there. If you hold out, you die. Get to it!”

With panic overcoming paralysis, the teller scooped handful after handful of banknotes and coins into the sack. “Now the safe,” said Starr.

“I . . . I’m not allowed to . . .”

“You open it in ten seconds, or I shoot you dead.” Starr’s flat tone was more effective than any rage would have been. The teller opened the safe, took out a tin box, brought it to the counter and emptied it into the sack.

It was all over in less than two minutes. Starr scooped up the haul. “Seems about right,” he muttered to himself, then he nodded to the teller: “Okay, lie on the floor, face down, and keep quiet.” The man needed no second bidding. Starr walked out, his gun still drawn. On the sidewalk, he waved the weapon at Dawson. “Come with me,” he said.

Once again, the two men disappeared around the corner and walked down the alley. At the rear end, Starr’s horse was waiting. The gunman turned to face Dawson then, apparently in no hurry, opened the sack and inspected its contents. “You were right,” he said. “There must be over three thousand here. Real smart of you to remember that it was payday hereabouts. Would’ve been a shame to kill a man as bright as you. Now, how much do you reckon your people had invested?”

“As near as I can say, we figure one-hundred and ninety-two dollars. I don’t think anyone would have lied to me.”

Starr pulled out two fifties, four twenties, a ten and two singles. “That covers it then,” he said. “Now, you said you were asking for a loan. How much?”

“A hundred dollars.”

Starr fished out five more twenties. “Okay, that’ll settle your problem.” Then he was struck by a thought, which brought the slightest flicker of a smile to his face. “You said Brewer was going to charge interest. What rate?”

“He said ten per cent, but it was sixteen, the way I figured it.”

“The damned crook,” snapped Starr. He dug into the sack again, drew out another fistful of bills and peeled off a ten, a five and a single. “There you are. You’ve got sixteen per cent interest, instead of paying it. Seems like your lucky day. Now, give me two hours, then go to the marshal’s office. You’ll find him tied up and gagged. Tell him not to follow me. That isn’t healthy.”

Dawson stuffed the money into his shirt pocket. What about Brewer?” he asked. “He’ll raise hell over this.”

Starr mounted his horse. “He won’t trouble you again. Where he’s gone, he won’t trouble anybody.”

Dawson recalled the gunshot. He looked up into those fathomless eyes. “For God’s sake, you didn’t – ?”

“Never mind what I did. Just say I’m a man who doesn’t like loose ends.” Then Starr leaned down, his face finally showing real animation. “Remember that, in case you’re ever inclined to blab. Goodbye, Dawson.”

* * *

If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know that a further
Sunset Story will be posted soon.

Nice lucid prose. I ma going to read this more carefully an dcome back to you...if my obeseravtions have any merit at all, only wil tell. But well done

Dear Duncan,

Thank you for your comments, which are the sort of observations that make the effort worth while. I hope you will like the next tale of this kind, which I expect to post on Sunday. Assuming you have not already read my work on the humour forum, I wonder whether you might like to try this.

Best wishes - Cj

I really enjoyed this and found it to be incredibly well written. I would be interested in reading more.

I have no idea why...but I loved this line: He leaned back, his original chin resting on the makings of a second. To me that is brilliance!

Your prose is very fluid, you've developed your characters and provided a story that is compelling. Couldn't really ask for more. And I agree about the "original chin"...a very nice observation

Dear Alabastrine,

Many thanks for your comments. When one has made a considerable effort to offer entertainment, it is so good to know that someone appreciates this. I hope you will also enjoy ‘Leggett’s Law’, the second tale in what I am calling ‘Sunset Stories’. This item is to be posted immediately.

Best wishes – Cj

Dear Duncan,

Thank you for your further remarks, which are as much appreciated as the previous ones. I intended to post the second tale in what I am calling ‘Sunset Stories’ tomorrow, but have decided to do this today. I try to maintain the same standard throughout all my work, so I hope you will enjoy this latest offering.

Best wishes – Cj

LEGGETT’S LAW

Judge Lemuel Leggett MD was a comprehensive misnomer, for the bearer of that imposing title had had neither legal nor medical training and his name was an alias. Nevertheless, the part assumed, part awarded identity was known for many miles around the spot in Arizona which he had made first his refuge, then his home, then his power base. No-one ever questioned the social correctness of the elevated form of address. It had been acquired by degrees over many years and that was good enough for everybody.

Fifty-six years before he tried the case which caused him to cease dispensing justice, Leggett had been born James Cutler. His parents were Missouri farmers and while their only child was still in infancy, they were attracted to what Cutler senior called ‘The Real West’, moving to a quarter-section of passably good agricultural land near Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. It was there that young Cutler grew to manhood.

James had a more or less normal upbringing. He was bright and intensely inquisitive. Apart from a distinctly larcenous bent, albeit indulged only infrequently, he bore the respectable family name with as much honour as he could muster – or did so for some years, until one day he deemed it advisable to change his lifestyle. This occurred at the same time as he considered it wise to depart the scenes of his formative years, following an incident involving a keg of gunpowder and a jailhouse in which a friend of his was incarcerated.

It seemed best to head south, so he did and in the process, James Cutler vanished and Lemuel Leggett emerged. He took the forename from the hero of his favourite childhood book, Gulliver’s Travels, and the surname because it was the first one that came to him and there seemed little point in rummaging around for another. And anyway, as he reasoned later, he was after all ‘legging it’ at the time, so maybe the choice was inspired.

After some weeks of swift and prudently tortuous travel, the newly created Lemuel Leggett arrived at that far-flung speck in the Southwest which was to be his adopted hometown. On leaving Wyoming, he had gathered up as much money as he could, including some which did not belong to him, so he was not destitute. However, the question of making a living soon became obtrusive.

Being a pragmatic man, Leggett concluded that he would need to capitalise on the assets he had. It was at this point that he realised that he had led a fairly sheltered life. He knew something of farming, for he had always helped his parents. Beyond that, however, his scope was narrow. Physically, his attributes were limited. He was of slightly less than average height, slim build and limited strength. Punching cows, felling trees or grovelling in a mine did not appeal to him.

What then, did Leggett have to offer? Well, he was widely read, especially in medical and legal matters. The few friends he had cultivated in Wyoming had often referred to him as a walking dictionary, such was his propensity for using long, uncommon words. He delivered them well, for he had a deep, resonant voice and full, rounded tones. He would have made a fine actor, or an impressive politician. Indeed, he had considered those occupations and rejected both, though not before establishing that he could see little difference between them.

Despite having no formal background in jurisprudence, Leggett knew a good deal more of the law than might be expected of any layman, his labyrinthine mind having drawn him into reading all the literature he could find on that subject. What he did not know, he could extemporise with a speed, facility and conviction sufficient to satisfy any but the most erudite company.

As to medical matters, there again he’d had no official schooling, but in this field he was even more widely read than in the legal one. Also, he had some amateur practical experience. Furthermore, he could recite Gunn’s ‘Domestic Medicine’ and Thomson’s ‘The Family Physician’ almost verbatim and he was familiar with the work of McDonnell, Beaumont and Drake. His confidence in his ability to produce ad hoc solutions to a wide range of medical problems was at least as great as the self-certainty he had in legal affairs.

Leggett worked on what he called the gamesman’s principle, believing that if he knew, say, five per cent more than the next man about any given question, that would usually be enough. He would come out on top, for the other party wouldn’t know that he was only slightly to the fore – he might have been a hundred per cent ahead.

Not that Leggett was a complete charlatan. His interest in the relief of human suffering was genuine and his methods, within the scope of his knowledge, were entirely proper and usually effective. Indeed, his expertise in the field of herbal remedies was outstanding.

So Lemuel Leggett decided to be a physician. He would also handle minor surgical matters, but to avoid tarnishing any reputation he might build, he would refer more serious cases to those better equipped to cope with them. With admirable single-mindedness, he set about scouring the countryside for herbs and other plants germane to his calling. Those he could not find, he had mailed to him. He dried, boiled, distilled and infused with rare dedication. Fortune smiled on him in the matter of accommodation. He acquired premises ideal for his purpose, the property having been vacated on the death of the previous owner, who had the misfortune to intercept a .44 bullet with his midriff.

It took time, but Lemuel Leggett’s qualities won through. His waxing expertise and that deep, reassuring voice brought in the sufferers and what Leggett couldn’t rectify, he usually managed to alleviate. The subject of qualifications did not arise. At the time, there were no legal restrictions in those parts to prevent anyone acting as a medical practitioner. If a man behaved like a doctor, he was a doctor. That accounted for Leggett’s addition of the M.D. to his nomenclature.

The question of payment was often fraught. Perhaps half the time, Leggett would receive cash. When that failed, he found himself rewarded with a bewildering variety of items – beef, chickens, eggs, vegetables, home made liquor, cigars, flour, indeed almost anything consumable or somehow negotiable. Once he wound up with such a glut of steaks that he had to bustle around more than somewhat to barter them off for other items. In exchange for his surplus, he received five bottles of whiskey, half a box of rifle ammunition and a pair of boots.

It was in part because of this difficult matter of payment that Leggett shifted slowly to his second occupation. In the same way as a man did not strictly need officially recognised expertise to practise medicine in such a remote area, he did not need a certified legal background to be considered a lawyer. Diplomas were useful but they were not prerequisites. If a man had a smattering of law, plus the right manner and air of command, he was likely to find himself at the hub of such legal machinery as existed.

So it was with Lemuel Leggett. The small, neat, quick-moving frame, the dark, sober dress, aquiline features and sharp repartee combined to give him an aura of leadership. In the fullness of time and in the absence of any more acceptable framework, he was prevailed upon to administer such law as there was and eventually to make up his own version as he went along. In due course, he became known far and wide as Justice of the Peace Leggett and at length as simply Judge Leggett.

Naturally he demurred a little at first, but no more than decency required. After all, he had to consider his medical practice, had he not? When asked, albeit casually, about his status, he let it be known that he had had some involvement with the law in his former home area. This was quite true and no one pressed him for details as to which side of the system he meant. He even went so far as to intimate that he had thought of a judicial career, again a rather fine choice of words, considering his lack of the usual wherewithal. However, he had decided, at least initially, that medicine came first. Still, if the call came, a right-thinking man would be churlish to ignore it. So, without telling a single lie, Lemuel Leggett emerged as the local lawgiver.

He brought to his legal duties the same assiduous effort as he devoted to medical ones. As the years passed, Lemuel Leggett prospered. In fact he did so to such an extent that people began to pass comments. He displayed a marked predilection for imposing fines rather than jail sentences, even when the latter would have been reasonable. The less worthy minds in the community started to indulge in speculation concerning the proportion of the monetary impositions that found its way into the intended coffers. However, as the judge remarked on several occasions, justice could not be administered free of charge. There were legitimate expenses.

Matters came to a head over Leggett’s handling of the trouble caused by the Silverdale brothers. There were three of them, all rapscallions. They had been bad enough while their father was still alive. Following his death, two years before their last clash with Judge Leggett began, the Silverdale boys were seldom out of trouble. Again and again they appeared in court, often singly, sometimes two at once and not infrequently all three together. Always the judge fined them, occasionally going within an inch of sterner measures. It was uncanny how Leggett seemed to know to the dollar what the young reprobates were able to pay. Like a certain statesman, he appeared to have perfected the art of plucking the goose without killing it. At length, the patience of a sufficient number of people came to an end. A deputation was formed, the members facing Leggett with a demand for more drastic steps to curb the Silverdales’ depredations. His Honour promised to give the matter serious attention and, seeing his laboriously built social position in danger of tottering, he acted swiftly.

Leggett was nothing if not thorough. He formed a small committee, consisting of himself, Will Loomis, a rancher who lived close to the Silverdales, Ted Roach, the freight office manager, Bert Clayton, owner of the largest store in the town and Jim Broadwood, the gunsmith. The committee was unofficial. In fact it was so much so that no-one but the members knew that it existed. Its sole purpose was to see that something was done about the unruly brothers.

The committee had only one meeting of any great consequence, held in the backroom of Clayton’s store. At first, it was put forward that the next time any of the Silverdale boys did the slightest thing wrong, an example should be made of him. However, Judge Leggett saw the need for quick, decisive action. His conduct of the rest of the meeting was machiavellian. He sowed a seed here, gave a veiled intimation there and without appearing to have made any such suggestion himself, led his team to the conclusion that a refinement of the original proposal was required. It might be inadvisable to wait. Why not, it was felt, give a helping hand to the inevitable workings of providence?

Progress was swift. Two days after the meeting, an old shack belonging to Will Loomis and no longer used for its original purpose, was burned to the ground. The incident occurred late in the evening, Loomis being in town at the time. By a curious coincidence, three members of the committee, Roach, Clayton and Broadwood, had been returning home after a day’s fishing. They were passing the Loomis place when the blaze was at its height and all were willing to swear on a stack of Bibles to having seen two of the Silverdale brothers, George and Stephen, standing close to the inferno, each holding a flaming torch. The committee members had been unable to get close enough to do anything about extinguishing the fire, but they had seen the Silverdale boys mount their horses and ride off towards their own place.
The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. Three such worthy citizens as Roach, Clayton and Broadwood could hardly be doubted, and they weren’t. It was in vain that George and Stephen Silverdale asserted, truthfully, that they had been at home, playing cards at the time in question. Only the youngest brother, Robert, could not be implicated, for it was widely known that when the incident occurred, he had been in a saloon fifteen miles away, where he was visiting friends, as a score of people could confirm.

Judge Leggett had no difficulty in finding the right jury, all good men and true, who could be relied upon to bring in the right verdict. They did so, whereupon His Honour gave probably the most impressive summing up he had ever delivered, laced with words the length and depth of which left his listeners awestruck. Such conduct was utterly disgusting. The brothers’ behaviour was reprehensible in the extreme. The laudable vigilance of three stalwart townspeople had resuscitated the generally waning belief in the spirit of sound citizenship. He was gratified to note that his flagging confidence in civic virtue had been but evanescent. And so on.

Then came the sentencing. Leggett pulled forward his recently obtained spectacles, staring at the Silverdale brothers. “You have been found guilty of the crime with which you were charged,” he intoned sonorously, “and you may consider yourselves fortunate that it was not a barn that was razed in the conflagration you caused. Had that been the case, I would have been compelled to take an even more serious view of your conduct than the one I already hold. I am bound to adopt the most severe measures to protect the community from your kind. As for you, George Silverdale, cognisant as I am of the precedents and statutes of this and other lands, regarding the concept of primogeniture, I am obliged – ”

“What’s that?” asked the baffled George.

“What’s what?” the judge snapped back.

“Primo … what you said?”

“Primogeniture. In lay terms it means you’re the first born son and as such, you should have known better. And don’t interrupt.”

This was twisting the principle the judge had mentioned out of all recognition, but he’d had been itching to get that one in and knew that no-one present was capable of contesting his bizarre interpretation.

“I was saying,” he went on, “that I am obliged to deal with you sternly. However,” here he turned his gaze upon Stephen Silverdale, “in view of my past experience of your behaviour, I am bound to consider you equally culpable. You will both be imprisoned for two years. Case concluded.”

This was the first time that Leggett had exercised his power of penitential sentencing, recently conferred upon him by an overstretched judiciary. The authority had not been given to him because of any great sagacity on his part, but on account of the fact that no better qualified man was available to serve in the area, and Leggett’s administration was considered better than none.

The outraged brothers were led away, protesting furiously. Following their departure, there was an unofficial meeting of the clandestine committee, at which congratulations and liquor flowed freely. The judge informed his colleagues that he would not consider the operation finished while there was still one of the awkward fraternity at large. Disposing of him would henceforth be the only item on the agenda.

As it happened, Leggett was to have no need to concern himself with the entrapment of the remaining brother. Robert Silverdale, then twenty-one, was the youngest and undoubtedly the most reckless of his clan. Faced with the shocking treatment of his brothers and the need continue running the family ranch, he might have been excused for breaking down completely, or yielding to helpless resentment. He did neither. After a few hours of fuming, he set himself to considering what action to take, for it never occurred to him to do nothing.

There was no way for Robert to set right the injustice to his brothers, so he concluded that his best course was to ensure that George and Stephen would have something to come back to following their spell of rockbreaking. He decided that they would thereafter live in comfort. To do that, they would need money or something easily convertible thereto. It didn’t take the youngest Silverdale long to grasp that he would have to steal whatever was necessary. With a dazzling brainwave, he fastened upon the fact that the obvious source was Judge Leggett, who was by then the wealthiest man around. It was an appropriately scriptural idea, Robert thought an eye for an eye. He would rob the judge.

Not being given to dawdling, Robert put his plan into action at once. His brothers had been taken to the penitentiary on a Thursday morning and at midnight on the following Saturday, he struck.

Although Judge Leggett was now having an impressive new house built on the edge of town, he had never previously cut much of a dash with respect to accommodation. On grounds of convenience, he had continued to live and conduct his medical practice on the main street. As the years had rolled by, he had extended the building into the back lot behind the original store. Fronting the premises, under the sidewalk awning, was the door and to its left, one large window. This was the dispensary. Behind that was the consulting room and at the rear was a small laboratory. Leggett, a bachelor, kept the two upstairs rooms for his private use.

It was dry and bitterly cold as Robert Silverdale broke in by forcing open a back window. Lighting a lamp, he looked around and was about to dismiss the room as useless to him when he noticed, among the bottles and retorts on a testing bench, a small black notebook. Endowed with a fair measure of curiosity, he opened it. As he looked over the contents, written in Leggett’s small, neat hand, his eyebrows rose. His mission temporarily forgotten, he pulled up a chair and read intently, oblivious of the precarious nature of his position.

As he read on, Robert became increasingly engrossed. At one point, still unmindful of his whereabouts, he drew in his breath sharply and emitted a low whistle. For over half an hour, he pored over the little book, then he closed it and began a careful examination of the room, paying particular attention to the contents of the glass-fronted cabinets. Very soon, he would be cursing himself for not moving on more quickly, as the delay was to have consequences.

Judge Leggett was returning late from the nearby saloon, when he saw a light in his bedroom, the intruder having by then worked his way there and incautiously placed his lamp close to the drawn curtains. Leggett rushed back to the saloon to fetch the town marshal, Ed Donnelly, with whom he had just been playing cards, and both men returned hurriedly to Leggett’s place. Thus it was that when Robert Silverdale tried to leave by the back door, disappointed with his paltry haul of cash and trinkets, he walked into the business end of a shotgun. Always audacious, he instantly suppressed a flash of panic, mustering sufficient composure to produce a cheery greeting. “Evening, Marshal,” he said. “Not a very nice one at that.”

Donnelly sniggered. “As far as you’re concerned, it’s likely to get a deal worse,” he retorted.

Robert spent a sleepless night in the town jail, knowing that the machinery of justice would move quickly. It did. At ten o’clock in the morning, Donnelly called in to tell his prisoner that the case would be heard at three that afternoon. With a sardonic twist of humour, he asked whether Robert had any ‘last’ request.

“Sure do,” said Robert. “I guess I’ll go into the pokey with George and Steve. Maybe you’d just step along to Bert Clayton’s place and ask him to slip me one of them little flat bottles of whisky he keeps. The good stuff he gets from Scotland. Might as well have a high-class drink before the show.”

“Okay,” said the marshal, feeling generous in victory. “I guess we can allow that.” He clumped off to Clayton’s store, returning with the precious liquid. “Must be sippin’ liquor at this price,” he commented, collecting payment from his prisoner.

“Well, it’s different from that ten dollar a gallon poison that Bert usually peddles,” Robert replied, handling the flask with due reverence. He took a modest pull at the contents then, with laudable self-discipline, set the bottle aside and sprawled on the lower bunk, trying to cultivate a philosophical attitude to his predicament.

Shortly before noon, the Silverdales’ sole hired hand called in to see what he was to do if Robert received the treatment that both men feared likely. The instructions were as clear as they were sombre. In a hopelessly unsatisfactory situation, the employee was to do what he could to keep the place going.

Punctually at three o’clock, Robert was led into the rearranged barroom of the saloon, where Leggett held court. The legal supremo had been busy. Ordinarily, he would have dealt with such a case himself. This time there was, to Robert’s surprise, a jury. Not any old jury, but the very same one which had officiated in the case of his brothers. Clearly the judge took a serious view of the matter, as a court sitting on a Sunday was unprecedented.

Leggett entered, doffing his latest affectation, a menacing black top hat, reflective of his growing gravitas. He crashed down his gavel and the proceedings began. It was as open and shut as a case could be, and in what seemed to Robert like no time at all, he was found guilty.

On this occasion, Judge Leggett, having used up most of his store of impressive words during the trial of the older Silverdale brothers, was not inclined to verbosity. Within an ace of his final triumph over the troublesome brood, he intended to push the matter through quickly and get Robert behind bars. However, he did take time to point out that he had convened a jury because he was concerned to be seen as scrupulously fair, in view of his own involvement as victim of the crime in question. He simply informed Robert that he was sick and tired of dealing with him and his family and that a further example would have to be made. Robert would go to the penitentiary for one year and the judge was sorry that he could not make it longer. This was a prime piece of hypocrisy, as the absence of any one of the Silverdales, let alone all of them, would sharply reduce the comforting flow of fines. However, Leggett’s brief speech completely satisfied his erstwhile critics among the townspeople. Ah, well, he reasoned, sometimes a general had to retreat in order to advance.

Robert was admirably stoical. As the improvised courtroom was being cleared, Judge Leggett moved towards the bar, while Marshal Donnelly stepped in to take the prisoner away. Robert asked that he be granted a private word with the judge, as he was concerned about the maintenance of the Silverdale ranch during the brothers’ absence. He held up his hands, palms outwards, indicating that he had no violent intentions. For a moment the judge looked suspicious, then, too full of his victory to deny the simple request, he nodded a curt dismissal to Donnelly and the barkeeper, who departed, leaving the room to the judge and Robert.

Leggett faced the young miscreant. “Now, Silverdale,” he said gruffly, “this is highly irregular, but in view of your difficult circumstances, I’ll give you five minutes. We’ll take a drink, seeing that you’re not likely to get another for a while.” He flipped a hand at the whiskey bottle and two glasses considerately left by the barman and now at the young rancher’s elbow.

“Don’t mind if I do, Judge,” said Robert. He poured a shot, then was struck by a thought. “Oh, what happened to my manners? Here, try this.” He pulled the flask of Highland malt from a pocket and filled the judge’s glass. “Runs a damn sight more than ten cents a shot, but it’s worth the difference. These people have been making the stuff for a good few years, so I guess they’ve got it about right by now. By the way, I’ve often wondered where that place is up there. Do you know? He was pointing at a picture on the wall behind the judge.

Leggett turned and stared in the direction of Robert’s finger, his mind running back through the years. “It’s part of the San Juan Mountains, northeast of here. Quite good work in my opinion. As it happens, I’ve stood at the very spot where the artist must have been when he painted it.” He swung back. “However, let us not distract ourselves. I’m pleased to see that you’re taking this in the right spirit. There’s nothing personal in it, you know.”

“Oh, I realise that,” Robert replied affably. “I suppose we’ve been a headache to you for a long time. I reckon we Silverdales have got what we deserve and I’m not complaining. Bottoms up, Your Honour.”
The drinks went down quickly and Robert refilled the glasses.

“Now,” said Leggett, “you wanted to talk about your place being looked after in your absence. I don’t know why you should ask me, but I’m not an uncaring man and if I can do anything that will help to keep you on a straight road when you return here, I’ll certainly oblige.” This was another foray into cynicism, as it had not escaped Leggett’s notice that the Silverdale spread was likely to go to rack and ruin during its owners’ imprisonment. In that case, it would probably become available at a knockdown price and either Leggett himself or some nominee selected by him might make a nice bargain. That would suit the wily lawgiver’s diversification plans.

Finishing his drink with connoisseur’s relish, the judge rapped his glass on the bar. “Speaking of that straight road,” he said gravely, “I do hope that you and your brothers will use the time you’re going to have on your hands for reflection. When you come back, I don’t want to see any more of this harum-scarum behaviour.”

Robert grinned. “That’s funny, Judge,” he said. “I’d have thought you might like more of it, seeing as it brings so much money your way.”

The judge straightened, suddenly stiff with anger. “I didn’t agree to this talk in order hear your impertinence,” he snapped. “Let me just advise you to spend your time constructively in future.”

“Oh, I usually do that, Judge,” Robert replied. “You’d be surprised how well I use my leisure hours. Take last night, for instance.”

Leggett’s eyes widened. “I’d hardly call it constructive to break into a house, then get arrested and sent to prison,” he said. “Anyway, if you have a point, get to it. You’ve had your five minutes and it’s very warm in here.” The judge was indeed sweating. He ran the forefinger of his right hand around the inside of his collar.

Robert continued smiling, in amazingly high spirits for a man in his situation. “Well,” he said, “it’s true that getting arrested was a mistake, but you didn’t catch me because I was stupid. It just happened that I lost track of time when I was busy in that back room of yours.”

“My laboratory?” Leggett was baffled. “What did you find so interesting there?”

“Well, mostly I was reading in that little black notebook of yours with all that stuff about unusual combinations of herbal substances. You’re real well up on that, Judge.”

Leggett nodded. “Yes,” he said, “It’s an aspect of my work. But I can’t stay here all day chatting with you, Silverdale. Your sentence doesn’t become operative until I sign the committal paper, which I shall do in half an hour or so.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“As far as I know, such circumstances have never arisen. If they were to do so, I believe a retrial would be necessary, and as there is no circuit judge in these parts, the case would be heard elsewhere. Anyway, that’s irrelevant. It’s time to say goodbye.”

“Oh, you’re right about that, Judge. I reckon we only have another three or four minutes.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Just this: while I was poking around in your place, I borrowed something from you.” He pulled from his pocket a small brown bottle, the label bearing Leggett’s handwriting, topped by a skull and crossbones.

Robert’s grin widened. “I stuffed this into my boot last night, so you wouldn’t find it. I guess you didn’t notice that while you were looking at the picture up there, I switched to the saloon liquor for my first drink, and you’ll see I haven’t touched the second. ’Course, I’m afraid you got enough of this in yours to do the trick. Colourless, odourless, tasteless and untraceable it says in your book. Simulates a seizure, works in ten minutes and there’s no antidote. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know that there’d be another trial, where you can’t pick the jury, but I’ll take my chances on that. What’s up Judge? You don’t look well.”

* * *
If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know that a further
Sunset Story will be posted soon.

RIVERBOAT GAMBLER

Steve Dunne sat his horse atop the ridge that loomed over the ugly straggle of buildings widely, though not officially, known as Hell’s Elbow. The place wasn’t marked on any map. Among the cognoscenti, it had acquired the first part of its name from a reputation for harbouring outlaws and the second from its proximity to the river which rolled in from the northwest, then swung southwards, confining the settlement between its northern bank and the rocky escarpment on which Steve had halted. For him, it was the end of a journey of over a thousand miles, the last hundred on a rented gelding.

So this was the domain of Claude Turnbull, leader of a band that deferred not even to that of the James brothers in notoriety. The location of Turnbull’s hideout wasn’t common knowledge. Had it been so, lawmen galore would have descended upon this corner of Texas. Steve Dunne had come upon the spot by diligent application of his usual combination of enquiry, hunch and persistence.

Short of a tedious trek northwest or south, Steve’s only way into Hell’s Elbow was to take the barely detectable serpentine path down the steep slope, which would put him in full view of the buildings during the whole of his approach. For him, it was an easy choice, as he intended to be seen well ahead of his arrival. He nudged the horse forward, beginning the zigzag descent.

It was late afternoon when Steve reached the settlement. The path ended in a one-sided street, comprising a dozen or so wooden structures – an unprepossessing redoubt for those enjoying the proceeds of their crimes.

Most of the buildings gave no indication of their functions, but one had the batwing doors of a saloon. Steve took note of this as he passed along the street to a ramshackle heap that was a livery barn of sorts. No one was in attendance, so he saw to his horse then walked back to the saloon, finding it cold, dimly lit and altogether thoroughly uninviting. Until his arrival, the bartender had been the only occupant.

Steve ordered a beer and was pleased to find it better than he’d expected. “We don’t get many strangers here,” said the barman, a tall, thin fellow whose lugubrious expression matched his surroundings.

“I don’t aim to be a stranger for long,” replied Steve. “I’m looking for Claude Turnbull. Heard he runs a spread hereabouts.”

The remark was intentionally provocative and drew the response Steve had expected. Raising his eyebrows, the barman stared hard at the newcomer. “Nobody of that name around here, mister, “ he said. “Only ranch in these parts is owned by Tom Ashcroft.”

Steve grinned. “No need to be cagey, friend,” he said. “You know he calls himself Ashcroft, I know it and guess everybody else here does. We all know he’s Claude Turnbull.”

The barman shook his head slowly. “You’d better be careful what you say,” he answered. “Talk like that could get a man into trouble. There’s nothing goes on around here that Ashcroft doesn’t find out about, pretty quick.”

“That’s okay by me,” said Steve. “I intend to join up with him.”

“Oh. Does he know that?”

“Not yet.”

The saloonkeeper swished a towel across the bartop. “Well,” he said, “maybe you know what you’re doing, but you’re a pushy gent. If I was you, I’d watch my step.”

“Thanks for the advice,” said Steve. “Now, if you can fix me up with a room for tonight, I’ll drop in on Turnbull tomorrow. Kind of surprise him.” Like Steve’s opening show of bravado, this was a deliberate ploy. If his guess was right, the barman wouldn’t let the matter rest there.

Upstairs, there were three cheerless bedrooms. Steve took the least disagreeable one and after getting himself a meal at the dingy eating house along the street, he bought a bottle of the saloon’s best whiskey and settled himself down for an early night. He had made as good a start as could be expected.

The barkeeper didn’t waste much time and neither did Claude Turnbull. It was dawn when the visitors came. Steve was awake, working out how he would play his hand. He heard only the faintest sound of a boot scraping the floor outside his room, then the door was kicked open and two men, handguns drawn, advanced upon the bed. “No sudden moves,” rasped one of them. Steve obliged.

The men differed only in size, one tall, the other short. Both were slim, dark-faced, stubble-jawed types. Four cold, hard eyes were fixed on Steve as steadily as the two gun barrels. “Get dressed,” said the taller man. “You’re takin’ a ride.”

“No need for the big show, boys,” Steve answered, pulling on his boots, “but you could have waited till after breakfast.”

“Cut the gab,” snarled the tall man. “We got your horse outside. Just walk between us, an’ remember there’s a couple of itchy trigger-fingers around.” His partner swept up Steve’s gun belt and weapon from the bedpost.

The newcomer hadn’t expected the reaction to his arrival to be quite so prompt, but wasn’t put out. These hardcases could only be Turnbull’s minions. He would go along with them up to a point but given the right opening, he would do things his way. With the shorter man leading and his companion at the rear, the party descended the stairs and clumped across the creaky floorboards.

For an instant, Steve considered trying something with the batwing doors, but rejected the idea. There would probably be a better opportunity. There was, and it came quickly. Outside, at the hitchrail, Steve’s horse was between those of his captors. The short man moved to his mount. His partner nudged Steve with a .45. “Go to your bronc,” he grunted. “Don’t get aboard before I tell you to.” When he was satisfied that Steve was in position, he swung up onto his horse, finally holstering his gun, confident that he had a defenceless prisoner. “You can mount now,” he said.

Steve weighed up the position. These two messengers were probably under instructions to use no more force than necessary. They wouldn’t be bargaining with catching a tiger by the tail in their own stronghold. The horses were standing close together and, reasoning that there might not be another chance, Steve acted. He got his left foot into its stirrup, then, as his right leg swung up, he lashed it out, backwards and upwards.

The move was risky, but it worked. Steve’s boot thudded into the mounted man’s right arm, thrusting his body to the left. As much from surprise as from the impact, the man toppled out of his saddle, his right foot flying free, the left one failing to clear the stirrup. The man’s head and shoulders thumped to the ground. Rounding the startled horse, Steve was upon the fellow in a flash, slamming a fist at his jaw and using a knee to pin his right arm to the ground. Grabbing the man’s gun from its holster, Steve silenced him by rapping the barrel behind his ear. Confused by the sudden action and the poor light, the other man, not yet mounted, hesitated. Steve, no stranger to swift violent action, took the initiative. “Keep still,” he snapped. “I’ve got your pard out cold and I can see your legs. If you move one of them, I’ll shoot the other.”

The short man stood irresolute for a moment, then made his decision. “Okay,” he said. “I ain’t bein’ paid to get plugged. Not this time anyway.”

“You’re talking good sense,” Steve replied. “Now, just throw your gun and mine over there into the street, where I can see them, then step clear, nice and slow. And keep your back to me.” The man obeyed and Steve recovered his gun, tossing away the other two weapons. He strode over to the short fellow, jabbing him in the back with the gun barrel. “Now,” he said. “I guess you’re from Turnbull, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. Here’s your choice. You can direct me to his place and live, or refuse and die. It’s all the same to me. What’s it to be?”

“Hell, mister, there’s no need to get rough. You just head east, down the trail. It’s only four miles.” He jerked his thumb back over his head to show the way.

For a moment, Steve thought of marching the inept duo ahead of him, then, seeing a lariat slung on the tall man’s saddle, he reconsidered. Taking the rope and cutting it in two, he trussed both would-be abductors across their horses, then moved the party off in line abreast, himself in the middle.

It was full daylight when Steve and his involuntary escort reached the Turnbull place, an apology for a cattle spread, with a scatter of dilapidated, weather-beaten wooden outbuildings around the adobe ranch house. The threesome got to within fifteen yards of the house when a man came to the door.

Steve had seen enough pictures to have no doubt in the matter of identification. He was looking at a man around forty-five years old, of middling height, heavily built, with a bulging mid-section. The hatless head was well thatched with salt and pepper hair, the sharp blue eyes set in a round, fleshy face. This was Claude Turnbull all right. He looked mildly amused, but didn’t speak immediately.

Steve cut the ropes binding his hapless would-be captors to their horses and heaved the two men to the ground. “Morning,” he called to Turnbull. “I was coming to see you anyway. If you wanted me sooner, you didn’t need to send these two hunks of buzzard bait.”

Turnbull waved a hand at a wiry little man, standing at the door of the log bunkhouse. “Mort, get these boys out of the way. I’ll talk to them later.” The voice wasn’t raised much, but covered the thirty yards between the two men. Then Turnbull’s full attention was once more focused on Steve. “Well, sir, whoever you are, you know how to make an entrance. I’ll give you that.” The tone was low, clear and well-controlled. “Light down and tell me what you want here.”

Steve dismounted. “I’d a notion to join the famous Turnbull outfit,” he said, matching the gang leader’s quiet tones. “Seems maybe you need somebody if these two rannies are the best you have.”

Turnbull smiled and made no attempt to deny his identity. “No,” he said. “They’re not the best I have. Mr Hanratty here could give you a better introduction to our little ways.” He waved an arm and the sound of heavy footsteps preceded the appearance in the doorway of a great slab of a man, around six-four in height and weighing, Steve guessed, a good two hundred and thirty pounds. Turnbull switched his attention back to Steve. “This is my foreman,” he said. “Now, if you’ll look over to the bunkhouse, you’ll see two rifles pointing at you, so I’ll trouble you to dispense with your gun.”

Steve didn’t bother to look. He unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall. “Now, Mr Whoever,” Turnbull continued. “You can try conclusions with Pete here if you wish. Frankly, I wouldn’t advise it, although I’d enjoy the entertainment. We’re a little short of that here.”

“I’ll have to disappoint you,” Steve replied. “I know my limits. I might outgun him, but I don’t believe I could outfight him.”

Turnbull chuckled. “Well, that makes you smart enough,” he said. “I think you’d better come inside.” He led the way, motioning Steve to one of the two armchairs flanking the fireplace. He produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses, pouring generously, then took the second seat, giving his stormy visitor a wry grin. “I like your style,” he said in that quiet, unemotional voice. “Could be we’d better get on different terms before you damage any more of my boys. Now, who are you and what are you really doing here?”

“It’s no big secret,” Steve replied. The name’s Steve Dunne. I’ve been playing a lone hand for a while. Things have got uncomfortable lately and I reckoned I’d be better off throwing in with the right people. Everybody knows you’re the best, so I just found you. I guess you could say I’m applying for a job, in a way.”

Turnbull looked closely at his guest, assessing him correctly as a little over thirty and noting the tough, raw-boned frame, the short straight black hair, the clear grey eyes, the clean-shaven face, dark complexion and long, stubborn-looking jawline. “Hmn,” he said. “I never heard of any Steve Dunne. How about some proof and maybe some evidence that you’re my kind of man?”

Steve fished in his shirt pocket, pulling out three sheets of paper and tossing them to the gang leader. “I don’t expect you to take me on trust,” he said, “but I believe these say enough.”

Turnbull unfolded the offerings. The first, two years old, was a document stating that Captain Stephen Dunne had been dishonourably discharged from the US Army. The gang leader read it, then fixed his eyes on Steve again. “Captain, were you?” he said. “So you’re not a common roughneck. What did you do to earn this?”

Steve summoned a bleak smile. “Officially, the reason was irresponsible handling of my men during a reconnaissance outing. The truth is that I was something of a ladies’ man, and one of the women I got involved with was the wife of my commanding officer. He found out and had it in for me. Gave me one near-impossible assignment after another. It was sure to be only a matter of time before I came to grief. Frankly, I think I did pretty well to survive as long as I did before the blow fell.”

Turnbull nodded, then looked at the other two items. They were ‘wanted’ posters, one a little over a year old, the other almost new. In both cases, the name was Stephen Dunne and the face was unmistakably that of Turnbull’s visitor. On the older dodger, the reward was $2,000, the crime being armed robbery. The newer one added two further similar offences, plus one of murder and the bounty had increased to $5,000.

Turnbull handed the papers back to Steve. “You appear to have been a busy man since you left the army,” he said. “Now, I can pick up hardcases anytime, even fairly intelligent ones. The fact is I don’t need them any more. Maybe I could have used you five years ago, when I started up, but everything runs its course and we’ve just about had our day. The game’s over and I’m breaking up the gang, so it seems you’ve come along too late. Now, if you can give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have you killed right now, you’d better do that.”

“I can give you sixty-five thousand good reasons,” Steve answered. “I didn’t come here empty-handed. There’s a little job I have in mind and it’ll need more than one man. I figure four or five could do it, but a couple of spare hands would be all to the good. If you’re interested, I’d like to cut you in. If not, I’ll try the Cole brothers, or maybe Tyson’s gang. Trouble is they’re both up north and this job is here in Texas.” Turnbull lit a cigar, offering another to Steve, who accepted. The gang leader sprawled back. “I’ve nothing to lose by listening,” he said, “but it had better be good. I’ve heard my share of hare-brained schemes for one lifetime and I’ve already got enough salted away to move over the border and live out my days in style. Anyway, go on.”

“Well,” Steve replied, “it’s this way. During my time in the army, I spent a good while at headquarters up in Grainger and I was very friendly with the civilian who runs the accounts system there. He was a gambler and got himself into deep trouble. He owes nearly five thousand dollars. He was given time to pay and if he doesn’t, the man he’s in debt to has promised to help him along to the hereafter.”

“I’d probably do the same myself,” said Turnbull. “How do you come into it?”

“I never lost touch with this accountant. He got word to me and suggested a way out of his predicament. It’s really his idea, only he has no stomach for our kind of work. He just wants to save his skin. Now, do you know the territory east of here?”

“Not very well.”

“Okay. As I said, the main post is at Grainger. Every three months, a shipment of bullion and currency is sent south, to Fort Harding. The two places are a hundred and sixty miles apart. Around a hundred miles from Grainger, there’s a little place called Stewart’s Landing. The point is, the shipment is taken south by a steamboat, which calls at this place to take on firewood. We’re not talking of one of your ‘River Queens’. This is just an old tub that carries cargo only. The army reckons it’s an easy way to get the stuff transported because it doesn’t attract attention, especially not the way they do it.”

“What way’s that?”

“Simple. The shipment’s always in metal containers, sealed up tight and labelled ‘Highly poisonous. Do not open’. What could be more effective? Any thief would avoid that stuff like the plague and the boat’s captain really thinks he’s carrying toxic material. He’s been assured that as long as he doesn’t tamper with it, there’s no danger to him or his crew – that’s an engineer and two other men – and he gets a big bonus for the job. They’ve been doing it that way for eighteen months.”

Turnbull nodded. “I see. Don’t they have some sort of security?”

“They do, but it’s a joke. For one thing, I already said that no sane man would take containers full of unidentified poison and for another, the boat halts only at Stewart’s Landing, and then for just two hours. There’s an escort of one officer and one trooper and as soon as they stop, the trooper goes ashore to get a drink or two and the captain and his three men follow him shortly afterwards, leaving only the officer on board.”

“Seems to me they’re taking quite a risk,” said Turnbull. “What’s to prevent these two soldiers running off with the containers?”

“Simple again,” Steve answered. “They’re not regular Grainger men. They get detached from another unit. Like the captain, they think they’re escorting a dangerous shipment. And they get a bonus, too. In that respect, the system’s foolproof.”

“So what’s your idea?” Turnbull seemed intrigued.

“Well, this consignment is always a big one. It has to pay the wages, allow for buying provisions, construction work and everything the fort needs. The next one will be especially big, to cover payment to a civil engineering firm that has a bridge-building contract. My man tells me the total’s usually close to fifty thousand dollars. This time it’ll be around fifteen thousand more. All we have to do is watch from a distance – there’s enough cover – till the trooper and crew leave the boat, then we go aboard, see to the officer, take the containers and run. If anybody gets in the way, too bad for them.”

Turnbull scratched his jaw. “Hmn. Don’t they have any law in this Stewart’s Landing?”

There’s no more than a score of buildings there in all. They have an old coot who serves as part-time marshal, but he wouldn’t know what to do with a real crime if it came up and introduced itself.”

Turnbull took a sip of brandy and tapped ash from his cigar. “Supposing I were interested,” he said. “How were you figuring on splitting the take?”

“Doesn’t bother me much. All depends on how many boys you use. I’m mainly interested in getting back at the army. You’ve no idea how I hate that bunch and this is the one chance I’ll ever have.”

Steve’s last words were spoken with an intensity that impressed Turnbull. He was silent for half a minute, then: “You really detest the army that much, do you? Okay, Steve. As it happens, your timing’s pretty good. Two of my boys quit last month, so I’m down to myself and six more. We usually cut it so I get a third and the others share the rest equally. Seems we have about the right number.”

Steve nodded, letting the figures flick through his mind before he answered. “I need to look after my contact. He’ll settle for five thousand, just to get out of trouble. I figure on fifteen thousand for myself, so if we get the full sixty-five that leaves forty-five for you and your boys. If we’re short, I’ll stand the difference, as far as I can. That suit you?”

“I’ve heard worse propositions. Now, you’ve covered the how. What about the when?”

“Well, naturally we’ve no choice there. The boat ties up at Stewart’s Landing at three in the afternoon, two weeks from Friday. The way I see it, we get to the railroad halt south of here, travel east by train as far as possible, then ride the last forty miles. If we start out on the Tuesday morning, we can take the horses with us, catch the evening train and time it about right. I guess it’s up to you now. ’Course, you’d have to square it with your crew. I’ve been a little rough on two of them.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Turnbull replied. “I’ll talk to them.” He stood and went to the door. “Pete, step in a moment, please,” he called. The big foreman walked in and Turnbull waved a hand at his visitor. “This is Steve Dunne, Pete. I’m in partnership with him on a job. We’ll all be involved. It’s the last one for our little group and we’ll do well out of it. I want you to treat him as one of the boys, except he’ll be staying in the house with me. We have some planning to do. Okay?”

“I guess so,” said Hanratty, his tone suggesting that he regretted the lost opportunity to rough-up the newcomer.

For a week, Steve loafed around, while Turnbull and his men performed their minimal chores on the sham cattle spread. Then, early one morning, Steve announced to Turnbull his intention to ride over to the little rail-side settlement, check the layout and get himself a haircut and a bath. Turnbull looked suspicious. “I don’t like people leaving the place when we have a job planned, Steve,” he said. “I guess maybe you’re different, what with us being partners and all, so I’ll make an exception. But I’m sending Mort Simpson along with you. The two of you can keep an eye on one another.”

“Okay by me,” Steve said.

It was midday when Steve and his unwanted companion reached the tiny railroad community. Simpson suggested a few drinks and Steve agreed to join him after taking a bath. They separated, Steve heading for the barbershop, where ordered a bath, then got himself a haircut and shave. While the water was heating, he went to the telegraph office, despatching a wire.

Simpson, under strict orders, was watching through the saloon window. On seeing Steve re-enter the barbershop, he scuttled over to the telegraph office. With a show of agitation, he introduced himself as Steve’s boss and asked to see the message just sent, saying it was incomplete. He was prepared to back up the demand with his gun, but the operator surprised him by grinning and showing him the paper. Simpson pored over it, scratching his head, then borrowed a pencil and copied it, finally declaring that it seemed to be in order, but that he needed to check a point with his subordinate.

Steve and his companion arrived back at Hell’s Elbow well after dark. Simpson spent five minutes alone with Turnbull, then went to join his cronies in the bunkhouse. Turnbull ate with Steve, then the two settled down to enjoy the now customary cigars and conversation. Suddenly, Turnbull produced a scrap of paper, tossing it to Steve. “How about explaining this?” he said mildly.

Steve looked at Simpson’s copy of his telegraph message. Below the addressee, he read:

Timing will be vital. I plan to send for you at six in the evening.
Men will have dispersed Friday. See you Monday morning at the
agreed place. Bring spare horse as nothing better yet arranged.

Steve sighed. “I don’t see where any explanation is called for,” he said. “This man is my contact. I have a commitment to him and I aim to honour it. He’s making me fifteen thousand dollars richer, so I don’t intend to swindle him. What’s the matter, Claude? Didn’t you ever hear of honour among thieves?”

Turnbull laughed long and loud. “Damn it, Steve,” he said, “I really begin to believe you qualify as a straight crook.”

Steve laughed too. “Look at it this way, Claude. The rest of the world has rejected us. Least we can do is stick together. If we don’t have that, what do we have?”

“Right enough.” Turnbull replied. “You know, Steve, it’s a pity we didn’t meet earlier. We might have done good things. Now it’s too late. I promise you, this is my final job.”

The eight-strong party, comprising Steve, Turnbull and the six other gang members left Hell’s Elbow as arranged and completed an uneventful journey to Stewart’s Landing, positioning themselves in tree cover, four hundred yards from the mooring spot an hour before the scheduled arrival of the riverboat.

Punctually, just before three, the shabby-looking craft came into sight, slowed and stopped at the end of the jetty. Turnbull watched through field glasses as a grey-bearded veteran wearing a captain’s cap walked ashore. A minute later, three other men appeared on deck. They rolled six barrels along to the bank, lining them up five yards from the water’s edge. That done, they made for the township’s only saloon. Two more minutes passed, then a man in trooper’s uniform left the boat, following the civilians.

Turnbull lowered the glasses. “Just like you said, Steve,” he smiled. “We’ll move up to those other trees, nice and quiet, and be in and out before they know it.” Steve grinned. “Pretty useful, all this greenery,” he said. Okay, let’s go.”

Covering the last hundred yards on foot, the group, Steve leading, reached the jetty and walked along the gangplank to the deck. The only other person in sight was an elderly fellow who had been lounging around the water’s edge and was now staring at the unloaded barrels. Steve whispered to Turnbull: “If you’ll just give me a second, I’ll get rid of the old gent.” Without waiting for assent, he trotted ashore and muttered something to the loafer, who wandered off. But Steve didn’t go back aboard. Instead, he moved behind the barrels, then turned to face the boat. “Okay, Claude,” he shouted. “The game’s up.”

“What… what the hell is this?” Turnbull bellowed.

“It’s the end of the road for you, Claude,” Steve replied. “I’ve got you fair and square. The whole gang. All in one place and no way out.”

For a moment Turnbull was silent, then he mumbled something to Pete Hanratty and turned back to Steve. “So, you’re a damned traitor after all,” he bawled. “But as to having us trapped, it seems to me you’re wrong. We have a stand-off here.”

“No we don’t,” Steve answered. “Let me explain. You can’t move the boat anywhere – the engineer disabled it. You can’t drift downriver. There’s a boom two hundred yards ahead. You can’t fight your way off this side because there are four guns on you, and if you try to get over the river, I have men posted on the far bank, with orders to shoot on sight. And don’t bother looking for the officer below – there never was one. It was all arranged, even down to the old man I just sent away. You’re caught all right.”

“How do I know you’ve men on the other side?” Turnbull shouted.

For answer, Steve fired two shots into the air. Immediately, two answering reports rang out from the far bank. “That ought to convince you,” Steve said. “Maybe you should have examined that wire I sent off last week, Claude. Still got it?”

“I have it.” Turnbull pulled the message from an inside pocket. “What about it?”

“Try reading every fourth word.”

Taking a pencil from his pocket, Turnbull underscored the relevant words. He read:

Vital send six men Friday morning. Place as arranged.

After a muttered conversation with his men, the gang leader came back to the handrail. “What if we stay here and fight?” he yelled.

“Just this,” Steve replied. Fumbling in a box to his left, he pulled out a stick of dynamite, on a short fuse. Lighting it, he held it above the barrels. “I don’t aim to dicker with you all day, Claude,” he snapped. “Either you come ashore, Indian file, with your hands up, right now, or this comes your way and we’ll save the judge and jury part.”

The panic-stricken gang, now clustered around Turnbull, didn’t wait for his lead but hurried ashore. Seeing the hopelessness of his position, their chief followed. As Steve extinguished the fuse and dropped the dynamite, four men, rifles covering the outlaws, moved out from the nearby buildings. The gang boss, hands still aloft, peered at his captor. “Just tell me,” he said. “Why did you go to all this trouble when you could have brought your men to my spread?”

“Well,” said Steve. “If I’d done that, there would have been a shootout. People would have been killed. This way, I got you where you couldn’t fight, run or hide. All sewn up without gunplay. I think it was pretty tidy.”

Turnbull shook his head. “Well, I have to give you best. I tried one job too many. Now, I asked you once before and I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”

Steve laughed. “You know who I am, Claude. The name’s Steve Dunne. Let me spell it for you. It goes: P-I-N-K-E-R-T-O-N.”

“Damn it!” Despite his position, Turnbull managed a rueful smile. “A Pinkerton man. I should have known. I guess that discharge paper and the wanted dodgers you showed me were fakes, eh?” Steve nodded.

“Now tell me,” Turnbull went on, “how come you were so sure I’d fall for this?”

“I wasn’t,” Steve replied. “We’re both in the risk business, Claude. I took a chance. I guess you could say I’m a riverboat gambler.”

If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know
that a further Sunset Story will be posted soon.

I found Brewer's line "try not to be offensive" to be a little jarring considering he was on his way to hire some wildcard gunman. It felt like Brewer would be beyond that point, with the plan he was resorting to.

Dear Jamie,

Thank you for your comment. Brewer did not want matters to come to a head before he was ready, so wished to avoid his teller causing unnecessary trouble. That was why he wanted him to remain composed and not cause problems at the wrong time.

Best wishes - CJ

NOON TRAIN

Jack Wade was happy, or at least as happy as a man of his temperament and way of life could expect to be. He was a morose, withdrawn character, sardonic in his attitude to everything and everyone, including himself and his affairs. As to occupation, he was a criminal. Now approaching forty years of age, he had not done a lick of conventional work for over two decades. His only job had been as a helper in a general store, from which position he had been fired when his employer could no longer tolerate his incompetence and pilfering.

Even at barely eighteen, Jack Wade’s personality had been firmly set. He didn’t philosophise. His response to adversity was, as it ever afterwards would be, invariably swift and frequently violent. During the night following his dismissal, he broke into his ex-employer’s store, emptied the tin cashbox, filled a sack with provisions from the shelves and rode off.

Young Jack soon fell into like-minded company and from then on his course never wavered. In the ensuing twenty-two years, he had chalked up an impressive list of felonies, including just about every kind of robbery imaginable, plus the odd killing. Sometimes he worked alone, sometimes with one gang or another. Once, during flight, he had taken a bullet in the left shoulder, but he had never been caught.

Had he been more careful with the proceeds of his activities, Wade would have been comfortably placed. But his attitude to his gains was cavalier and any booty he acquired soon found its way across one or other of a hundred gaming tables. Only when he had worked his way through most of his roll did he consider a fresh enterprise to replenish it, confident that the cornucopia of other people’s money would provide. This was his mission now, as he headed northwards through Colorado.

Wade had been surprised and flattered to receive the summons that had brought him from his usual haunts in the Southwest. Surprised because the call had come from a man not known to him, flattered because his talents were considered appropriate for the obviously big job in prospect. The approach had been made in the form of a letter, brought by a rider who’d claimed to be an employee of the sender.

In the ten days since he had received the note, Wade had read it at least a dozen times, seeking some nuance that might initially have eluded him. He could not find one. Adjusting his long thin leathery body in the saddle, he lit a cigarette and pulled the now grubby single sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. Checking it over yet again, he read:

Dear Mr. Wade,
Please excuse this unsolicited approach from a stranger, but I am hopeful that our relationship will soon become closer. I have heard of your abilities in your line of work and have in mind a project which I think would interest you. At this stage I must be circumspect, but I shall be happy to explain everything if you will kindly accept my invitation to call on me here at noon on Thursday, the twenty-fourth of this month.

Should you decide to participate in the operation, your share of the takings would be worth about twenty thousand dollars and I believe the enterprise is likely to have at least a ninety-five per cent chance of success. If, after our meeting, you feel unable to offer your services, I will guarantee your travel expenses both ways, plus a sum of five hundred dollars to compensate you for any inconvenience.

The work requires several men and I am inviting certain others to meet me at the time and place in question. I believe all of these gentlemen are known to you. They are James and Robert Moran, Tom Wilson and Martin Broderick. I am offering the same terms to each of you.

I do hope you will be able to join me and as I see it, the worst that can befall you is a reunion with old comrades and fair compensation for your trouble. I would be grateful if you could wire me your reply to the telegraph office here in Eden Ridge, Colorado.

Assuming your acceptance, I would request that you arrive at the time I have specified and not earlier, as this is a small community and a lengthy stay by five newcomers might attract attention. For this reason, I have taken the liberty of arranging a brief outing, so that we may discuss our business undisturbed. If you call at our one and only saloon, you will find me waiting. I ask you to bring this letter as confirmation of identity.

I look forward to your wire and to your company.

Yours truly,
John Beresford

Wade stuffed the letter back into his pocket. Try as he would, he could find nothing sinister about it. Maybe a little quaint in its formality. Still, it was not unknown in Wade’s circles for a gang to be recruited in a piecemeal way. Perhaps the only odd thing about it was that Beresford had made his approach in writing, which Wade reckoned was indiscreet. Of course, all the letters would be handed back to the sender, who would undoubtedly destroy them. Even if he didn’t, there would be no conclusive proof that he had originated them.

There had never been any question about Wade’s acceptance – he had wired it at once. With regard to funds, he was far from desperate, but an unexpected source of income was not to be scorned, especially when someone else had done the planning, and anyway, a man could hardly turn down the prospect of twenty thousand dollars without careful consideration.

A thin smile twisted Wade’s lips as he considered the possibility of working with his old cronies again. Though not regularly operating as a gang, these men got together from time to time, if there was a job big enough to require their combined efforts. For a while, until six years ago, they had raised hell in Montana, finally making things too hot for them when they had looted and burned down the luxurious Talbot ranch house near the Big Belt Mountains, shooting dead the owner and his wife. Dick Moore and Clem Hawkins had been in the gang then. Later, Moore had been killed in a saloon gunfight in Wyoming and Hawkins had met his end while trying to rob one stagecoach too many in Texas.

Wade was, by a narrow margin, the oldest of the five men invited by John Beresford. He looked forward to seeing the Moran brothers and Martin Broderick for the first time in over two years, but was less enthusiastic about being reunited with Tom Wilson, who was an unstable, disruptive character. Well, a man had to take the rough with the smooth. Wade had little doubt that Beresford’s summons would flush out the other four. The chance of laying hands on so much money would be too tempting for any of them to ignore.

Wade removed his hat, ran a hand through his long scraggly dark-brown hair, rolled another cigarette and rode on slowly. Eden Ridge was, as far as he could make out, no more than a railroad halt, well south of Denver and now only thirty miles north of his present position. He would camp in the hills overnight and time his arrival for noon on the morrow, as requested.

As Wade had been riding north, so the Moran brothers, Robert and James, had been travelling west by train, intrigued by Beresford’s invitation. Both men were short slim black-haired and in their early thirties. They had been relaxing in St. Louis when they had received the single letter addressed the two of them. Like the one to Jack Wade, it was delivered personally by a man who’d said he was a member of the writer’s staff. It had come at an opportune time for them, as they had been contemplating a return to work, with no clear idea about what to try next.

Like Wade, both Moran brothers were given to gambling and in that activity they were no more successful than was their occasional partner in crime. When engaged in their chosen work, they were cool, competent and dangerous and neither was averse to killing if it became necessary, or even if it didn’t. Robert, the younger by eighteen months had, in separate incidents, shot dead two train guards, who hadn’t been spry enough in doing as they were told. James had once whacked a stagecoach driver on the head so hard that the man had died. None of these things weighed heavily on the conscience of either of the Morans, nor would either shrink from further murdering, if it promised a worthwhile return.

Tom Wilson, travelling south from Wyoming by horse, was already almost at his destination. At twenty-seven, the youngest of Beresford’s invitees, the lanky angular Wilson was also the most undisciplined and headstrong. It was he who had fired the shots that killed both the rancher Talbot and his wife, up in Montana. That had been the beginning of Wilson’s bloodthirsty career and there had since been four further killings on his record. To him, shooting was a first resort and at times his wild ways were too much for even his most hardened accomplices. However, he was usually tolerated as he was a great one for getting things done. Furthermore, if anybody wanted to take issue with him, he was lightning fast and deadly accurate with a gun and scarcely less lethal with a knife. Like many of his kind, Wilson had no illusions about living to a ripe old age and no great desire to do so.

Last of the five was Martin Broderick. He also had the shortest journey, as he was in Denver when he received his letter. He would travel south by train on the day of the meeting. Broderick, sandy-haired, of medium height and heavy build, was by far the most sober of the five men converging on Eden Ridge. At thirty-eight, he was just over a year younger than Jack Wade.

Brought up on the eastern seaboard, Broderick had been nearing thirty when he moved west, seeking whatever was on offer. It hadn’t taken him long to find the company of Wade and the other gang members. He had always been careful with his booty. Apart from the necessary risks taken during his crimes, he never gambled, didn’t smoke and drank little. His associates often wondered what made him tick, but if he knew himself, he showed no inclination to enlighten anyone else.

Of the five, Broderick was the only one who had never killed, though he had stood by during the infamous incident at the Talbot ranch. Young Wilson had once taunted Broderick about his aversion to bloodshed, only to receive a vicious backhander which spreadeagled him on the ground. Clawing for his gun, Wilson had found himself staring down the rock steady barrel of Broderick’s forty-five. He had never again tried conclusions with the stocky Easterner.

Though he had accepted Beresford’s invitation as readily as had the other four, Broderick’s interest at this stage was hardly more than academic. He was well placed financially and would try this job only if he could satisfy himself that the chance of success could be raised to virtually a hundred per cent.

The morning of the twenty-fourth was bright, clear and cool. Punctually at noon, the five desperadoes gathered in the saloon at Eden Ridge. There were no other customers. After serving drinks paid for by the host, the bartender disappeared. Beresford allowed his guests a brief period to exchange pleasantries then, at ten minutes past the hour, he emerged from an upstairs room and descended the bare wooden stairs. The five men saw before them a young fair-haired fellow of middling height and chunky build, well dressed, carefully groomed and smoking a large cigar. He advanced on the party, smiling broadly.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “Glad you could all make it. I made sure that we wouldn’t have company. Now, I hope you won’t mind my hurrying things along a little. The fact is, I’ve arranged for us to take a short railroad journey – just a couple of hours. I hired the train specially for us, so we can talk privately.” Beresford spoke quickly and crisply, moving among the five men as he did so, shaking hands with each of them. He also recovered the letters he had sent them. Apparently satisfied as to the identities his visitors, he tossed the four sheets of paper into the pot-bellied stove and watched them burn away. “There,” he said. “That disposes of anything connecting us. Shall we go?”

Everyone but Wilson seemed to appreciate the host’s brisk, businesslike approach. Perhaps because of his relative youth and his fearsome reputation, the sharp-faced gun wizard had to be different. “Not so fast, mister,” he snapped, bellicose as ever. “I ain’t had time to wet my whistle yet, an’ I don’t take kindly to bein’ hustled around.”

Beresford, the soul of urbanity, met the ill-mannered outburst with a grin and the raising of a placatory hand. “No offence intended, Mr Wilson,” he said. “Of course you must satisfy yourselves. However, I can assure you that you’ll be able to imbibe to your hearts’ content on the train. There’s food and drink aplenty on board. The only problem is, the engine has steam up and I have to make sure we’re back here back here at three o’clock because the driver has another commitment then.”

There was a general rumble of approval from the older men. Jack Wade grinned tolerantly at Wilson. “Tom,” he said, “I’ll swear you’re still the most cantankerous gent I ever came across. Mr Beresford here may be a mite eccentric, but he’s paying well enough for it. Let’s just do as he says.”

Wilson hitched his gun belt, shrugged and nodded. That settled, Beresford led the way and the party left the saloon, ambling along the single street to the train.

Behind the locomotive and tender, there was one carriage and no caboose. Obviously, Beresford believed in doing things in style, for the car was extravagantly fitted out for the brief trip. At the rear end, across the whole width, was a two-foot deep slab of mahogany, supported by a pair of wall-mounted struts and laden with bottles of beer, wine and whiskey. Lengthways down the middle was a narrow table with three chairs on each side, the top covered with a spotless white cloth on which were six place settings and three large, covered tureens. Most of the remaining space was occupied by a pair of three-seater couches, placed so that the six men could sit in two groups of three abreast, facing each other. It was a trifle cramped, but lacked little in opulence.

Beresford, still leading, entered the car by the front-end door, abutting the tender, and made for the drinks table. He helped himself to a whiskey, inviting his guests to pick what they fancied. All of them opted to follow their host’s example. Wade drank first, smacking his lips appreciatively. “Say,” he grinned, “this is good. I guess it set you back plenty.”

Beresford laughed. “Just a little,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll find anything better of its kind.”

The older Moran brother looked around, lost in admiration of the lavishness. “Well, mister,” he said. “I reckon you must have some connections to put on a show like this.”

Beresford nodded. “It just so happens I know the president of this railroad,” he said. “This is his personal car, but he’s happy enough to make a dollar hiring it out when he isn’t using it.”

The hot-tempered Wilson turned on Beresford. “Hey,” he shouted. “The windows are all fastened on this side.”

“They have to be,” Beresford answered. “Company regulations. Just a few miles up the track we pass around the mountains. There’s a sheer drop on one side and a steep rock face on the other, which nearly touches the windows, so if you tried to lean out you’d hit the rock and could get killed. It happened once.”

Wilson grunted. “Seems to me it would’ve been better to fasten the windows on the other side,” he said.

Beresford chortled. “I think not. You’ll only take one look at that drop and there’s no way you’d want to take any chances there.” Placated again, Wilson turned his attention back to his drink.

At Beresford’s suggestion, each man took a glass and a bottle of the whiskey and the party shuffled along past the dining table to occupy the couches, the Moran brothers bracketing their host and facing Wade, Wilson and Broderick.

As the train moved off, Beresford cleared his throat, commanding attention. “Now gentlemen,” he said, “we have around two and a half hours to discuss my proposition. I’ve asked you here because I know you’re all eminent in your line of work and the scheme I have in mind will need six men, including me.”

The impetuous Wilson interrupted. “How come you just happened on us?” he said, his aggressiveness only slightly blunted by the show of hospitality.

Beresford laughed. “Oh, I didn’t just happen upon you,” he replied. “In fact I think I did my research work pretty well. You see, I’ve never been involved with anything like this before, so I had to make a lot of discreet enquiries. I started out with quite a list of names, but for one reason or another, I eliminated a dozen or more before I approached you. The decisive factor was the consideration that, apart from your individual reputations being at least as impressive as the others, you’ve all worked together before. I consider that critical.”

Wade broke in. “This must be some job you’ve got planned,” he said. “You’re offering us twenty thousand dollars each, so I guess you expect a bigger cut for yourself.”

Beresford nodded. “Yes indeed. Since I had the idea and had to work out the details, I think that’s fair. My suggestion is that I take half and you share the rest among you – I’ve assumed equally, as you’ll all be doing similar work and taking the same chances. I expect the proceeds to be just over two hundred thousand dollars, which means the twenty thousand each for you that I’ve already mentioned.”

The younger Moran goggled. “Mister, you must be planning to empty the Denver Mint.”

Beresford laughed again. “Well,” he said, “the Mint comes into it in a way.”

“Whoa, just a minute,” Broderick exclaimed. “If you’re planning to rob that place, I guess you can count me out. I’ve no taste for suicide.”

Beresford raised the calming hand again. “No need for excitement, gentlemen. Hear me out, then decide.”

“That’s what we came for,” said Wade.

Beresford picked up a flat leather case from the floor, extracting a large brown envelope. “It’s all in here,” he said. “Now, I’ll just outline the scheme, then, if you’re all interested, we can go through the details after we’ve eaten.”

“Just one point first,” said Broderick quietly. “You mentioned ninety-five per cent chance of success. Why not a hundred per cent?”

Beresford pushed a hand through his hair, as though puzzled by the question, then shrugged. “Well,” he said, “I guess nothing in this world is a hundred per cent certain. Why, if you want to push it to the limit, I suppose there’s no guarantee that we’ll survive this little outing.” He gave a short, barking laugh before continuing: “No gentlemen, I can’t be absolutely certain that it couldn’t go wrong, but I truly believe that the chances of success are at least as high as I put them. Anyway, you’ll soon judge for yourselves.”

“That’s right boys,” said Wade. “Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

Everyone relaxed and Beresford went on: “It’s really fairly simple. The fact is that I’ve a good head for business and over the past few years, I’ve made a fair amount of money legitimately. Now, I could go on doing that and end up wealthy – in ten or twenty years. However, one advantage I get is having a lot of connections and it was through one of them that I came up with this idea. If it works out as I’ve planned it, the operation will just save me a long spell of hard work and I don’t know of a man who wouldn’t like to do the same.”

Satisfied that he had his audience gripped, Beresford took a swig of whiskey, settled himself back and continued: “It’s like this. A friend of mine who’s in a strategically useful position was celebrating a deal with me a little while ago. He got drunk and let it slip that the consignment of merchandise I have in mind is coming through Denver next week, on its way to San Francisco. Fortunately, my acquaintance was so far gone that night that by the following day, he couldn’t remember a thing that passed between us. Anyway, I learned that the Mint has agreed, as a favour to the transportation people, to hold the consignment overnight, then it leaves the next evening, under heavy guard.”

“Well,” said the older Moran, “ that doesn’t sound too promising.”

Beresford lifted a forefinger. “Ah,” he replied. “On the face of it, no. But I also learned that nobody wants any public display, especially around the railroad station, where there are bound to be the usual loungers. It’s been decided that the trains carrying the goods are to make special stops just outside Denver, both coming and going, so that the transfer can be made without any unwelcome attention. Now, on the way in we have no chance, but as to the way out, I know where the stop will be made, when the stuff will leave the Mint and what route the guards will take. There’s just one weak point along the way and I’m as sure as I can be that we could walk off with the jackpot.”

“Wait a minute.” This was the older Moran again. “Two hundred thousand dollars in gold may take little transporting. You got that worked out too?”

“Gold?” Beresford replied. “Oh, no. I didn’t say anything about gold. I’m speaking of diamonds, gentlemen, and I hardly need to say that weight for weight they’re far more valuable than gold. There’ll be no trouble in moving them.”

While Beresford was speaking, the train began to lose speed as it approached the steepest, most tortuous part of the journey, where the track began to wind around the formidable mountain wall. As it was leaving the last section of open country, Wilson suddenly sat up straight and stared out of the window. “That’s queer,” he said.

“What is?” asked Beresford.

“Out there. A horse, all alone. Saddled, bedroll an’ all, an’ no rider in sight.”

“Well, he’ll be around somewhere, I imagine,” said Beresford, then he returned to the business in hand. “Right, gentlemen,” he said with a broad smile. “If you’ll humour me by taking your places at the table, you’ll find that those tureens contain potatoes and a good spread of vegetables. I’ll just go see the fireman and get our steaks. You’ll probably be surprised at what a good engine crew can do with a nice piece of beef and all that heat.” He rose and made for the forward door as his guests sorted out where they were going to sit.

The train was taking a curve now, revealing the precarious stretch that Beresford had spoken of earlier. Now it was clear why the windows on the left were fastened. The sheer rock wall was only inches from the side of the car and any attempt to lean out could have had serious consequences. On the right was a vertiginous drop. Wade was peering out on that side. “Quite a sight,” he said. “Must be close to a thousand feet.”

“It’s six hundred,” said Beresford promptly. “This is the last spot where a man can get off and back on again, if he’s quick enough. Up ahead, there’s barely even room to walk alongside the train. Anyway, I’ll be back in a minute.” He jumped down to the track and, to his guests’ surprise, began to trot back towards the last bend.

“What’s he doing?” asked the younger Moran. “The engine’s up the other way.” A flutter of consternation ran through the five men, then Beresford came padding back, outpacing the train, which was now labouring along at walking speed. He waved to the outlaws and moved on ahead to the locomotive. As he did so, there was a loud explosion.

Broderick lowered a window, poking his head out almost over the dizzy precipice. “What was that?” he yelled.

Beresford looked back, waving his arms. “Engineers down in the valley,” he shouted. “They use a lot of dynamite.”

The five desperadoes returned to their seats. Impatient as always, Wilson took the lid from one of the tureens, revealing a heap of whole boiled potatoes. He speared one with a fork and began munching. Broderick shook his head at the breach of etiquette. “Your table manners don’t improve, Tom,” he sighed.

“Manners be damned,” snapped Wilson. “I ain’t eaten yet today.” He jabbed up a second potato, satisfied that he had managed to shock at least one of his partners. By this time, all five men had helped themselves liberally to the whiskey and mellowness was coming to the fore. They began ribbing each other about the jobs they had done together. As they were taking their liquor on empty stomachs, no-one was stone cold sober, the intemperate Wilson being near-enough outright drunk.

The train was now close to the top of its ascent and moving at snail’s pace. Beresford appeared again at the rear of the car. He waved, fiddled with the door handle, then turned to kneel on the platform, where he grunted and strained for a moment, then rose to face the outlaws. Reaching down with his right hand, he produced a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. He used the butt to smash the glazed upper part of the door, then swivelled the weapon, pointing it at the bandits. “Right, gentlemen,” he said grimly, “the party’s over.”

For a moment, through the alcohol fog, none of the desperadoes grasped what was happening, then the younger Moran bawled: “Hey, the engine’s goin’ on without us. What the hell…?”

“Shut up,” snarled Beresford, all traces of the earlier geniality wiped from his face, now a fierce mask. “You don’t have time to talk. You don’t have much time for anything.”

The car, released from the locomotive and tender, had begun to roll backwards. Beresford raked the muzzles of his shotgun back and forth, covering the five men. Not one dared to draw in the face of that menace, for a single blast would have hit all of them.

“Now,” said Beresford, his glance taking in his guests, turned prisoners. “The noise you heard just now was an explosion right enough. I blasted the track back there. In about thirty seconds, you boys are going to take the long drop and there’s no way out. Before you go, you’d better know that my name isn’t John Beresford. It’s Richard Talbot and those people you killed six years ago in Montana were my parents. Now you’ll pay. I guess you don’t do much praying, but if you’ve anything to say, you’d better say it quick.” With that, he directed the shotgun barrels at the ornate ceiling of the car and pulled one of the triggers.

Instinctively the five outlaws dropped to the floor. As they did so, Talbot swung himself backwards off the platform railing and dropped to the ground, overbalancing and landing on his backside. Jumping up instantly, he ran after the car. He was just in time to see it reach the curve where he had, minutes earlier, wrecked the track.

To Talbot, it seemed that time stood still for an instant as the car followed the fractured metals, now hanging over the void. Then the rails bent under the weight and the outlaws’ temporary coffin began its long descent. It caromed off a rock ledge a third of the way down, then completed its last journey in one unbroken plunge, shattering on the valley floor.

Stepping forward to the break in the track, Talbot looked down at the roiling dust. “Yes,” he said to himself, “it’s six hundred feet all right.” Then he tramped off to join the waiting horse that Wilson had noticed earlier.

If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know
that a further Sunset Story will be posted soon.

LAST CONTRACT

It was a fine, bracing spring morning in Arizona, the air still crisp from overnight frost. Hissing, hooting and clanking, the short train came to a halt. The manager bustled out of his office in the weather-beaten wooden station building, calling a greeting to the footplate crew. The guard jumped down from his caboose, hauled out a crate and an assortment of parcels and sacks, then loaded a small pile of items left for him on the platform.

On this occasion no passengers boarded and the only one to alight was a man, five feet ten inches in height and slimly built. In this seedy township, he was turned out well enough to attract attention, if there had been anyone around interested enough to pay it. He wore a thigh-length black coat of top quality, matching pants, white shirt, narrow black tie, low-crowned black hat and lightweight black shoes, well polished – a smart dresser, if a little funereal in appearance.

It was, however, not so much the man’s garb as his face that was arresting. Though he came from the heart of the West, he had nothing of the tanned, weathered look exhibited by so many men who shared his background. His sharp, narrow features were set in the sallow parchment skin of a clean-shaven face. Not the appearance of a man who spent much time outdoors. It was a closed face, the thoughts and feelings that went on behind it veiled from inspection. He didn’t look like a man who would have much need of company, or much taste for it. The glittering black eyes flickered around, missing nothing.

For perhaps a minute, the newcomer stood on the platform, then he picked up his single item of luggage – a large carpet-bag – in his left hand, walked softly along the sun-bleached boards and down the ramp which led to the dusty yard. He set down the bag by the slumping fence of a disused cattle pen. As he bent, the long coat fell open, revealing a gun belt, the open-ended holster carrying a Colt revolver with a long barrel and walnut hand-grips. He straightened up and took a leather cigar case from an inside pocket, extracting and lighting a long black cheroot. Then he looked at the town.

It wasn’t much. Seventy or eighty buildings, he guessed, almost all of them woodframe. Just enough to form two intersecting streets, plus a few nondescript shacks, straggling out into the seemingly endless surrounding space. None of the structures looked any too solid and there was scant evidence of paintwork. That wasn’t important to the new arrival. He didn’t plan to be there long.

The train did some more gasping and snorting, then hauled itself off to another town, further east. The depot manager, apparently exhausted by his minimal burst of effort, dumped his ample backside onto the platform bench with the air of a man who had little to do until the evening train arrived, and was not too sorry about that.

Invigorating though the atmosphere was, it did nothing to encourage activity beyond the station. The town’s somnolence, barely and briefly lifted by the train’s arrival, descended again. The only movement around the drowsing depot was provided by a boy of about ten, who was performing handstands outside the waiting room abutting the manager’s office, his shoes slapping the plank wall like a slow-set metronome. The newcomer watched the display for a while, then called to the boy. “Hey, kid.”

The youngster aborted his latest short run-up and wheeled to face the voice. “Yes, mister?”

“You know Bob Michaelson?”

“Sure do. Everybody knows him. He runs the saloon.”

The stranger nodded. That would be Bob all right. It was the sort of thing he’d be doing. No cowpunching or mining for him. With a thin smile, the man fished a silver coin from his left-hand coat pocket, spinning it through the air, a couple of feet to the boy’s right. A grimy little hand flashed out, fastening onto the precious object.

“Go find him,” said the stranger. His tone was low and flat, cutting through the still air. “See he’s alone. Tell him Eddie Geller’s here. Say I’ll be paying my respects soon. Then come back and let me know you’ve done it. And be sure you don’t tell anybody else. You got that?”

“Okay,” said the boy. “I’ll be right back.”

The move was typical of Eddie Geller. A man should make use of the resources around him efficiently and economically. If you wanted a job done, get a boy to do it and pay him well. He wouldn’t think things over or ponder about the consequences. He would do exactly what was wanted of him.

Geller dismissed the impending business from his mind, quietly enjoying another inch of his cheroot while he waited. That was true to type too. A man did what he had to do, when he had to do it, then switched off and waited. No philosophy, no moralising. Good smokes and quality liquor, both in moderation, a wide spread of reading, especially about financial matters, and a little card-playing. Long periods when nothing happened, then a job would come up and a man had to bustle around for a while. When Geller worked, he was paid handsomely, but never spent much, preferring to tuck most of his earnings away, thinking of the future.

The boy came scampering back. “I done what you said, mister,” he gasped.

“Good. What did he say?”

“He said he understood an’ he’d been expecting somebody. Said he figured it would be you or Newt Bradley. Does that make sense?”

Geller nodded. “Yeah, it makes sense.” His lip curled slightly at the mention of Newt Bradley, a man he considered distinctly inferior to himself in the profession the two shared. “Okay son, you did well. Now keep your mouth shut tight and there could be five dollars more for you in a day or two.”

The boy was overwhelmed. “Mister,” he said, “for that much money I’ll stay dumb till I’m twenty-one.” He turned and expressed his joy by resuming his exercise with such vigour that the dozing depot manager leapt up, threatening to thrash him if he didn’t stop trying to demolish the building.

Eddie Geller hefted his bag and walked slowly along the main, east-west street, then along the shorter intersecting one, his eyes darting jet chips, taking in every detail. His stroll took less than ten minutes, but that was enough, for this was an art form with him. He could have departed right away and drawn as accurate a map of the town as any local resident could have done, without a day-long study. Much of the time, most people see things without really registering them. Geller always did both. That was often useful and occasionally vital in his line of work.

At the western end of the main street, the last place on the right was a two-storey house, set back a little from the from the neighbouring street-side buildings by a garden, somewhat unkempt but bearing the marks of toil. Well, at least somebody had tried and the house looked smarter than most of the others. A sign in the front window offered a room for rent. Apart from the hotel – not a good option, as it would probably mean people around – there was no other place that looked promising. Geller settled for what he was looking at.

The house was owned by a widow, about sixty years of age, grey-haired, and with a weary, careworn look. She explained that she made ends meet by renting out the room, following the loss of her husband, who had been killed in an accident at the silver mine, which had been the basis of the town’s former prosperity. Now the heady days were over. Digging had stopped over a year ago and those who stayed on did the best they could. That tallied with Geller’s information about the place. It was surviving on inexorably depleting capital. Soon it would fold up and die.

Geller wasn’t interested in his prospective landlady’s travails, but listened politely. The woman, her eyes telling the story of defeat better than any words could, made only the most perfunctory enquiries of the welcome, respectable-looking guest. He told her that he was recovering from a lung complaint and that a spell of Arizona air had been recommended to him. It wasn’t a particularly convincing story, but didn’t need to be. The woman offered to supply breakfast along with the room and Geller paid her a week’s rent in advance, though he had no intention of staying so long. One day would probably do, but he reckoned that the extra payment would add substance to his story in a place where tongues might wag, and anyway, to do him justice, he was generous in some ways. He could afford to be.

Having dumped his bag and freshened up, Geller went to the livery stable, adjacent to the railroad depot. He bought a durable-looking horse – one way or another, he would dispose of it later – and arranged that it be kept ready for him. Being an amateur astronomer, he explained, he was fond of riding out at night, under the stars. A much-used but serviceable saddle completed the deal. Geller wasn’t concerned about the cost. Even if he didn’t bother to sell his acquisitions, the investment was trifling in the context of his financial affairs. Satisfied, he returned to his room. He didn’t unpack – there’d be no need for that. He took a bottle of rum from his bag, removed his coat and shoes and lay on the bed. Clasping his hands on the pillow behind his head, he reviewed his position.

For three years now, Eddie Geller had been promising himself retirement at forty. Well, he was now four months short of that, so this would be his last job. It was a fitting finale, for this was the first occasion on which the man who was to receive his attention was known to him. All the others had been simply cases. They were objects rather than people. Bob Michaelson was different, for the two had known one another years earlier. They’d drunk whiskey and played cards together, each knowing the other’s business, each respecting the other. But they had never been friends.

It was because of their earlier acquaintanceship that Geller had taken the unusual step of informing Michaelson of his arrival. That was a special touch to mark the fact that this was Geller’s final bow. He was tired of his way of making a living. He had started out on it almost by accident, shortly before his twenty-sixth birthday. At first there had been a kind of stage-fright before each performance. That was history. Time now to call it a day. Geller had no illusions about growing old in his trade. He reckoned he had already beaten the life-expectancy odds for that kind of work by several years. If he were to continue, he would take on one job too many.

Geller was undoubtedly the top man in his line of work, which explained his displeasure at being bracketed with Newt Bradley as a candidate for this job. In Geller’s opinion, Bradley was a crude operator. Not that Geller’s own methods were always the acme of finesse, but to place him alongside Bradley was insulting.

When Geller’s services were required, the process was usually a delicate one, for nobody in his business did any advertising. The principal would have to find someone who in turn might know someone, who might just be able to get word to the master workman. Naturally, no-one wanted to come right out and say he was a friend of a man like Eddie Geller. Nevertheless, the dark, sinister osmosis began, and after muted talks in smoky barrooms, someone would get word to him. In due course, Geller would act. He did not often take a case through direct negotiation with the originating party.

In his fourteen-year career, Geller had accepted twenty-three jobs. He had never failed. Twenty-three contracts, twenty-seven killings, two being doubles and one a triple. Well, twenty-eight disposals to be precise, as one employer had been foolish enough to argue about paying the balance of the fee, claiming that the job had not been done as agreed. He’d been despatched free of charge. Five times, Geller had refused to act. Twice, the proposed targets had been women. Though Geller disliked and distrusted females, he drew the line at killing them. Whether that was attributable to his peculiar brand of chivalry or because he considered such work beneath him, he never said, but simply refused the jobs. The other three cases he had declined because he didn’t consider the transgressions involved as sufficiently heinous to warrant assassination. Nobody could fairly say that Eddie Geller lacked ethics.

Once the contract had been made, there was no escape for the target, not even through his seeking protection from the law. If necessary, Geller would have gone through ten peace officers in line astern to complete his work. Professional pride dictated that. No, if a man had Eddie Geller after him, there was no sanctuary. Not that the quarry usually knew what was coming. Only three of them had known, but awareness hadn’t helped them.

As Geller’s tally of successes had mounted, so had his charges. At first he had worked for sums he would now consider derisory. But of course, a man had to build a reputation, whether he was a merchant, an engineer, an architect, or a killer. Now Geller was atop the heap. He was expensive, but he was infallible. From the moment he accepted a job, it was as good as done.

This, Geller’s final case, was unusual not only in that he knew the target personally, but in that he had also dealt directly with the principal. Knowing Bob Michaelson as he did, Geller would have believed anything of him. Now in his middle forties, Michaelson, a tall, slim, handsome, fair-haired, genial fellow was an inveterate crook, any kind of swindle coming as naturally to him as breathing. Had he used his talents for legitimate purposes, he could have been a wealthy, respected man. But that was not his way. He enjoyed his reckless lifestyle. More than once, his chicanery had netted him enough to retire on and he had promptly gambled it all away. Then he had tangled with the Shearing Company. That had been a mistake.

Eddie Geller allowed his mind to wander back two weeks, to his sole meeting with Gerald Shearing, eponymous head of a large mining company. Using his considerable resources, Shearing had found out about Geller and sent for him, paying handsomely in advance for the interview alone, irrespective of its outcome. Having no conceivable connection with the businessman and seeing no reason to suspect any deception, Geller had accepted the invitation.

The mining boss was a tough middle-aged man and a self-made tycoon. Without much preamble, he had said that he wanted Michaelson taken care of. He didn’t ask about the usual fees, but mentioned a sum that made even so high-priced an operator as the man facing him raise an eyebrow. Nevertheless, Geller had insisted on knowing what Michaelson had done to deserve a death sentence. Shearing, an autocrat, accustomed to giving short shrift to hirelings, intimated that that was his business. Geller had countered that he had his own code – no explanation, no contract.

Having for once met his match, the captain of industry capitulated. He explained that Michaelson had inveigled his way into the confidence of Gerald Shearing Junior, only child of the great entrepreneur. Young Gerald had run one of the company’s mines in Nevada. Michaelson had tried, unsuccessfully, to bring off a crazy, illegal stunt, which had gone badly wrong. As a side-effect of his inexcusable conduct, there had been complications, during the course of which Shearing junior had been killed. Nothing could be proved in law, but Shearing senior told Geller enough to convince him that Michaelson’s time had come.

Through the mysterious nexus of Geller’s contacts, Michaelson had been located. The links were many and varied and few people refused to do a favour for Eddie Geller. After all, a man never knew what might happen if he declined. Now, here they both were, predator and prey, in this decaying community in the middle of nowhere. There was no local law – Geller had checked that. In fact there was no law of real substance for a good long way in any direction.

Knowing Michaelson as he did, Geller was sure that the man would not try to run. For one thing, he would know that flight was useless. For another, in his perverse way, Michaelson would regard this matter as a challenge. Though no great gunman himself, he was an irrepressible optimist. He would conclude that, even with Geller upon him, he would be able to plead, bribe or trick his way out of the situation. Something would save him. Geller chuckled at the thought. Would it now?

As the afternoon wore on, Geller sipped sparingly at the rum, worked his way through three of the long, thin cheroots and concluded that there was no point in delay. He would deal with the matter at once. That decided, he began to plan how he would spend his retirement. His display of showmanship in revealing his identity did not give him any qualms. It wouldn’t help anybody to know that he had accounted for Michaelson. As soon as the job was done, Eddie Geller would disappear forever. A change of name and location would see to that. Edmund Gale of Philadelphia sounded good. Maybe he would get into the mainstream of life. Perhaps buy himself a small business. It was working out right.

Geller ignored the pangs of hunger for some time, then succumbed, taking a chunk of jerky from a packet of emergency provisions stowed in the carpet bag he had been toting largely for the sake of appearance. He chewed away the food, then waited another hour. By then it was dark and time for action. Taking only a small bundle of personal items, he slipped quietly away from the house.

First, he went to the livery stable, now unattended. He saddled the horse, not wanting to waste time when his business was concluded. Hooking his package over the saddle horn, he left the animal and walked off towards his target. He didn’t need to check the position again, his first brief survey having sufficed. Between the saloon and the adjacent general store was a narrow alleyway. As Geller started to enter it, a scruffy mongrel dog rose from the shadows of the sidewalk, sniffing at him. For a moment, he thought that meant trouble, then the animal relapsed into its lethargy, apathetic within the town’s greater apathy.

Geller went to the back of the saloon. At the right-hand end was a small outhouse, its flat roof just below an upstairs sash window, the bottom part of which was half-open. Geller smiled. It was too easy. People didn’t seem to learn. Within seconds he had hauled himself up seven feet and was kneeling by the upstairs window, peering in at a sparsely-furnished room. By the inner wall to his left was a bed, the mattress bare of sheet and blankets. So, seemingly unoccupied. That would do. Pushing the sash fully open, he clambered inside, his intention being to wait here. If anyone disturbed him, that would be too bad for the party concerned. Geller didn’t want to kill a ‘casual’ but a man had to deal with what turned up.

It was a Tuesday and from Geller’s brief glance at the front of the saloon, he judged that business inside was none too brisk. Most likely Michaelson would close early. Even if he didn’t live on the premises, he would be the last to leave – only this night he wouldn’t do that, unless his covert visitor was much mistaken.

Geller opened the door a few inches, hearing subdued conversation from the barroom. He couldn’t emerge further without unacceptable risk. There was nothing to do but settle down and wait, checking the position from time to time.

After a couple of hours, the talk below died down as the few customers drifted away. It was close to eleven o’clock when Geller pushed the door open a little wider, giving himself a view of the room below. There was now only one customer, talking quietly with his host. Twenty minutes later, the man left and Michaelson closed the larger doors behind the batwings, throwing a bar across them – a security precaution, Geller noted, in sharp contrast to the laxity in respect of the rear window he’d used.

This was it. Geller, soft shoes muffling his approach, started down the stairs.

Michaelson was tidying up and had his back to the intruder. “Hello, Eddie,” he said.

Geller realised that he had been spotted in the mirror behind the bar. That didn’t matter, as stealth wasn’t necessary at this stage. “Hello, Bob.”

Michaelson turned. “You didn’t waste much time.”.

“I rarely do.”

“It’s been quite a while, Eddie. How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. You?”

“I’m getting by. Like a drink?”

“As long as it’s a fresh bottle.”

“Pick your own.” Michaelson waved an arm at the selection.

Geller, his still-holstered gun indicating supreme confidence, walked over to the bar. Not satisfied with what was on immediate offer, he went to the backbar shelves, selecting a full, stoppered bottle of whiskey. “Join me?” he asked.

“Might as well,” replied Michaelson, who seemed, despite obvious knowledge of his desperate situation, quite calm. Or maybe, Geller reasoned, it was just fatalism.

The two stood together at the bar. Geller, aware of Michaelson’s deviousness, kept his coat open and clear of his gun butt. Michaelson opened the bottle, picked two large glasses and poured king-sized measures. “I suppose there’s no point in a toast to good health?” he said laconically.

“I reckon not,” Geller answered.

Michaelson downed his drink in one swift gulp and treated himself to another, half of which he also despatched quickly. He was staring into Geller’s eyes as he put down his glass. Rapping it awkwardly on the edge of the bar, he lost control and let it fall, the liquid dribbling across floorboards and sawdust. “Damn,” he said. “Guess I’ve had one too many.” He dropped to one knee to retrieve the glass, stumbling as he did so and feeling for the bar with his left hand. He missed, clawing instead at Geller’s right leg, just below the gun.

Geller stepped back quickly, dropping his right hand to the weapon and whipping round his open left to give Michaelson a vicious cuff to the right temple. The saloon-owner slumped sideways, his head slamming against the bar. “Don’t try anything else like that, Bob,” snapped the gunman.

Michaelson rubbed his head ruefully as he rose. “I wasn’t trying anything Eddie. Just a little unsteady. I reckon a man has a right to feel that way when you come calling.”

“Maybe,” said Geller. “Anyway, keep your distance.”

“Okay. Listen, I’m not feeling so good. Let’s sit down there. That is, if you can spare the time.” He nodded at the nearest table and they walked over, sitting opposite one another.

“Somebody must have put out a contract on me,” said Michaelson.

“That’s right,” Geller replied.

“I suppose it was old Shearing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that wasn’t one of my better ideas.”

“No. Seeing as you’re about to die for it, I guess you could say so.” Michaelson downed another shot of whiskey. “Maybe if I put back a little more rotgut, it won’t come so hard,” he said. “I don’t imagine I can buy my way out of this one?”

“You know better than that, Bob,” Geller answered quietly. “No feelings involved here. It’s just business. I figured you wouldn’t try to run.”

Michaelson shrugged. “I reckon I’m a philosophical man, Eddie,” he said. “I’m near forty-six years old and I’ve used myself up pretty freely. Way I see it, even if I go on, it’s downhill all the way now. Who wants to live another twenty or thirty years, getting older and weaker?”

“You have a point there,” Geller answered. “Anyway, what were you doing before you came here?”

Michaelson laughed. “You know me. Anything for a dollar. I pulled off a few jobs. Some of them were pretty good, too. I made a lot of money. Lost it again. Meantime I filled in any way I could. You might not believe this, but I spent two years working as a magician in a travelling show up north. Got damned good at it too. You’d be amazed what I can do with a pack of cards, a hat and a few other oddments.”

Geller permitted himself a dry grin. “Yes, well, you always were a tricky man, Bob. It’s a pity we’ve got to this. We might have been friends if things had worked out some other way.”

“I guess that’s life,” said Michaelson, shrugging again and downing another whiskey. “How do you aim to play it, Eddie?”

“I figure just one, Bob. A head shot, Whenever it suits you.”

“Might as well get on with it then. With this much firewater inside me, I’ll probably not notice.”

Geller hauled out his gun. At this range, he didn’t need to prepare himself. “See you in Hell, Bob,” he said, levelling the Colt and firing in one smooth flow. The sound of the explosion racketed around the barroom.

The shot didn’t kill Geller, but it didn’t do him any good. As the smoke wreathed up, the mangled gun fell from his twisted right hand, banging loudly on the floor. He sat back in his chair, mouth agape in astonishment, staring at the grinning saloonkeeper.

“I believe you’re slipping a little, Eddie,” said Michaelson. “I just told you I used to be a conjurer. See, your weakness was that open-ended holster. Amazing what happens when you push a little metal wedge into a gun barrel, especially if you know how to do it. Back at the bar there, remember? I had two other ideas in mind in case that failed, but I’ll not need them now. Anyway, like you say, Eddie, see you in Hell.” Michaelson chuckled as he pulled a Derringer from a clip inside his right boot and shot Geller neatly in the forehead.

If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know
that a further Sunset Story will be posted soon.

FLIMFLAM

That Jack Gilling and Clay Mellowes should meet was not inevitable, but seemed more than likely. Both men were in the same small part of the world at the same time and were, albeit in the broadest sense, in the same line of business. So many ‘sames’ suggested that they might well come across one another.

The exact nature of the confrontation involved several kinds of irony. It took place in the Rosewood Basin of New Mexico at a critical moment in the history of that region. The area was a tinderbox. Cattlemen and sheepherders had been embroiled for some time in a steadily intensifying dispute which had just about come to a head as Jack Gilling and Clay Mellowes converged on the town of Rosewood. Neither man was aware that this was the focal point of the impending clash.

Though Gilling and Mellowes were involved in gunplay, they were in distinctly different branches of it. Jack Gilling always operated with his partner, Luke Marsh and the two had evolved a remarkable way of making a living. It wasn’t exactly a steady occupation and was never likely to be a long-term one but it had already lasted well over a year when the two men arrived in Rosewood.

Gilling was passably handy with a six-shooter, though nothing like good enough to be a real gunfighter. He could draw fairly quickly but was a poor marksman. Had he ever been obliged to try conclusions with a genuine professional, he would not have had a chance. However, so far he had avoided any such inconvenience. Not that he was greatly troubled by the prospect, for apart from his total aversion to working for a living, his most pronounced quality was recklessness. He simply didn’t care what happened to him. Furthermore, he had complete confidence in his ability to brazen or wriggle his way out of any difficulty.

So far, Gilling and Marsh had done business in eleven towns, and had fared well in ten of them. The failure was the one in which the local lawman had been an exceptionally tough and very irritable fellow. Without waiting to find out what the two adventurers were up to, he had assumed the worst and sent them on their way.

The system was simple. Gilling and Marsh sought out communities which were big enough to give them what they wanted, but too small to offer them much resistance. First, Marsh would survey the target, returning to report his findings. If the outlook was promising, he would ride in the following day, ahead of his friend, enter a saloon and let it be known that he was fleeing from the dreaded gunslinger Gilling, who had a score to settle with him and would soon hit town. Gilling would allow a reasonable time for Marsh to attract attention, then swagger into the saloon, confront his quarry and call him out. Invariably, Marsh would go for his gun and always Gilling would outdraw him and apparently shoot him, usually in the gunhand. The master marksman would then declare himself satisfied and Marsh would be sent packing.

What with Marsh’s build-up and Gilling’s awesome shooting display, the gunman would usually find the town nicely cowed. He would then presume upon his obvious powers to get whatever he wanted from the local saloons and stores, informing the owners that he would settle with them when it suited him. Rarely did anyone care to argue with him. After a couple of days, and without spending a penny, Gilling would leave the town, loaded with supplies, and rejoin his partner. The play-acting was effective and it enabled the pair to avail themselves of whatever they wanted.

Clay Mellowes was different. For one thing, he was, or at least had been, a gunman of some notoriety, having killed four men in fair shootouts and faced down half a dozen others. However, by the time he arrived in Rosewood, he was a spent force. He knew it, and was aware that his survival depended on not letting anyone else know it. He had almost – but not quite – managed that. So far, his reputation had kept him safe, but he expected to meet his nemesis, sooner or later. He’d already had one close call, having dissuaded a young hothead from taking a chance against him.

The truth was that Mellowes could no longer see properly. For nearly a year, his eyes had been giving trouble. His vision was intermittently blurred, and even when it wasn’t, he often had difficulty in focusing. Now, unless he was having a particularly good day, he couldn’t guarantee to hit a house from its garden gate.

Gilling and Marsh arrived in Rosewood from the South on a blistering July afternoon. As usual, Marsh, a short thin rat-faced man, went in a couple of hours before his partner. There was a sprinkling of cowpunchers and townspeople in the Southern Star, the largest of the three saloons. It didn’t take long for Marsh to move into his routine. He had offended the fearsome Jack Gilling, who was now on his heels. Just time for a whiskey or two to steady the nerves, then he would be on his way. No future for anybody facing Gilling.

With impeccable timing, the gunman strode into the saloon. He was a tall broad man, dwarfing his partner. Immediately, his eyes lighted upon Marsh, who was speaking. The smaller man stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth falling wide open as he saw Gilling. Then he deposited his glass on the bar and wiped his hands nervously on his pants. “H… Hello, Jack,” he mumbled.

The pistolero was not disposed to waste time. He moved over to the bar. The locals, sensing what was about to happen, shuffled away, giving the two men a clear field. Gilling stood, arms akimbo, facing Marsh. “I’ve only one thing to say to you, feller,” he snapped. “Haul iron.”

Marsh was quivering. “Now just … just …w …wait a minute,” he stammered.

Gilling snatched up a glass from the bar. “I’ve waited long enough,” he said. “When this thing hits the floor, you draw or you take what’s coming anyway.” He tossed the glass high. The instant it hit the floor, Marsh made a show of going for his gun. He’d barely cleared leather when Gilling fired his single shot, a blank as always. Marsh cried out, dropping his weapon. He clapped his left hand over the right, neatly bursting the packet of cow’s blood strapped to his lower forearm. “Damn,” he gasped, staring at the red liquid dripping from his fingers to the floor. “You broke my wrist.”

“That’s what I aimed to do,” Gilling replied. “It’s good enough. Now get your gun and hit the trail before I change my mind and kill you.”

Making a show of his pain, Marsh did as he was told, leaving the saloon and riding rapidly out of the town. Gilling holstered his weapon and ordered whiskey.

The bartender, now a bag of nerves, served him. “Mister, I never saw shooting like that before,” he said. “You just blasted the gun right out of his hand. Didn’t mean to kill him.”

Gilling downed his drink. “Leave the bottle,” he growled. “If I’d meant to kill him, he’d be dead. You want to draw and see me prove it again?”

“My God, no. I don’t have a side arm anyway. It’s just the most amazin’ thing I ever saw. Didn’t mean any offence.”

“Well, okay. None taken this time. Just mind your tongue in future.”

“I’ll do that.”

His initial performance over, Gilling settled himself down with three more shots of the raw liquor. People were leaving and entering the saloon and within an hour there wasn’t a soul in the town who didn’t know of the newcomer’s exploit. That was the usual way of it. Soon, Gilling would find the best accommodation available and set about acquiring what he and Marsh would need for the next month or two. Of course, he wouldn’t pay for anything and it was a near-certainty that nobody would press him to do so. That might be unwise.

By mid-afternoon, Gilling was relaxing in the most comfortable room that Rosewood’s sole hotel had to offer. He’d treated himself to a bottle of the establishment’s finest brandy and was toying with the idea of a meal when there was a knock at the door. Sliding out his gun, he called the visitor to enter.

The incomer was a slim fellow of average height, with the dress and bearing of a cowboy. “Evening,” he said. “Name’s Kydd. I’m foreman for Lewis Stockdale. He leads the cattlemen around here.”

“I’m Jack Gilling. What do you want?”

“I’ll get straight to the point. There’s big trouble here between us ranchers and the sheepmen. It’s just about ready to explode. My boss figures that a top gunhand will give us the edge we need. From what you did today, we reckon you could be that man, if you’ll take on the job.”

“Oh, you reckon that, do you? And what do you think it’s worth?”

“A straight thousand dollars. I have it here. Maybe you won’t have to do anything apart from staying around for a week or so. ’Course, if the sheepmen bring anybody in, we’d expect you to earn the money.”

Like most men who lived by their wits, the fake shootist was quick on the uptake. His mind raced as Kydd was speaking. Even before the man had finished, Gilling knew he was going to take the cash. He would work out later what to do. Maybe he would just run off. He’d do so for sure if the sheepmen brought in a serious gunfighter. He made quite a demonstration of considering the matter, getting up from the bed and walking over to stare out of the window, rubbing his jaw. Both men stood in silence for nearly three minutes, then Gilling turned sharply. “All right,” he said. “I normally rate a good deal more than a thousand dollars for a job like this, but as it happens, I’m sympathetic to cowmen and I’ve no time for sheep. Hand over the money and tell Stockdale I’ll look after his interests. Maybe we can bring things to the boil in a week. If not, we’ll think about it again.”

Kydd handed over a wad of bills. “I suppose we can rely on you to stand by us?” he said.

It wasn’t the right remark to pass to a top gunfighter. Gilling gave the foreman a look fit to kill. “Mister,” he said very quietly. “Are you questioning my integrity?”

Kydd held up a protesting hand. “No, not at all. Sorry. I guess I just don’t know how to handle this kind of thing. I never did the like of it before.”

“If you don’t watch your manners, you might never do it again. You can get on your way now. Give it a couple of days, then call again and we’ll talk. I’ll have worked something out by then.”

Kydd left without another word and Gilling began to consider how best to handle his stroke of luck, without involving himself in anything so dangerous as flying lead. There was a good case for hitting the trail without further ado. After all, a thousand dollars was a tidy sum. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t be called upon to act at all, so there might be a chance of getting a haul of supplies, in addition to the money. Two days later, Gilling was still trying to decide on his best course. In the meantime, he had had the run of the town and had not heard anything further from the rancher, Stockdale, who was clearly giving him the time he’d suggested.

It was late in the afternoon of this third day of Gilling’s stay in Rosewood when another visitor came to town, this time from the North. Clay Mellowes was making his way to nowhere in particular and was not in a hurry. This looked as good a place as any to stay for a day or two, so he took his horse to the livery stable then headed for the nearest saloon. This was a smaller place than the one where Gilling had made his entrance, and was the one favoured by the sheepmen for what little drinking they did in town. The owner, Coleman, kept two guest bedrooms, both a good deal less comfortable than anything at the hotel. However, Mellowes didn’t care to search the town for something better, so he decided to stay the night where he was.

He hadn’t been in the saloon more than five minutes when the bartender walked across the room, bent over and muttered something to a man drinking alone at a table. The man nodded, got up and left. Mellowes, whose eyesight was still good enough to note anything so obvious, smiled to himself. He had been recognised. Well, why not? He wasn’t exactly travelling incognito. It would be interesting to see whether his presence would cause a stir. It would.

As with the more dramatic arrival of Gilling and Marsh, the appearance of Mellowes, a renowned gunman, was known to everyone in the town within the hour. People began to drop into the saloon for a quick drink, before leaving to tell others that they had seen the redoubtable Clay Mellowes. The man himself affected not to notice. He just hoped that no young upstart would come along to spoil the day by trying to provoke him.

After drinking his fill of whiskey, Mellowes crossed the street for an evening meal, then returned to the saloon, going straight up to his room. An hour later he was lying on his bed, smoking a cigar, when there was a knock at the door. He drew his gun, inviting the visitor to enter. An extraordinarily tall, lugubrious-looking fellow came in. “Evening,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you Clay Mellowes?”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“Plenty, if you’ve a mind to. My name’s Overton. I’m speaking for the sheepmen here.”

“So?” “Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a storm brewing between us and the cattlemen. No point in giving you all the details. Long and short of it is there’s going to be a hell of a bust-up any day now. We’re just sheepherders, not warmongers. We need a good man with a gun to give us a chance when the ruckus starts. I’m asking if you’ll help us out?”

Mellowes took out his cigar, inspecting it while he stroked his chin. It was close to a minute before he replied. “I’m retired. Maybe, just maybe, I’d consider one more job. If you can afford it, that is.”

“I hope we can,” said Overton. “Truth is we’ve no experience in such matters. We reckon we’d need you for about a week. Maybe you won’t need to … er … work. Your name alone might do the trick. We put together all the money we can spare. Comes to just a thousand dollars. That enough?”

Mellowes stared at the man for another long moment, then said: “My usual rate for a job like this would be two thousand, half before and half after.” Seeing Overton’s face fall, he held up a hand. “All right. I hear you boys have had a pretty raw deal, so I’m willing to make an exception. I’ll do the job for you, but I want the money now. That suit you?”

Overton was clearly uncomfortable, but had little choice. “Fair enough,” he said. “I guess we can rely on you to stick with us, once you have the money.”

“You suggesting I might run out on you?” Mellowes’ tone was suddenly menacing.

“Hell, no,” Overton replied. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“All right. I reckon you didn’t know any better. Just give me the money and allow a day or two for me to figure out how I’ll play it.”

Overton handed over a roll of bills. “Just one thing you ought to know,” he said. “There’s been talk around town that the cattlemen might have hired a man. Don’t know whether it’s true or not, but there’s a stranger in town, name of Gilling. They say he’s handy with a pistol. Mean anything to you?”

“No. He can’t be much of a gunman if I never heard of him. I know them all. Don’t worry about him. You can go now. Let me know where I can contact you and I’ll be in touch.”

After giving directions to his place, Overton departed, leaving Mellowes to reflect on his own show of bravado. In his condition, it would be suicide to go up against even a second-rater. Still, he had collected his thousand dollars. Now he had to decide what to do, short of getting into a battle. Well, he would sleep on it. Something would occur to him. He was still pondering on the matter an hour later, when there was another knock at the door. Grabbing his gun again, he growled: “Yeah. Come in.”

The door opened slowly and an elderly wizened little man, almost bald, entered. “Mr Mellowes, sir?” he asked.

“That’s right. Now what?”

“Well, sir, you don’t know me. I’m the swamper at the Southern Star, at the other end of town.”

“That’s nice. What do you want with me?”

“Well, Mr Mellowes, I was just wonderin’ whether you think information is worth anythin’?”

“Mister, I’m tired. If you have something to say, spit it out. I’ve no time for riddles.”

“Okay, sir. Fact is, I got contacts here an’ there, an’ I keep my mouth shut an’ my eyes an’ ears open, so I get news that others don’t hear about. I know somethin’ about Jack Gilling that could be real valuable to you, if you had a mind to pay for it.”

“What makes you think I’d be interested in this Gilling?”

“Well, it’s goin’ around town that he’s been hired by the cattlemen to take their side in this here dispute that’s goin’ on. Now, a man don’t need to be too clever to put two an’ two together an’ figure out that maybe you’re here to take up with the sheepmen.”

“Never mind that. What’s this about Gilling?”

The swamper rubbed his hands together. “I’m a poor man, Mr Mellowes, sir,” he said. This news is real important. I reckon it’d be worth a hundred dollars to you.”

Mellowes lowered his gun. He wasn’t going to need it. “What’s to stop me from getting a hold of that scrawny neck and wringing it out of you?” he rasped.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll do that. See, I took precautions. Left a couple o’ sealed-up notes around, in case somethin’ unpleasant happens to me. One of ‘em’s with the town marshal. He ain’t too bright, but he can read well enough. If I don’t see him first thing in the mornin’, in good condition, he’ll read what I wrote. Guess I don’t need to say any more. Anyway, like I say, I reckon you’ll find what I can tell you is well worth the money.”

Mellowes dug from his shirt pocket the cash he had received from Overton, peeling off a hundred dollars. “All right,” he said. “You’ll not find me small-minded if your information’s good. What is it?”

“Well, it’s like this. Gilling’s a fraudster. He works with another man. They pick out towns. The partner rides in first an’ puts it around that he’s on the run from a top pistolero. Gilling goes in an hour or two after him and pretends to shoot him up, then takes over the place for a while. Gets everythin’ they want, then they meet up again. Fact is, Gilling’s no gunman. You can take it from me, he’d run a mile before facin’ a real shoot-out. If you’re in with the sheepmen, you just need to call him out an’ you’ll have an easy ride.”

“You sure of this?”

“As sure as sure can be, Mr Mellowes. You can bet your life on it.”

“Maybe I will. Okay, I figure that’s worth a hundred. Here it is. Now get out and keep your mouth shut, or I’ll know who to look up after I’m through with Gilling.”

Ten minutes later, while Mellowes was working out how to proceed in the light of what he had just heard, Jack Gilling was relaxing in his room at the hotel, when there was a knock at his door. He picked up his gun and bade the caller enter. It was the old swamper. “Evenin’ Mr Gilling, sir,” he said.

“Yeah, same to you,” Gilling replied. “Something I can do for you?”

“It’s more a question of somethin’ I can do for you.”

“And what might that be?” “I have some news that would be real interestin’ to you.”

“What is it?”

“Well, see, Mr Gilling. I’m a poor man. Seems to me I deserve to be paid. Could be a matter of life or death to you, so I figure it’s worth a hundred dollars. Do we have a deal?”

Gilling was as nonchalant in money matters as he was about everything else. He grinned at the little man. “What could you know that would be worth a hundred dollars to me?”

“I guess it’s all around town that you’ve taken up with the cattlemen in this trouble that’s goin’ on here an’ I reckon everybody knows that the sheepmen have brought in a gunfighter of their own. Feller by the name of Clay Mellowes. You know him?”

“I know of him. What about it?”

“Well, Mellowes has a room in Coleman’s saloon. I can tell you somethin’ that’ll make sure you have the edge on him. I’d say that’s worth a hundred dollars. Wouldn’t you?”

Gilling didn’t hesitate. He went to the commode, opened the top drawer and pulled out five twenty-dollar bills. Unlike Mellowes, he didn’t consider threatening violence to get the details out of the swamper. “Okay,” he said. “If I believe your story, the money’s yours.”

“Well, sir, it’s like this. I get a deal of information that most folks don’t know about. I got contacts an’ I can tell you that you’ve no need to worry about Mellowes. He can’t see worth a damn.”

“Can’t see? So how come he’s a gunslinger?”

“He was one. That’s over an’ done with. There’s somethin’ wrong with his eyes. I know for a fact that he couldn’t hit you from across the street to save his life. You tangle with him an’ you’re sure to win.”

“That’s a new one on me,” said Gilling, “and I’m taking your word for it. Here’s your money. Now get out of here – and remember, if you’ve steered me wrong, I’ll be calling on you.”

“You won’t need to do that. What I told you is genuine. Good night, sir.”

Half an hour after the swamper left Gilling’s room, Mellowes was preparing for bed when there was a knock at his door. “Come in,” he bawled, snatching up his gun yet again. The door opened, revealing Jack Gilling. Mellowes, now thoroughly irritated, glared at his latest visitor. “What the hell’s wrong with you people?” he snapped. “I paid for a room here. Seems to me I’d get more peace out in the street.”

The intruder held up calming hands. “I’m real sorry to bust in on you like this, but I just figured we might have something to discuss. I’m Jack Gilling.”

“Okay, now we both know who you are. What have we to talk about?”

Gilling had been thinking hard and had decided there was no point in taking chances. Even if Mellowes was a has-been, there was a chance he would get off a lucky shot and Gilling had no intention of getting into a real gunfight with anybody. “Well, Mellowes,” he said, “I know all about your eyes. Never mind how, but I’m sure. Now, I’m a professional, just like you are. It wouldn’t be right for me to take advantage. You can call it courtesy if you want.”

“You’d better sit down,” said Mellowes, indicating a chair, “and you might care to note that you’re not the only one with useful information. I happen to know something about you, too.” Without revealing his source, he told what he knew.

Gilling’s rubbed his jaw, his fertile mind evaluating the position for some time. “Well,” he said finally, “I guess everybody figures by now that we’re likely to have things out between us. I think there’s only one thing to be done, and the sooner the better. Here’s how I see it.”

The following day, at one minute to noon, Jack Gilling stepped out of the hotel into the oven-heat. His horse, prepared for departure, was tethered to the hitch rail. Slowly, he moved to the middle of the street and stood there looking eastwards, right thumb hooked in his gun belt, left hand holding a stone. Seconds later, Clay Mellowes emerged from Coleman’s saloon and took up a position facing Gilling. His horse too, was hitched and trail-ready.

The two men began to pace forwards, narrowing the distance between them to less than thirty feet, then stopped. There was no one else in sight but the word had been passed around and at least fifty people were watching through windows and at half-opened doors.

Gilling tipped back his hat. “So here we are,” he said. “I guess it just had to come out like this.”

Mellowes nodded. “Was likely enough. You picked a nice day to die.”

“We’ll see about that,” Gilling replied, brandishing the stone. “I guess everyone here knows by now that I always give the other fellow his chance, and just so that nobody’ll be able to say that one of us tried to get the drop, I’ll toss this over to the sidewalk. When it lands, the fun starts. Okay?”

“Suits me.”

“Fine. Here we go.” Gilling lobbed the stone, which hit the planking to start a strictly even contest. The two guns were drawn and roared simultaneously. Mellowes’ shot went high and wide and instantly he clapped a hand to his chest, staggered back three steps, then fell face down in the thick dust.

Gilling walked cautiously towards his collapsed adversary. Kneeling, he turned Mellowes over onto his back. The fallen man’s shirt was already soaked with blood. “That’s it, then,” said Gilling to no-one in particular. Some of the more adventurous spectators began to emerge from their concealment, moving tentatively to the scene of the action. Gilling whipped his gun around in a threatening arc. “Keep away, all of you,” he snapped. “He’s dead.”

“You sure?” one man inquired.

“Did you ever hear of a man living after a shot through the heart?” Gilling said, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

“I guess not.”

Showing a degree of respect that amazed the onlookers, Gilling picked up the body, carried it to the horse waiting outside Coleman’s saloon and draped it across the saddle. Then he brought his own horse from the hotel, mounted and led the two animals away, turning to give a last grim look at the gathering crowd. “Okay, you’ve seen the entertainment,” he said. “Mellowes was a top-class gunhand and a fair fighter. I know where he wanted to be buried and I’m taking him there. I don’t want anybody else along.” He put the horses to a slow walk northwards.

Four miles out of town, with none of the local people in sight, Gilling arrived at a clump of trees. Luke Marsh stepped out to meet him. “How’d it go, Jack?” he asked.

Gilling told the story in a few words and just as he finished speaking, a voice came from behind the two men: “Do you aim to stay here all day?”

“Oh, sorry about that,” said Gilling, turning. “You can quit being dead now, Mellowes. You did real well.”

The ‘corpse’ slid from the saddle and did a little foot-stamping to restore circulation. “Good idea of yours, that pack of blood,” said the grinning Mellowes. “Very convincing.”

“Works a treat,” Gilling replied. Fishing in a coat pocket, he pulled out a roll of bills. “Here’s the money. Your nine hundred dollars from the sheepmen that you gave me for safekeeping in case they tried to get it back, plus five hundred of my own for damaging your reputation.”

“Thanks,” said Mellowes. “I was about to change my name anyway, even if we hadn’t run into one another, so you’ve no need to worry about my fame and fortune. The first is more trouble than it’s worth and the second is all here.” He waved a thick wad of currency, to which he added what Gilling had just given him. “Nice doing business with you. Goodbye, Jack.”

“So long, Clay.”

If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know

that a further Sunset Story will be posted soon.

OUTFACED

He was lightning fast. Those who knew about such things rated him the quickest man with a gun the West had ever seen. Most put him well ahead of Ben Thompson, Wes Hardin, John Ringo, Wyatt Earp and other such luminaries. Some averred that, had chronology allowed a match to take place, even the great Wild Bill Hickok would have been far outclassed by this man. It was often claimed that he possessed a quality more akin to sorcery than gunplay.

His name was John Widdup and now, at the age of twenty-seven, he was at the height of his powers. He had killed eleven men in fair, one-to-one encounters. All of his victims had been either known gunfighters or aspirants to that status. Not one of them had come anywhere near beating Widdup. Only two had even managed to get off a shot and in each case it had been hardly more than a post mortem reflex, one bullet piercing a ceiling, the other a floor. Of the remaining nine men, five had been struck down with guns barely clear of their holsters.

Though he had always been fascinated by side-arms and shooting, Widdup had not set out to seek notoriety. However, his story was not an unfamiliar one. After his prowess had been demonstrated, albeit unwillingly and against a rash third-rater, he had become a target. Men just wanted to try him out. They were usually reckless fellows, intent on establishing who was faster, even if the reward for their curiosity was death.

So it became a way of life for John Widdup. No matter where he appeared, some firebrand with more bravado than brain would show up, call him out and pay the price. In the early days, he went to some pains to avoid any looming showdown. Later, recognising inevitability when he saw it, he made no such effort, preferring to push matters to a swift conclusion. Like a certain monarch, he reasoned that, if a thing had to be done, it was best done quickly.

Widdup did not rely solely on the exceptional talent seemingly bestowed upon him by nature. Realising that he was bound to be the object of some attention, he practised daily, always finding some place where he could use his Colt Peacemaker, kept in a silk-smooth holster. His repertoire did not include any fancy tricks, his phenomenal speed and pin-point accuracy being all he needed. There were other men who could shoot fast and straight – some gave public exhibitions of their skill – but few had the special kind of nerve required to stand still and put a bullet into a man who was blasting their way with a similar intention.

Wherever Widdup went, his reputation travelled with him, precluding steady work. He had to find some other way of getting along, so he became an outlaw. Being a man of modest needs and not very materialistic, he didn’t operate on a grand scale. He went to work only when he needed money, which he never hoarded. Sometimes it seemed to be almost an afterthought with him. When his pockets were empty, he had to fill them. His idea was that the fewer jobs he pulled off, the fewer lawmen would hunt him. With rare exceptions, his method succeeded.

To any detached observer, a hostile confrontation between John Widdup and Thaddeus Dorf would have seemed a vanishingly unlikely event, for neither the circles not the circuits of the two men would normally have intersected. They were as different as cheese and chalk and neither was aware of the other’s existence. But fate has a way of arranging these things and the two dissimilar characters were brought together by its machinations.

As to social life, Widdup was decidedly a man of the lower strata. Generally, he avoided pretentious places. Dark, smoky saloons, sawdust-covered floors, scarred deal bars and cheap rooming houses were his preferred surroundings. With regard to territory, he spent nearly all his time in Arizona, New Mexico or Texas, with occasional forays across the border into Sonora or Chihuahua. Only twice in nearly a decade of wandering had he been further north, each time pursued by a single lawman. He had fought off the first and outrun the second.

To all appearances, Thaddeus Dorf was Widdop’s direct opposite. He travelled extensively, always by the most comfortable means available, and patronised only the best hotels and restaurants. Thick carpets, polished hardwood, good food and drink attracted him like magnets. As far as was possible in his part of the world, he moved in the more genteel levels of society. Where there was not sufficient refinement to suit him, he added a touch of class by his own presence, usually managing to induce others to raise their standards, rather than himself descending to theirs. He normally operated in the Northwest and Midwest, seldom reaching further south or west than Cheyenne. On the occasion of his meeting with Widdup, he had left his customary haunts only to cover for an indisposed colleague.

Dorf’s parents had migrated from Austria to the United States shortly after his birth. His father was a medical practitioner, his mother a music teacher. Dorf himself, though extremely intelligent and energetic, had no taste for the protracted study involved in emulating the career of either parent. He decided early in life that he would have to find a way of assuaging his wanderlust, while also making a living.

Having identified the problem, Dorf soon found a neat solution. He contacted a Philadelphia company, prominent in the manufacturing and importing of medical supplies, becoming its representative for the area in which he wished to operate. He was outstandingly successful and soon added more agencies to his portfolio, eventually becoming the conduit for five companies in the medical field.

Dorf was a small man, barely five feet five inches tall and slightly built. He was a fastidious fellow, always immaculately dressed and groomed. Already at thirty-nine, his trim moustache and neat, short, pointed black beard were sprinkled with grey, adding to his general air of distinction. His quick, decisive way of speaking and exceptional command of language gained him respect from almost everyone he met.

It was almost noon on a hot dry July day in the thriving little community of Canford, Colorado. Thaddeus Dorf had arrived the evening before, full of dark thoughts about the likely standard of accommodation awaiting him on his initial visit to the town. This was also his first appearance anywhere in this area, which he had long considered the realm of outer darkness. He was to be pleasantly surprised, for this was a place of growing stature. Mining, timber and cattle interests had combined to make Canford, affluent. This was no here today, gone tomorrow boom town. The buildings were of dressed stone, neatly laid brick or well-finished timber, all constructed with a view to posterity. Most of the people were smartly turned out, clearly enjoying prosperity and seemingly imbued with a fair measure of civic pride.

Most agreeable of all, from Thaddeus Dorf’s point of view, was that the town boasted an excellent hotel, with first-class dining facilities. Although he intended spending only two days in Canford, Dorf was delighted, for his aversion to rough living was profound and he had no intention of trying to overcome it. Owing to his peppery nature, he was not slow to voice his distaste for standards which fell short of his requirements. It was really quite surprising how he had developed the art of getting people to do things for him that they would not do for anyone else.

There was no cause for complaint at the Grand Western Hotel. Dorf had enjoyed a good night’s rest and an early breakfast and had done brisk business in the town. He was now sitting in the hotel barroom, sipping a first-rate whiskey and feeling as mellow as his irascible temperament permitted. He had changed his mind about his midday meal, having first decided to eat in the hotel, then being seduced by enticing smells from an elegant-looking restaurant along the street. He would stroll along there when he had finished his drink.

It was at this point that John Widdup arrived in Canford, having finally shaken off a lawman, after a long chase. In due course, the officer would report his conclusion that the pursuit had used up too much of his time and enough public funds. His decision may have been influenced by growing concern about what might happen if he were ever to catch up with the notorious gunman, for meek submission was not a reaction to expected from Widdup.

As always on entering a town new to him, the desperado approached the place with caution. He set his horse to a slow plod along the main street, his eyes roving everywhere, ticking off the positions of the amenities he was most likely to need and the places he might wish to avoid.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Widdup would have sought out the meanest drinkery in town. That he did not do so on this occasion may have been attributable to his having noted the fact that this wealthy, tidy little community did not have much in the way of rough saloons. Or possibly he was simply too weary to make the effort to find one. Whatever the reason, he moved slowly northwards until he found himself outside the Grand Western Hotel.

He sat his horse for a full minute, taking stock. What he saw was a two-storey brick-built structure. At ground level, the entrance was flanked by two wide windows, divided into foot-square panes. The upper level had six narrower ones in similar style. Between the floors, running along most of the facade, was the name of the place, in large gilt letters.

Widdup nodded to himself. Too high-toned, but it would do for a quick drink before he saw to his horse. He dismounted, hitched the gelding, used his hat to beat dust from his clothes and crossed the sidewalk. Pushing open the pair of half-glazed doors, he entered a ten-foot square hallway, to the right of which was a small reception recess, now unattended. At the inner end were double doors with small glass panes, set from top to bottom in oak frames. Widdup opened the left-hand one, stepping quietly inside. It was a part of his survival equipment to be acutely observant and his eyes flickered around the room, taking in every significant detail.

He found himself in a combined lobby and bar, and noted that the interior of the place was as imposing as the frontage. The entrance hall, being midway along the street wall, created alcoves by the windows of what was overall a thirty-foot deep by twenty-five foot wide room.

The rear wall was taken up by, from left to right as incomers viewed it, a large iron stove, a door to a private room and a mahogany bar, fifteen feet long. The ceiling and all the walls were plastered and painted cream. Halfway along the left-hand wall were two further swing doors, matching those in the hallway and leading to the dining room. Hanging at each side of these doors was a painting. The right hand wall had neither door nor window. It bore two more paintings, between which hung a long-case rosewood clock, which had a pendulum with a large brass disc, swinging its tireless way through time.

Small circular oak tables and chairs were set on the polished pine floorboards around the perimeter of the room, leaving an open central space, most of which was covered by a large carpet with a multi-coloured medallion design in the middle, echoed in whorls at the corners, all on a dark-red background. Behind the bar was a shelf with an impressive array of bottles. Above this was a mirror, six feet wide by three feet high, bracketed by two advertising posters, one proclaiming the virtues of a leading make of whiskey, the other a brand of cigars, described as being fit for a king. This second one featured the head and upper body of a man in royal regalia, smoking one of the company’s products, his head adorned with a five-point crown, each tip set with a representation of a gemstone, half an inch in diameter.

Widdup took in all of this with one sweeping glance before turning his attention to the other occupants of the room. The barman, feigning activity with a towel, was tall, beefy and grey-haired. At a table close to the dining room doors, two middle-aged fellows with appearance of cattlemen sat, talking quietly. In the left alcove, seated alone, was a rotund man in a long black coat and flowered brocade vest. This was Judge Handley, who was not a judge and never would be, but was so called as a mark of respect. The only other person present was Thaddeus Dorf, sitting at a table near the clock.

Widdup was discomfited by these plush surroundings. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering whether he would be better advised to leave at once and seek some place better suited to his tastes. But thirst prevailed and he decided he would have one drink here, tend to his horse, then look elsewhere. He crossed the carpet, ordered a beer and a whiskey and took both glasses to a table between the cattlemen and Judge Handley. As soon as he had served Widdup’s drinks, the barman lifted his hinged access flap and hurried off into the dining area. He was absent for two minutes and looked ill at ease when he returned. A moment later, a man pushed one of the dining room doors half open, glanced at Widdup, turned his head to the barman, nodded, then withdrew quickly.

It was about then that noses began to twitch in the barroom. Judge Handley was the first affected, then the two cattlemen, then the barkeeper and finally, Thaddeus Dorf. Something was disturbing the pleasant atmosphere. It was a smell and it came from John Widdup. At the best of times, the dreaded gunman had never been a devotee of personal hygiene. Now, after a week-long dash over rough country in summer heat, even his none too particular standards had plumbed new depths. It wasn’t easy for one man to create a miasma sufficient to fill a room of that size, but Widdup managed it. He stank a mile high.

For a little while, no one seemed sure what, if anything, to do about this situation. The judge coughed, drummed his fingers on his table top and fidgeted. The barman began to hold his nose, as surreptitiously as a man can do such a thing. Finally, one of the cattlemen broke the silence. “Jesus,” he said, “somebody got a skunk around here, or something?”

The remark produced only an embarrassed silence for a moment, then the barman, looking alarmed, lifted his flap again and walked over to the two ranchers. Bending over their table, he mumbled something. Both men nodded. The barman went back to his post, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil, scribbled something and took it over to Judge Handley, who was sitting about eight feet from Widdup. The judge stared at the note for a moment, then stuffed it into his vest pocket, thanking the barman and dismissing him.

Thaddeus Dorf was becoming annoyed. He had timed his actions with a view to savouring the last of his whiskey, then tucking into a good meal. He did not like anything that interfered with his enjoyment of food, and a bad smell certainly did that. His irritability index was soaring. Any minute now, he intended to give vent to his feelings and there could be only one target.

The cattlemen began to mutter again, but only briefly, then everyone fell silent, leaving the ticking of the clock the only sound as all eyes turned to the noisome Widdup. It took several minutes, but the combined power of five intent stares finally got through to the gunman. He raised his head and looked around. He was not a particularly self-conscious man, but could hardly have failed to note that he was the object of attention. “Somethin’ wrong here?” he asked gruffly.

Judge Handley, as senior man present, felt it incumbent upon him to handle this delicate situation. “Well, young man,” he said, shuffling uneasily, “I don’t mean to be impolite, but now that you mention it, I . . . er . . . well – ”

This was too much for the short-tempered Dorf. “Oh, for goodness sake,” he broke in, looking at Widdup. “It’s you, sir.”

“Me?” said Widdup.

“Yes, you.”

“What about me?”

“Not to mince words,” snapped Dorf, who never minced them anyway, “it’s your odour. There is a noxious emanation coming from you, sir. It detracts from a man’s appetite.”

This was a little above Widdup’s head, for he was anything but erudite. He could not have coped with ‘noxious’, ‘emanation’, or ‘detracts’, even singly. All three coming together left him quite befuddled. All he was aware of was that Dorf’s remarks were derogatory. He therefore went into the state of defensive truculence that some men adopt when confronted with something obviously antagonistic but not quite comprehensible to them. “Just what do you mean, little man?” he grated nastily.

Dorf put down his glass. “I was under the impression that English was the common language here,” he said. “However, if you insist on simplicity, what I mean is that you smell like a billy goat. It’s offensive, sir.”

Apart from the relentless ticking of the clock, there was silence for a long tense moment, then Widdup kicked his chair away behind him, where it cracked against the wall, chipping out a chunk of plaster. Hauling himself to his slim, angular five-eleven, he moved forwards to the middle of the carpet, thumbs in his gun belt, greasy black leather vest open, facing the diminutive Dorf at a distance of ten feet. “Mister,” he said softly, “you must be some special kind o’ fool. I come in here peaceable. Now I guess I’ll have to plug you.”

“Excuse me, gents.” It was the barman. Lifting his flap yet again, he strode over to the still-seated Dorf, bending to whisper into the small man’s ear. “I don’t know what you’ve been drinkin’ apart from that whiskey, stranger,” he said, “but if I was you, I’d apologise right quick an’ try to get out of here, if he’ll let you. That’s John Widdup.”

Dorf was unimpressed. “Should that mean something to me?” he asked.

The barman was aghast. “Where’ve you been all your life, mister?” he said. “Widdup’s the fastest, meanest gunfighter in the West. He’ll kill you for sure, then maybe he’ll start in on the rest of us.”

Dorf pursed his lips. “Thank you,” he said, still unconcerned. “You can go now. And don’t worry about this fellow. He’ll not give any trouble.”

The baffled bartender scuttled back to relative security, beginning to move some of his more precious bottles from the backbar shelf to the floor. Having allowed him to get clear, Widdup glared at Dorf. “If you’re through jawin’, you’d best get ready for drawin’,” he snarled. “An’ if you ain’t armed, you must be even dumber than you look.”

Dorf stood, glancing around him. Something wasn’t quite to his liking. Deciding what it was, he pulled his chair away from the wall, repositioning it a couple of feet to the left, under the big clock. Then he sat down again, resting his well-barbered head against the base of the timepiece. He folded his arms and looked at Widdup. “Now, sir,” he said. “You seem to be envisaging a gunfight. I can positively assure you there will be no such event.”

Widdup shook his head. He wasn’t used to this kind of thing. He was accustomed to short words and fast guns. However, he was sure of one thing. When it came to shooting, a man might listen to talk and watch out for hand movements, but the most important thing was to look into the other fellow’s eyes. That was where the first indication would come. He returned Dorf’s stare, deciding to bring matters to a head. “You can take it sittin’ or standin’,” he said. “It’s all the same to me.”

Dorf stared back. “It is not all the same to me. I don’t intend to take it either way. Now, I repeat, you are clearly under the impression that there will be some kind of duel here. I tell you there will be nothing of the sort. You really must understand that.” It seemed to be important to Dorf to keep talking, to keep Widdup quiet. “What there will be is something quite different,” he went on, his previously lively voice having settled to a gentle monotone. “What is about to happen is this, Mr Widdup. I am going to continue sitting here. I shall not draw a gun, as there will be no need for that. No need at all. There will be no violence. No violence, Mr Widdup. As for yourself, you will, very slowly, take out your gun, then you will remove the bullets from it and put them in your coat pocket, then you will place the gun back in its holster, then you will leave and ride out of this town and you will not come back.”

Time seemed to stand still in the place as Widdup continued to gaze at the little salesman. Then Dorf went on. “Do it, Mr Widdup. Do it now.”

Another heart-stopping moment went by, then, astonishingly, Widdup did exactly what Dorf had told him to do. He drew the gun, looked at it as though he had never seen it before, shook out the bullets, pocketed them and re-holstered the weapon. Then he walked slowly out of the hotel. Seconds later, he passed, mounted, by the window where Judge Handley was sitting.

No one spoke for a moment, then everyone started talking at once. “Well, I never thought to see the like of that,” said the barman, wiping a towel over his sweat-beaded head.

“My God young man, you took an awful chance there,” said one of the cattlemen.

His companion gawked. “I just saw it, and I still don’t believe it. Was that some kind of a show you and Widdup put on to impress us?”

“No, sir,” said Dorf. “I never saw or heard of the man before.”

“What happened then? How come you outfaced a top gunslinger?”

“Oh, it’s simple enough,” said Dorf. “They’ve been working on this kind of thing for quite a while, especially in Europe. Originally it was called mesmerism, but some people refer to it as hypnotism. You see, I knew that gunmen always look one another in the eye when they’re about to draw. All I had to do was sit right under the clock there. You see how that pendulum swings. It’s perfect for such an experiment. Widdup couldn’t look into my eyes without taking in that as well. The poor fellow never had a chance.”

“Just a minute, though,” said Judge Handley. “I’ve heard of this kind of thing, but I always thought you couldn’t hypnotise a man, then make him do something contrary to his nature.”

“Well,” Dorf replied, “you’re right in a way, but that applies to attempts to make people commit unsocial acts they wouldn’t otherwise contemplate. All I did was to make Widdup do something quite innocent. There was nothing unusual about his either drawing or emptying his gun – he must have done that hundreds of times in the course of cleaning and maintaining it. You need to remember that although Widdup may have killed a number of men, the incidents concerned have taken up only a few minutes of his life. Most of the time, he’s probably much like any other fellow in this part of the world. There was no great danger here.”

Dorf was already leaving when the judge, still shaking his head in wonderment, called out: “Well, sir, I’m greatly relieved, but I still think you took a terrible risk. It’s just as well that there was no gunplay.”

Reaching the door, Dorf turned and drew a ten-dollar gold coin from a coat pocket. “You’ll need this,” he said, tossing it across to the barman.

“What for?” asked the bemused recipient. “You already paid, an’ anyway, after what you just did, you could have drinks on the house for a week.”

Dorf ignored the effusion and turned to the judge. “You’re wrong about one thing and right about another,” he said. “Wrong in supposing that I was in a hazardous position. I believe in having alternative plans in all situations. Right about gunfighting. The absence of that was just as well – for Mr Widdup.” With a speed that confounded the eye, Dorf produced from a shoulder holster a double action Colt .45, the big weapon looking incongruous in his dainty right hand. He swept up the gun and without any obvious aiming, emptied the five loaded chambers in a three-second blast of sound.

Sliding the gun back into its holster, he peered through the coiling smoke, then nodded, satisfied. The others peered too. They looked at the cigar poster, noting that all five jewels in the crown had been drilled through by Dorf’s bullets. His lips twitching in a brief smile, the little man pushed open the doors and departed.

If you have enjoyed this tale, you may like to know

that a further Sunset Story will be posted soon.