The Shopkeeper Page 22

  I had been in the café for less than an hour, when I heard gunshots. I grabbed a waitress by the elbow. “Who’s shooting?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “The men just like to practice behind the saloon across the street.”

  “They practice shooting in town?”

  For some reason, this made her laugh. “Oh, you’ll be surprised what they do in this town. New?”

  “Just arrived.” I started to get up and threw two dollars on the table. “That should take care of my check.”

  “You want change?”

  “Keep it,” I said as I hurried out the door.

  The Comstock Lode Saloon was as outrageous as the rest of the town. About two hundred men squeezed into the huge main room, some gambling, some playing pool, others dancing with saloon girls, and everybody drinking. A three-piece band played in a corner, and a woman danced seductively on a platform by herself. If her dance was meant to encourage men to take harlots upstairs, she was doing her job superbly.

  I ambled up to a bar crowded with dozens of other men and eventually was able to order a beer. When the bartender brought my brew, I asked, “What’s all the shooting about?”

  “It’s a contest.”

  “Can anyone compete?”

  He looked me up and down in my eastern suit and starched white shirt and chuckled. “It costs at least one dollar to get a turn. Maybe more if there’s a lot of takers.”

  “Can I just wander back?”

  “Sure.” Without further instructions, he left me to serve the endless stream of shouting miners that lined the bar.

  I picked up my beer and walked toward the rear of the saloon. A burly man stood by the back door, so I said, “I heard anyone with a dollar can join the fun.”

  Without a word, he opened the door.

  Outside, about a dozen men watched another man get ready to shoot. They all had their backs to the door, so nobody noticed me. Hay bales had been stacked along the rear of the lot to provide a shield, and I supposed the neighbors appreciated the courtesy. In front of the hay, an elevated board held up six brown whiskey bottles, the obvious targets for the shooting contest. Under the raw-lumber board, deep piles of glass shards covered the barren dirt. The bottles stood about twenty feet from a row of three bricks on the ground that evidently marked the shooting line.

  I moved closer to the spectators, but nobody threw me a glance. This was evidently not a quick-draw contest, because the shooter had his gun out and took careful aim before his first shot. In rapid fire, he shot at the six bottles, hiting only three. A boy of about fourteen immediately ran out to replace the three broken bottles.

  Washburn emerged from amongst the crowd and patted the shooter on the shoulder. “Nice try. I surely don’t know if I can beat that.”

  This drew a round of laughter, and Washburn stepped up to the brick line. He looked dapper in his trademark gray suit, accented with a gray bowtie and even gray boots. He steadied his hand at about his belt buckle and then in a flash, he drew and fired six rapid shots. Five of the six bottles exploded. Everybody hooted and hollered and whistled.

  When the men settled down, Washburn said, “Well, hell, must be losing my touch. Someone else better challenge me while my aim’s off.”

  I needed the advantage of surprise, so I tried to step quickly around the spectators to make my challenge. Damn. Someone else grabbed the shooting position first. I quickly slipped behind another onlooker and glanced around with growing apprehension. I was in Washburn’s terrain, and I was surrounded by his admirers. The rowdy crowd looked mean and more than a little drunk. If things did not go exactly as I had planned, I was not going to leave this yard alive.

  The new contestant had drunk too many beers and didn’t hit another bottle after his first shot. Washburn good-naturedly slapped the man on the back and raised his gun high in the air. “How ’bout it?” he yelled. “Should I give the man a chance and shoot left-handed?”

  Everybody yelled and whooped, and Washburn deftly flipped his six-shooter to his other hand. He paused theatrically and then whirled to blast four of the bottles in the blink of an eye. He was good—possibly better than me.

  I needed to get this over with, or my nerves might fail. As Washburn reloaded, I elbowed my way forward to the front of the crowd.

  “Mr. Washburn, I’d like a try.”

  Chapter 51

  When Washburn spotted me, he raised an eyebrow but kept his composure. “Mr. Dancy. Well, I’ll be.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to the killer of the infamous Cutler brothers?”

  He grabbed my left shoulder and turned me toward the crowd. “Mr. Steve Dancy killed two ruffians at the same time in the streets of Pickhandle Gulch and became known throughout the land.” Washburn patted me on the back. “Shows how easy it is to build a reputation in this wilderness. All ya gotta do is kill a couple of inbred jackasses, and men in these parts start thinkin’ you’re a gunfighter.”

  Everyone laughed as if Washburn had said something funny. He reveled in the attention for a few moments and then stood back and appeared to appraise me. “Are you a gunfighter, Mr. Dancy?”

  I merely reached into my pocket and pulled out Sam’s hundred dollars and held it up for everyone to see. “I heard that you give five-to-one odds.”

  Washburn eyed the bankroll and then yelled, “Clyde, take this man’s money!”

  The sheriff of Pickhandle Gulch immediately emerged from the surrounding men and grabbed the bills out of my hand. “With pleasure, Sean.”

  “Sheriff, don’t you have duties back in Pickhandle?” I asked, mildly.

  “I’ll get back soon enough … leastways, sooner than you.”

  “You’d better hurry if you want your four thousand dollars. I could take the offer off the table at any time.”

  “Go to hell.” But I could see from his nervous glance at Washburn that he hadn’t told his boss about my offer to buy his half of the Grand Hotel.

  I turned back to Washburn and casually said, “I’d like to see the five hundred dollars before I shoot.”

  Washburn put on a huge grin. “Ya don’t trust me? Why, you’ve hurt my feelin’s.” Again, all of his camp followers laughed uproariously. I was not in sympathetic company.

  “I intend to hurt more than just your feelings,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Well, Mr. Dancy, I’m more than happy to take your hundred dollars, but we frown on gunfightin’ here. I’m a businessman and town father in Virginia City. Despite my desire to accommodate you, I need to keep my good reputation with our police chief.”

  “You misunderstood. I mean to see you hang.”

  “Hang? It ain’t no crime to kill bottles. Hell, been doin’ it for years.” More laughter.

  “But it’s a capital crime to pay one man to murder another.”

  “Well, that would be a dastardly thing to do.”

  “Cowardly as well.”

  “Whoa! That’s not polite, but I’ll let it pass because I’m sure you’re talkin’ about someone else.”

  “Let me see.” I reached into my inside coat pocket, pulled out the little black book, and flipped it to a random page. “Sean Washburn? Yes, I believe I have that right.”

  For the first time, Washburn flinched. It was fleeting, but I caught it. He recognized the notebook as the one Sharp had been talking about all over town.

  “These are Sprague’s accounts,” I said. “He wrote down everything, including his two contracts with you.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Bullshit?” I smiled. “You and I know it’s the truth.”

  “I know no such thing. Prove it to me. Show me the book.” Washburn reached his hand out for the journal.

  I returned the book to my pocket. “You can see it at your trial.”

  Washburn gazed across his audience. “He won’t show it, ’cuz he’s lyin’.”

  “Am I?” I pulled it out and opened it again. “Two contracts betwe
en Bill Sprague and Sean Washburn. One completed for twenty thousand dollars and another for ten thousand dollars … uncompleted, I might add.” I snapped the book closed and slid it back into my pocket.

  The consternation on Washburn’s face was more than fleeting this time. The use of numbers that only he and Sprague had known proved that I had Sprague’s records.

  “Why are ya here?” Washburn asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

  “To win five hundred dollars. You got it?”

  “Yep.” Then his tone turned nasty for the first time. “No thanks to you. But I have sources ya can’t hamper.” He waved over his shoulder. “Clyde, show him.”

  Clyde stepped around Washburn and opened a cloth purse filled with coins and paper money. “You want to count it?”

  “How much do you think is in there, Sheriff?” I asked.

  “Close to a thousand.”

  “Then I’ll trust you.” I turned to Washburn. “What are the rules?”

  “Shoot the first bottle anyway ya want, but ya gotta shoot at the next five in rapid fire. Clyde here’ll call it if ya fire too slow.”

  “No problem. And you?”

  “I like to show off a bit.” Everybody laughed but this time more from nervous relief. “You saw. But the same rules apply to me, I guess.”

  “What if we both hit the same number of bottles?”

  “Keep goin’ until one of us misses, but don’t worry—that ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Who goes first?”

  “The challenger always goes first.”

  “All right.” I stepped up to the brick boundary and smoothly drew my Colt. I barely hesitated. Six speedy shots blew the bottles to smithereens—all six bottles. When I reholstered, the air was filled with smoke and pieces of flying glass.

  “Fine shootin’,” Washburn said after the echoes died away.

  I waved my hand toward the boy replacing the bottles. “Your turn.”

  “I will. But only after you give me that book.” He held his hand out and smiled.

  Shit. I looked around at the other men, but I could see no support. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, and if anyone was breathing, they kept that quiet as well. I took a step toward Washburn. “No.”

  “Oh, I think you will. Yer gun’s empty.”

  I glanced around again, but I would receive no help from any of these men. Had I miscalculated? I turned to Washburn and was embarrassed by the slight quiver in my voice. “You wouldn’t dare kill me in front of witnesses.”

  He shrugged “You’re right. Just maim ya bad. Now give me that book, or I’ll take it while ya squirm in pain at my feet. Yer choice.”

  I hesitated several seconds and then moved forward another step, until I was in his face. “No.”

  He went for his gun.

  I swept my left arm to knock his gun hand away and drew a pocket pistol from my shoulder holster. Three blasts ruptured the silence. His missed. I put two bullets in his belly.

  Chapter 52

  “Everybody stay calm!” I yelled.

  Washburn yelled from the ground, “Kill ’im,” but it was more of a cry of agony than an order.

  The men looked uneasy and confused. No one spoke and no one moved.

  “Washburn’s dead, or soon will be,” I shouted. “Those of you on his payroll are now on mine.”

  “No!” Washburn’s utterance was little more than a croak.

  “Think. I pay well. Ask the men in Pickhandle Gulch.”

  Indecision gripped the men around me. I held my gun level, pointing at no one specific. My shooting in the contest helped. I pointed at Washburn.

  “No more money is coming from that man. I own the mortgages on all Washburn property. I can pay. Nothing’s changed but your boss.” I could tell from the faces that I had given them an excuse for inaction.

  I looked down at Washburn. Both hands gripped his gut, and he had his knees pulled up to his chest. His pain had caused him to lose awareness of everything around him, and his groans of suffering almost drew my pity. Almost.

  I was about to walk away when Washburn regained enough alertness to ask, “What was in that black book?”

  I pulled the book out and held it up so he could see it.

  “Nothing.” I flipped the book at him, and it hit him in his tearstained face.

  His expression of defeat made the gauntlet ahead worthwhile. I still had to pass through the saloon to escape. I sensed no danger from the men around me, so I holstered my pocket pistol and reloaded my Colt.

  Looking toward the door, I saw the burly man who had let me into the yard. I gave him a hard stare, and he just stepped to the side to give me clear passage. I let the Colt hang to my side and walked up the steps and through the saloon without incident. Reaching the boardwalk outside, I retraced my steps toward the train station.

  As my luck would have it that day, the train was in the station.

  Chapter 53

  The prior evening I had gone from the Carson City train station directly to my hotel room. I couldn’t remember ever having been more tired. I slept the night away soundly but woke up famished because I had skipped supper.

  By the time I made it to the hotel dining room, Sharp and McAllen had already finished their breakfast and were nursing cups of coffee.

  I sat down and bid them a cheerful, “Good morning.”

  “We were waiting for you,” McAllen said.

  Somehow I dreaded this encounter more than the one with Washburn. “Captain, I apologize for misleading you.”

  “I said you do foolish things sometimes.” McAllen didn’t seem angry. “Sometimes you do things smart. You handled this well.”

  I was relieved. “No hard feelings?”

  “Toward you? No.” He nodded his head at Sharp. “I’ve given Jeff a piece of my mind, though. I’m used to being misled by clients, but I have a different standard for friends.”

  His tone said that whatever had transpired prior to my arrival had been worked out between them. Sharp had preceded me to Virginia City, not only to enlarge the stories about Sprague’s book and his pending arrest, but also to spread rumors that I had Washburn’s enterprises under siege and was about to take over his operations. It had worked well enough to get me out of town safely.

  “He did me a service.” I looked at Sharp. “One I’ll be eternally grateful for.”

  Sharp flipped his hand. “Forget it. By the way, McAllen’s exchanged telegraphs with the police chief in Virginia City. No charges. Almost twenty witnesses said it was self-defense.”

  I smiled. “Then I don’t have to run like the dickens.” I raised my hand at the waitress. “I’m so hungry, I may eat till noon.”

  “Plannin’ a short meal?” Sharp asked. “Ya slept the mornin’ away.”

  My easy laughter came from relief.

  After I’d ordered a hearty breakfast, Sharp asked, “What are your plans after noon?”

  “First, I need to see Bradshaw and complete the sale of the Pickhandle Gulch Bank to First Commerce.”

  “You’re selling?”

  “I’m not going back to Pickhandle,” I said. After the waitress brought my coffee, and I had the first sip of the day, I added, “Commerce Bank will control all of Washburn’s assets. They’ll need a manager.”

  “Not interested,” Sharp said. “I only run what I own.”

  “So you’re going back to Belleville?”

  “Not right away.”

  My breakfast arrived, so conversation stopped until the food had been distributed. While I started digging in, Sharp explained. “Do you remember when you and McAllen caught up with me in Jeremiah’s store?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was readin’ purchase contracts for minin’ claims in Leadville. I worked on the deal while I was in Virginia City.”

  “Where’s Leadville?” I asked, swallowing a huge mouthful.

  “In the Rocky Mountains. Colorado. My agent did most of the barterin’. Now I got a few more details to nail down, an’ I’l
l leave to inspect it.”

  “Train?”

  “No. I’m goin’ by way of Durango. Other minin’ business.” Sharp mused for a moment. “Why don’t ya come with me? Appreciate the good company, and it don’t look to me like ya got anything holdin’ ya here.”

  He said this last with a lilt at the end of the sentence that meant it was really a question.

  I did my own musing. “Could we stop at the Bolton ranch? Then I’ll know.”

  “Sure.” That was his only comment, but I heard disappointment in the tone.

  A thought suddenly struck me. “If you don’t mind, can Dr. Dooley join us?”

  “He leavin’ Pickhandle?”

  “Yes, he sent me a telegram a few days ago. Seems he’s done with wild mining towns. He secured a position at a consumption clinic in Glenwood Springs. If he hasn’t left already, we can pick him up on our way to Colorado.”

  “Always wanted to travel with my own doctor. Never know when it might come in handy.”

  “I’ll send him a telegraph.” I hesitated. “You’ll pick him up then, even if I don’t join you?”

  Sharp smiled. “Yep, don’t worry. Any other news from Pickhandle?”

  “No more from doc, but Bradshaw told me he has convinced Richard to run for the state senate. If he wins, he’s going to move to Carson City and open a print shop. Bradshaw has fixed it so he’ll get plenty of business from the mint as long as he doesn’t open a competing newspaper. I suppose Jeremiah’s rooted in Pickhandle.”

  Sharp nodded. “Glad to hear they all survived this mess.”

  “I’ll be leaving with my team tomorrow,” McAllen said. When I heard you’d gone to Virginia City, I knew it was over … one way or the other.”

  “Only one way. If he had killed me, you’d still be in it up to your neck. I wrote a will with Jansen. Sharp was the executor, and my entire fortune—quite substantial, I might add—was to be used to destroy Washburn.”

  “Vengeful bastard, aren’t ya?” McAllen laughed for the first time in my memory.

  I reminded myself to write a new will. I had other unfinished legal work as well. I stood to make a decent profit selling the bank and withheld the hotel from the deal. I needed clear title, but I believed I would have no further trouble with the sheriff.