The Shopkeeper Page 3

  “I don’t see miners wearing one.”

  “Ya would if ya visited a saloon after dark, ’stead of playin’ Old Maid with them milksops.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. Sharp was right—they were just going to keep coming after me. Without another word, I turned to go. Maybe I should get out of town. It looked like my best choice. Tomorrow I could start riding toward Carson City, my next planned stop and, I hoped, a civilized city.

  “Don’t rely on ol’ Sharp to protect ya. He has his own worries.”

  I kept walking.

  Then I heard the second Cutler yell, “Git a gun, greenhorn. If ya don’t, we’ll find ourselves a pick handle.”

  Pickhandle Gulch was indeed a small town. Before I reached my hotel, I spotted the young woman from Jeremiah’s sitting on a bench in front of the bank. I tipped my hat and said, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  She barely nodded in return.

  “I saw you earlier in the general store,” I offered.

  She looked up with disinterest. “I remember.”

  “May I sit a moment?” Why did I want to talk to a married woman?

  “My husband’s inside the bank.”

  “That’s who I want to talk about, if I may.” I brazenly sat beside her on the bench. “Is it true he’s running for governor?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know his political platform? I may want to make a contribution.”

  “I haven’t the least idea. Ask him yourself. He’s inside the bank.”

  “Well … do you know if he supports stronger law enforcement in this part of the state?”

  She turned slightly toward me with a bored expression. “I said he’s inside the bank. If you want to talk politics, you’ll have no trouble getting his attention.”

  This line of conversation was going nowhere. I should have left, but despite her indifferent manner, I still found her engaging. I tried another tack. “I’ve just recently arrived from New York City. Would you like to hear about the latest fashions?”

  “Again, you need to talk to my husband. He’s the one interested in fashion.” She returned her gaze to some point in the middle of the street.

  I didn’t want to appear a complete fool, so I stood and tipped my hat again. “Excuse me for bothering you, ma’am. Perhaps I can catch your husband at a more opportune time.”

  As I marched away, my senses registered only the echo of my boots against the boardwalk. Thankfully, each footfall took me another step away from my embarrassment. Why had I tried to talk to her? I had never approached another man’s wife before. And to what purpose? I suddenly realized my clumsy behavior with Mrs. Bolton bothered me a hell of a lot more than my little skirmish with the Cutler brothers.

  Then I thought about her behavior. When presented with an armful of gifts, she squealed like a child on Christmas morning, but when Bolton wasn’t paying attention to her, she seemed withdrawn and blasé. Which was the act? Why did I care? Damn. This town was full of trouble. If I had had any reservations about leaving in the morning, they had been squashed. It seemed embarrassment drove me to action faster than fear.

  Chapter 7

  I had bought an apple and a small block of cheese before I left Jeremiah’s. This would be my midday meal, which I intended to eat in my room as I worked on my journal. I never tell people I have an arrangement with a publisher, because it makes them ill at ease or causes them to embellish their tales. I already have two full journals, and I was halfway through a third. After I got back to New York, I intended to sift through all my notes and write a rousing novel about the West. I would use some of my notes, put other pages away for the future, and discard the remainder like so many summer flies swatted down in midlife.

  I had come west to observe, write my impressions, and become a celebrity in the parlors of the literary set. Sharp’s warning about the Cutlers worried me, because I wanted merely to witness the action, not become part of it. I vowed to stay out of the Cutlers’ way until I left in the morning.

  The Cutlers were right. I had rented the front room on the second floor of the Grand Hotel. My so-called suite included a unique feature, a balcony stretching the width of the building that could be accessed only through a window in my room. On my first day, I had passed a chair through the window, so I could sit on my private perch to jot my notes.

  The balcony gave me a bird’s-eye view of the town activities, and in the afternoon, the shade from an overhang made my perch the coolest place in town. When I went blank on what to write, I watched the comings and goings until reinspired.

  During the day, the hardscrabble path that ran down the center of town was quiet most of the time. The miners were underground, and the heat and glare kept other people inside. The rare individuals who did wander out moved with a poky and listless gait. Nothing aboveground in this woebegone place moved with purpose or speed, except possibly for the occasional swish of a horsetail.

  Transients and a get-rich mentality gave Pickhandle Gulch a bawdy and rowdy temper, but the overriding characteristic of the town was dust. The stamp mill ground perfectly good rocks into a fine sand so the silver could be extracted. Wheels, hooves, and boots kicked up the silt, until a brown dust covered everything and seeped into every crevice and body part. I had been in town for only four days, and I had already taken two baths at the barbershop. Despite folding my clothes and putting them in a drawer every night, I still had to slap off dust in the morning. To keep his print shop clean, Richard must have had to spend more time sweeping and dusting than setting type.

  I sliced off pieces of apple and cheese until I had a plateful. This would allow me to unconsciously reach for a bite without lifting my eyes from the paper. With my lunch in hand, I grabbed my journal and ducked through the window and onto the balcony.

  I usually read the prior day’s notes to make revisions before I started writing about any new adventures. Now I skipped this review, because the Cutler killing last night and my encounters with them today made me anxious to write. Using the flat of my hand, I brushed the dust off the page and prepared to start. They were a nasty pair, and I intended to make them infamous. On second thought, I decided to disguise their identity. I guessed that they would revel in notoriety, and I had no inclination to do them any favors.

  I had been writing for nearly an hour when I noticed my little ingénue with her Faustian husband. They were crossing the dirt corridor generously called Main Street. Despite my earlier self-recrimination, I could not take my eyes off her or stop myself from imagining—

  “Well, if it ain’t our own retired politico and his little whore.”

  Bolton looked shocked as the Cutlers emerged from the shade of an overhang that protected the building to my left. “Brian Cutler, you apologize to my wife.”

  “Apologize?” The skinny one chortled. “I was thinkin’ of escortin’ her over to Ruby’s to make an honest woman of her.”

  The young girl clutched Bolton’s arm in fright but tried to put on a lady’s look of indignation. Bolton squared his shoulders, “You—”

  Brian poked him hard in the middle of the chest. “Don’t say it … unless you’re ready to die.”

  When Bolton stammered in disbelief, the Cutlers broke into a harmony of cackling. The scene played out in front of me like a stage drama. I sat on my perch, transfixed by this latest episode of Cutler chicanery.

  Bolton grabbed his lapels as if he were about to make a political speech. In a basso voice, he said, “I shall speak to Washburn. You boys are off the reservation.”

  “Don’t bluster at me, Senator. Ya ain’t nothin’ no more.” He leered at Jenny and in a softer, more menacing voice, said, “You’re yesterday’s news.”

  The other brother stepped toward the couple. “Yep, just a has-been pompous ass, but ya got a sweet li’l trinket there we might be willin’ to buy offa ya.”

  “This is my wife!” Bolton protested.

  “Hel
l, we heard ya paid forty bucks for the lass. She’s used now, so how ’bout ten? Five from each of us.”

  “Get out of my way!” Bolton tried to walk around the brothers, but they shifted sideways to pen their prey. Whipping around, Bolton sputtered, “When Sean hears of this, I wouldn’t want to be in your boots.”

  “Most likely, he’ll wish he’d been in our boots.”

  “That’s enough! Goddamn it, move out of our way.”

  Brian Cutler jerked his gun and jabbed it into Bolton’s groin. “How much good will ya do the little lady with no balls?”

  Bolton turned ashen. “No—”

  “Let’s take a walk down to Ruby’s. She’s got a room free.”

  The young girl now grabbed her husband’s arm with both hands. Bolton’s crushed look struck her with terror.

  Could this actually be happening, right in front of me? I suddenly realized the Cutlers weren’t playing with Bolton. They were serious. Should I do something? Hell, I didn’t even know these people. I saw her anguish and started to stand but then remembered I was unarmed. I knew the Cutlers would shoot at any sudden noise.

  The smaller Cutler kept his gun on Bolton as he shoved them in the direction of Ruby’s. “Don’t fret, old man. We’ll let you watch.”

  “Please,” Bolton pleaded. “I’ll buy you each a girl at Ruby’s. Leave my wife alone.”

  “Had all Ruby’s got to offer. We want to taste your piece.”

  “Listen, we can work—”

  Brian rammed the gun harder into Bolton’s groin and cocked the hammer. “We don’t need your permission.”

  “Yes, yes. All right. Let’s go.”

  “Now you’re bein’ smart. The four of us’ll have some fun.”

  I watched them walk away: Bolton with a gun in his side, and his wife escorted by a Cutler on each arm. She didn’t fight at first, but after a few steps, she tried to break free. One of the Cutlers tripped her and then slung her around by one arm as he slapped her so hard he broke his grip. I thought she might escape, but the other Cutler grabbed her throat and squeezed any resistance out of her.

  As soon as they had walked a few paces, I ducked through the window and quick-stepped across to a beat-up bureau. I hesitated. I kept a gun in the top drawer, but I hadn’t worn it since I left New York. I opened the drawer to expose a single item: a ’73 model Colt .45 single-action army revolver. What to do? One of the Cutlers might stand guard outside the room at Ruby’s. Could I take care of him without alerting the other brother inside? Probably not. Was this any of my business? A more difficult question.

  I paused a long moment … and then I slowly slid the drawer closed.

  Chapter 8

  The sun had started to slip behind the hills, but the scorched air still felt like someone had left a huge oven door open. I spent the afternoon trying to shake off my melancholy and sense of guilt. No luck. I had not ventured out, nor gone to Mary’s for dinner. With a shrug of resignation, I decided I could not stay holed up in my room any longer. Besides, it was time for whist.

  I stepped off the hotel porch, moving toward Richard’s print shop. I felt an uncomfortable sense of malaise when I spotted Bolton and his wife walking down the boardwalk across the street. She looked put together, but the bounce had disappeared, and her inert eyes ripped my heart out. Bolton looked so emotionally beaten that I almost felt sympathy for him. I averted my eyes and gratefully stepped into the print shop to find my three card-mates drinking whiskey around the typesetting table.

  Richard kept his newspaper office obsessively neat, with a everything always in its place. A press sat in the precise middle of the fair-sized room. Type cases, orderly racks, and a stove lined the walls. The shop possessed another attribute that made it ideal for our after-dark card games: abundant lantern light. I assumed the numerous kerosene lamps allowed Richard to set type into the night, but I had never seen him work after his evening meal.

  The men threw me a sad look, and it was obvious I had interrupted a glum conversation. Without a word, Richard lifted the bourbon bottle with a raised eyebrow. I nodded, and he poured a healthy portion into my waiting glass.

  After I had taken a deep swallow, Jeremiah said, “Shame about what happened.”

  “More than a shame,” I answered. The whole town must have known, which made her debasement worse, if possible. I suddenly wondered how many had seen me on the balcony. “I saw the Cutlers waylay the Boltons. I should have done something.”

  “Then we’d be searching for a fourth again,” Richard said.

  Dooley thumped a type drawer with his boot. “Jenny didn’t deserve to get mixed up in this.”

  I looked at the three men. “Mixed up in what? Something more than utter cruelty?”

  Richard glanced at the open door, propped open with the ever-present can of ink. “Washburn supports someone else for governor. He tried to persuade Bolton to drop out, but Bolton refused to lie down, so Washburn had the Cutlers knock him down.”

  “Why this way?” I asked.

  “Because Bolton still has too many powerful friends to kill him outright.”

  I could not believe it. “Wasn’t there an easier way?”

  “Easier?” Richard shook his head. “Washburn’s clever. Others may whisper, but Bolton has too much pride to ever talk about this or appeal to his friends … and it was easy enough for the Cutlers.”

  “Good God.”

  “Sometimes I have trouble subscribing to the notion of a good God.” Doc sipped his whiskey. “I hope Jenny can escape that buffoon. Bolton keeps her penniless.”

  “She’s got stuff she can sell,” Jeremiah interjected.

  “What stuff?” My voice was sterner than I meant.

  “Things Bolton gave her,” Jeremiah answered, with a look that said he meant nothing more. “Clothes and jewelry. She ought to just jump on the stagecoach one mornin’.”

  “Fat chance,” Richard said. “Bolton keeps a careful eye on her.”

  Dooley kicked the type drawer again. “She’s too young and ignorant. Hell, she hasn’t been anywhere else. Probably thinks this rotten state is the way of the whole world.”

  We all stood around feeling embarrassed for a moment, until Richard said, “Let’s play cards.”

  Doc had dealt our third hand. As I tried to focus enough to figure out my bid, Jemmy stuck his head in the door to announce, “There’s going to be a gunfight.”

  “A gunfight?” Richard exclaimed. “Who?”

  “The Cutlers have squared off against ol’ man Sharp.”

  All four of us rushed to the window as Jemmy bolted to spread the news of the looming gunfight. Jeff Sharp stood at one end of Main Street with a rifle laid lazily across his arm. The Cutlers stood at the other end, wearing six-shooters and grins.

  “Sharp told me he was safe.”

  “I suppose Washburn grew tired of small stakeholders selling their claims to Sharp. It looks like Washburn decided to tidy up all the loose ends at once.” Richard took a swallow of whiskey. “He sure gave those boys a full agenda.”

  I couldn’t believe they were just standing there staring at each other. “What happens now?” I asked, confused.

  “The Cutlers will worry Sharp for a few minutes and then split up, run behind some buildings, and ambush Sharp from cover.

  “Why doesn’t he just use his rifle to shoot them while they’re still in the open?”

  “Jeff Sharp won’t commit murder.”

  I looked at Doc with incredulity. “That’s foolish.”

  “Yep.”

  This was not right. I looked at either end of the street and could see another atrocity about to happen. All afternoon I had brooded and chastised myself for doing nothing when these depraved and ugly outlaws had forced themselves on Jenny. This had to end.

  I decided. “Jeremiah, watch my cards.”

  “Where’re ya goin’?”

  Without answering, I left the print shop and headed for my hotel. I took care to keep an easy stride,
just a man crossing the street, oblivious to the threats on either side. I had never been so scared in my life, and it took all my will to keep my pace casual and my eyes straight ahead. With relief, I reached the hotel steps without anyone shooting me. Two paces inside the hotel, I started running as I dug into my pocket for my room key. I took the stairs two at a time, but my shortness of breath came from more than the physical exertion.

  Entering my room, I threw open the bureau drawer, but this time I strapped on my gun. After jostling it into position, I drew it, opened the loading gate and inserted a sixth cartridge. I spun the cylinder before holstering my Colt. The precision movement and perfect holster fit reassured me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, took two deep breaths, and tried to wipe the frightened look off my face.

  When I reached the so-called lobby, I saw no one. Evidently, the hotelkeeper had found a safer place to watch the impending showdown. I glanced out the window. Nothing had changed, except that nobody was in sight but Sharp and the Cutlers.

  I casually stepped out of the hotel, and, without pause, nonchalantly strolled toward the Cutlers, giving them a friendly wave.

  Big smile. “Howdy.” I had safely gotten within five feet. Steady.

  “What the hell do you—”

  The gun came to my hand as easy as scratching my ear, and my thumb pulled the hammer back without the slightest thought. Two shots fired so quick it sounded like one. Never breaking stride, I continued toward the two contorted men, who now leaked blood into the dirt. I had hit each brother center-chest, but one of the Cutlers gurgled and squirmed for a bit before he finally became still.

  This was worse than I had imagined. The dead bodies lay in unnatural positions, and their shirtfronts smoldered from the close gun flash. Blood had already spread around the bodies like grotesque wings. The pools may have looked like angel wings, but I doubted these two were destined for heaven.

  Recovering some of my composure, I kicked their guns free of their holsters. As I scanned my periphery, I opened the loading gate, ejected the spent cartridges, drew two bullets from my gun belt, and reloaded in a smooth, practiced motion. Assuring myself that no additional danger lurked, I holstered my gun.