It was Saturday morning and all the ranchers in the area came together at the Gold Dust Café in River Bend to swap lies, tell stories, talk about their wives, and otherwise waste away the morning eating breakfast and drinking coffee. It was a time for them to relax, and they enjoyed the gathering more than anything else they did during a week.
Kelly Atkins always came to town with her father. She might eat breakfast with him—her mother had died many years before—but she never stayed for the lie-swapping. She had shopping she needed or wanted to do, and up until recently, had usually spent much of the day with her fiancée, Evan Dryer/Nicholas Backstrom. It was still a little unreal to her that he was gone, but more and more, each day, she was becoming adjusted to the idea. She thought about Rob some, and that helped; or it didn’t, because she missed him, too. I wonder if he’ll be back…She started to try again and talk herself into not liking him, but gave it up. He’ll pass, like he did before. There are other men in town, and some of the bolder ones were beginning to show an interest in her. Some of the shyer ones thought she might want a little more time to mourn over Backstrom. She didn’t really care, one way or another.
As she and Fred, her father, entered the Gold Dust that crisp late-February morning, Kelly saw a familiar face—or at least one that she knew but hadn’t seen for a few months. He was eating alone and Kelly mentioned to her father that she would like to go say hello to him. Fred was already greeting the other men around the restaurant, so he didn’t pay her much mind.
The man sitting alone noticed Kelly as she walked over. He gave her a soft smile, though he wasn’t given much to it, and he stood up. “Hello, Kelly. It’s nice to see you. Would you care to join me?”
“Hi, Ben, and thank you, yes, that would be nice.” They both sat down and Kelly looked at Ben Baker. “What are you doing back in town?” she asked him.
Readers of River Bend will remember that Rob Conners had met Ben Baker in the town of Windy, a few hundred miles south of Clearwater, where he was the local barber. He wasn’t especially liked, because he was black. And handsome. And intelligent, and tough. He had quit his job in Windy and traveled with Rob and the settlers up to Clearwater, where he had played a major part in ending the problems that had plagued the valley, i.e., Nicholas Backstrom and Homer Kragan. After that, McConnell had asked him to join the Rangers and Ben had accepted. Kelly hadn’t heard anything from, or about, him since he had left River Bend, so she was surprised to see him.
In answer to her question, he opened his vest and showed her a star on his shirt pocket. Kelly knew that Rangers wore badges—although Allie never did—so she wasn’t surprised to see Ben’s, but he continued to hold the vest aside and she did a double-take. And then shock registered on her face.
“You’re a marshal now? Here? River Bend?”
Ben did have a sense of humor and he could laugh at a funny. And the expression on Kelly’s face tickled him. “I guess you haven’t heard. Yeah, that clown of a sheriff you had resigned and the territorial government decided to move the sheriff’s position to Port Station and put a marshal here in River Bend. The town council contacted me and asked me if I’d like to have the job.” He shrugged. “Sounded good to me, so here I am.”
“Ben, that’s wonderful,” Kelly said, happy for him. She had known that Fagan Doolittle, the sheriff-stooge of Backstrom and Kragan, had quit and skipped town a few weeks before, but she’d heard nothing about a replacement. Then she blurted out, “Rob will be—“ and she stopped. She was going to say, of course, “Rob will be so happy to hear about it,” but then, she didn’t know if Rob ever would hear about it. And the thought of him panged her again.
The waitress showed up just then and took Kelly’s order. She loved ham and eggs, so that’s what she got. Ben was smiling softly at her when the waitress left. “Have you heard from Rob? Do you know where he is?” he asked quietly.
“No, to both questions, Ben. I don’t know…” she sighed, and looked at Ben. “I don’t know what he wants. I thought he wanted a ranch, and Clearwater is a perfect place for him. Lots of good land, the people here think the world of him—“
“You’re here,” Ben interjected.
Kelly glanced at him. “I’m not sure that matters, Ben.”
Ben leaned back in his chair and looked at Kelly thoughtfully. He had finished his meal and was drinking his coffee. “Oh, it matters, Kelly, it matters to him a great deal. But maybe you haven’t detected something about Rob Conners that I noticed almost immediately. Under that ‘tough’ exterior he likes to show, he’s got the biggest heart of any man I’ve ever known. He’ll do things for people, give his money, time, and even risk his life, whether there is anything in it for him or not.”
That thought sent Kelly back a few years when Rob had paid off the Atkins’ $500 bank note—unbeknownst to them--two weeks before Homer Kragan was going to foreclose and take their ranch. And Rob had, indeed, risked his life to help clean Clearwater of a man, Jim Perry, who was trying to take over the whole valley.
Ben continued. “I never told you what he did down in Windy. He saved a man from being hanged—and almost ended up being hanged himself. He stopped a bank robbery all by himself, saving a little boy’s life, at the hazard of his own. He defended me, more than once, in front of the townspeople, who didn’t particularly like the color of my skin.”
Kelly’s eyes began to water, but her meal came and that helped divert her attention.
“He saved a girl from being raped. Then,” Ben said, “he wiped out a nest of vermin who were running that area for their own profit. He brought Clem Everett’s settlers up here, and didn’t take any payment at all, except he asked for two cows which he gave to some starving Indians. I think you know that he went looking for Allie Summer for no reason other than McConnell asked him to, and that almost cost him his life, too. He saved Gail Sanders, and, yeah, that just about got him killed as well; I was there. And he didn’t have to do any of that, Kelly. Nobody ever gave him one thin dime.”
Kelly kept her head down, trying to eat, but it wasn’t easy. He saved me from Nicholas Backstrom, too, or tried to…and all I did was curse and slap him…
“He lost one wife to a gang of thugs, and he ended up being an outlaw because he paid ‘em back. And then another wife left him due to her own stupidity. Do you know how much he must have loved those women, Kelly?”
Kelly didn’t answer; she picked at her food.
Ben was a little angry, but not at her. “This world has never given that man one break, and yet he gives back everything he’s got. Cut him some slack if he needs a little time alone.”
Kelly simply nodded. She didn’t trust herself to say anything.
Ben’s voice softened. “He’ll be back, Kelly, and he’ll be back for you. And if he doesn’t come back, the only reason will be because he loves you so much that he’ll be afraid of losing you, too.”
Kelly closed her eyes and fought, desperately, to hold back tears. “Stop it, Ben, please stop it,” she managed to whisper.
Ben held up his coffee cup to the waitress, indicating he wanted some more. He was also giving Kelly a chance to recover. He changed the direction of the conversation, at least somewhat. “This is a lovely valley,” he said. “That’s why I accepted the job. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to afford any of the land, but I’ll enjoy living here. The town seems calm enough.”
Kelly had gained sufficient control, thanks to Ben’s last statements, to be able to speak. She started eating again, and said, “I thought you wanted to be a Ranger.”
“I thought I did, too,” Ben replied. “But once I started looking at it…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to roam from place to place, hunting criminals and sleeping on the ground. I know I’ll have to do that occasionally as town marshal, but mostly I’ll have my own bed to sleep in. And, like I said, I really like this valley. The people seem to have accepted me as well.”
“How’s Allie Summer doing?” Kelly asked Ben.
“She reminds me a lot of Rob. She can be hard as nails on the outside, but soft as a pussy cat on the inside. But I’ll tell you something else about her. After Rob Conners, she’s the one person in the world I’d want to ride the river with, but also the one person I’d not want to meet in a dark alley if she was mad at me. You ever hear of the Bradford Buckner gang?”
Kelly thought a moment. “I’ve heard of them, but I don’t know much about them.”
“Five of them. They were about as ruthless, barbaric, and savage as any group of men that’s ever hit this territory. Allie got them all by herself. She’s unbelievable.”
Kelly idly played with the fork in her plate. “Did she…ever talk about Rob?”
Ben smiled. “Haven’t heard her say a word about him since we all left River Bend. She could have her pick of any man in the Rangers, but they’re all afraid of her.” Kelly laughed.
Right then, an old timer hobbled over and said, “Hey, Marshal, Rance Leggett’s barbecuin’ a sow this afternoon and invitin’ lots of folks to come. Asked me to see if you’d like to join us.” He looked at Kelly. “He’s invitin’ you and your pa, too, Miss Kelly. I done spoke to Fred.”
Kelly smiled at him and nodded. “Thanks, Hoppy.”
“Tell Rance to count me in, Hoppy. What time does it start?”
“He’s gonna commence cookin’ about 2:30, so if you want to eat high on the hog, you better come early.” Ben and Kelly laughed.
“I’ll be there,” the new marshal said.
“I’m sure we’ll come, too,” Kelly said. “Dad never passes up a good barbecue.” She felt better now.
Ben had a pleasant, almost dreamy smile on his handsome face. He caught himself and looked at Kelly. “That’s why I like it here, Kelly. These people accept me for what I am, and don’t judge me by who my ancestors were.”
Kelly smiled at him. “I’m happy for you, Ben. And I’m happy you’re here. And if Rob does come back, I know he’ll be tickled pink to know you’re the town marshal.”
“Maybe I’ll make a deputy out of him. Then I wouldn’t have to work at all.” Kelly laughed.
Ben stood up. “I need to go. Call on me if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon.” He pitched some coins on the table, enough to cover his breakfast and Kelly’s, and a tip, too. Kelly started to argue, but didn’t. She knew Ben wanted to do it, and she didn’t want to disparage him the opportunity.
She sat there for a few moments, thinking about what Ben had said. Will Rob come back? Does he really love me as much as Ben says he does? I don’t know about that…do I love him? Or is he still…a comeback from Evan?..
Kelly wasn’t really sure of the answer to that last question because thoughts of Evan Dryer did still cause her some pain…
That afternoon, while Ben, the Atkins, and much of River Bend were at Rance Leggett’s barbecue, four men came riding into town.
“Ain’t nobody here, Top,” Gus Ferrara said to the second oldest Tolliver brother. “We could hit the bank right now and nobody’d know till Monday.”
“Hold your horses, Gus, we can’t do that and you know it. We’re still in Montana. But we can have some fun.” He shook his head, a little frustrated. “I hear there is money in this valley, though, and a bunch of it will be in that bank. But let’s don’t go off half-cocked. There’s a new marshal in town and we need to size him up, see if he’s got any craw. Then I’ll decide what to do.” The “I’ll decide” wasn’t lost on the other three men. And they accepted it. Top was…top man, and he’d never steered them wrong. Besides, Trent Tolliver would kill them if they crossed Top; that is, if Top didn’t kill them himself.
The other two men with Top and Gus were Snarky Allen and Lem Unser. Snarky was a little fellow, barely five feet tall, but he was quick with a gun. Not in Tristy’s league, but faster than most men, and he’d proven it a few times. Lem was a tall, big, easy-going fellow, except when he got some liquor in him. Then he could be fighting mean. Top tried to control them, but he let them have their fun, too. After all, why go out and rob banks if you aren’t going to enjoy the money with booze, women, gambling, and a few good fist fights?
They found out that night whether the new marshal had any “craw” or not. Actually, the people of River Bend had wondered that as well; Ben hadn’t really been tested since he’d taken the lawman job not long before. The four Tolliver men decided to spend the evening at the Royal Flush saloon, where they could pleasure themselves to their heart’s content. Lots of booze, women, and gambling…and men who might be good for a fist fight.
Top had a bit of an arrogant streak in him and liked to put people in their place right off. He’d been to River Bend a few times before, just passing through, so most of the bartenders in town knew him. The bartender at the Royal Flush was a stocky, muscular, mustachioed man named Nate Nation, and he’d seen plenty of outlaws and toughs and wasn’t inclined to take any guff off any of them.
Top and his men walked into the Royal Flush about dark. It was a little larger than most saloons because of the gaming tables in the back, but other than that, it was fairly typical. A bar that stretched about halfway across the room, and tables scattered here and there. Off to the left was a staircase that led upstairs. A piano, actually in tune and being played by a fairly accomplished pianist, was softly making melody. There were already a number of men in the saloon and the “waitresses” were serving them in appropriate—or inappropriate, however you look at it—ways. Top moseyed up to the bar. Nate was polishing a beer glass and looked at him.
Top smirked at him. “Do you know my name?” he asked Nate.
“Why? Don’t you?”
“Oh, a funny guy,” Top said, but before he could go any further, Nate pulled out a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun, cocked it, and pointed it at him.
“Yeah, I know who you are, Tolliver, and I’d just as soon splatter your guts to eternity as look at you. And I’ll do it, too, if you give me any trouble. You’re welcome to stay here and enjoy our…facilities…as long as you’d like. But I’ve got the patience of a momma bear robbed of her whelps and my finger was bitten by an ant today and is awfully itchy. So don’t you or your thug buddies be starting anything. Got it?”
The barroom got quiet very quickly as everybody looked at Nate and Top. The Tolliver brother narrowed his eyes at the bartender, but didn’t see any give at all. So, he just raised his hands placatingly. “Now, now, now, don’t go off half-cocked, barkeep, we’re just here for a good time, not to cause any trouble. Ok?”
“You’re welcome to the first, not to the second. I just want you to know the lay of the land in this saloon. And to show you I mean no harm, either, your first drink is on the house. The rest you pay for, just don’t pay for it with your blood.”
“Fair enough, and thanks for the drink,” Top said, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy. But he was also smart enough not to needlessly stir up a pot of trouble, so he let the matter pass—for the moment. He spoke to Lem, Snarky, and Gus. “Have a good time, boys, but mind your manners. We wouldn’t want Beer Mug here”—meaning Nate—“to think we were anything but peaceful and nice fellows.”
Nate grunted, but poured their drinks. Lem and Snarky stayed at the bar, Top and Gus took a bottle and went to look for a gambling game they could get into.
Well, as noted earlier, Lem could get a little nasty when he got a little liquor in him, and it tended to loosen his tongue. “River Bend,” he said, loud enough for the patrons near him to hear—and that was intentional. “What a rat hole of a town. There ain’t enough here to wipe my….” And he continued on in that vain for a little while, getting cruder and cruder.
Finally, Stan Lighter, who was one of the customers standing nearby at the bar, and a pretty big fellow himself, said to Lem, “Listen, buster, if you don’t like our town, nobody’s keeping you here. The same road that brought you in here will take your sorry carcass out. Some of us will help you if you ain’t smart enough to find the way yourself.”
“Watch it, Stan,” Nate warned.
“You heard him, Nate. He started it. I’m not about to let him insult River Bend like that.”
This was just what Lem was looking for. “Yeah, I started it, and I’m going to finish it,” he said, red-eyed and ready for a good brawl. He cocked a fist intending to smash Stan’s jaw with it.
He never threw the punch. Somebody caught his wrist and held on to it. “I think Stan had a pretty good idea, mister. If you can’t hold your booze, you don’t belong in River Bend.”
With a shocked expression on his face—and unable to move his fist forward—Lem turned and stared…into the face of Marshal Ben Baker, who was holding tightly to Lem’s wrist.
“Who are you?” Then he saw the badge on Ben’s chest. He relaxed his arm and snorted a chuckle. “You’re the law? You mean you people got a nigger for a marshal?? I knew this town was the basement of an outhouse and this proves it.”
Stan Lighter stepped over. “Marshal, can I bust him one? Please let me bust him. He’s asking for it.”
“No, Stan,” Ben said, releasing Lem’s arm. “I’ll just invite him to either leave River Bend or he can be the guest of the town tonight.” The implication of that last statement was clear to Lem—a guest in the town jail.
Snarky was standing by and giggling. “I can’t believe it. A nigger for a marshal. Ain’t these folks got no pride at all? Get him, Lem. I never knew a nigger who could whip his own mother, much less a man.”
In response to that, Ben did something that caused every jaw in the joint to drop. He picked a surprised Snarky up and threw him, like a spear, out of the saloon. Over the top of the swinging doors. The outlaw squealed the whole way and landed with a thunk in the street. As noted, Snarky wasn’t very big, but still Ben had eyeballs popping at that one.
“Lord A’mighty. I ain’t never seed nuthin’ like that a’fore,” one man commented in awe.
“Yeah, out the saloon, over the doors…”
Ben looked at Lem. “You want to go next?”
Lem snarled and threw a punch. Ben leaned back away from it and so the fist never landed, and then the marshal rammed a right into Lem’s gut. The big man doubled over, but he wasn’t especially hurt; he was into his game now. Quicker than Ben expected, Lem raised up and landed a left on Ben’s jaw. It staggered the Negro a bit and Lem charged forward--only to run into Ben’s solid left jab. From that point on, the River Bend lawman kept the outlaw off balance with quick, hard jabs and the occasional fist to the gut. Lem was able to land a few punches but they were ineffectual because Ben had him backing up. Finally, Ben through a right uppercut with all his strength and weight behind it, and it landed solidly under Lem’s chin. The Tolliver man grunted and fell backwards to the floor, dazed, but not unconscious. He didn’t get up.
Ben turned and looked around the room to see if Lem had any accomplices who wanted to join the fray. Almost as soon as he turned his back, he heard a loud blast, and sought the source. Nate was pointing the shotgun at the roof and had let loose one barrel. Some debris fell from the ceiling. Then the bartender slowly lowered the gun and pointed it. He was staring—and aiming the shotgun—behind Ben, at the batwing doors of the saloon.
“Don’t try it, little man, or there won’t be enough of you left to scrape up with a spoon.”
Ben turned and looked and Snarky was standing there with his hand on his gun butt. Apparently, he’d been about to draw it, but he had second thoughts.
Snarky was glancing around the room, snake-eyed, but he slowly took his hand off the gun. “I wasn’t going to draw, I was just makin’ sure everything was going fair in here.”
“Everything is all right,” Nate responded, “and we don’t need your help.” He nodded at his marshal and Ben nodded back.
Top Tolliver came up to Ben. “I’m sorry about the ruckus, Marshal. These are my men. I try to keep them in line, but Lem there doesn’t hold his liquor very well and likes to scrap when he gets a little soused. Snarky’s got no manners, either. I’ll take care of them. If they cause any more trouble, they’ll answer to me.”
“No, they’ll answer to me, Tolliver,” Ben replied firmly. “And they’ll answer either with a long stay in jail or a quick trip out of town. We don’t need—or want—you or your men running loose in River Bend. So keep a tight lid on it or beat it. Because if you don’t do one or the other, I’ll do it for you.”
Tolliver’s face turned red and he flexed his right hand a few times, as if wanting to go for his gun. But he didn’t. “So you know who I am.”
“I make it a point to know who comes to my town, Tolliver. And where they are. And what they are doing. Now, as far as I’ve been able to determine you aren’t wanted for anything in this territory.” Ben’s eyes were flint hard as they stared into Top’s. “For your sake, keep it that way.”
Top scowled. “We’ve done nothing wrong, Marshal. We get accused of a lot of things, but nobody has ever proven any of it.” Then, in what appeared to be a disinterested, bored movement, he shrugged. “Our family likes to move around, travel. We’re seen a lot of places and people think we’re outlaws. But it’s not true.”
Ben heard Nate grunt. “Where does your family get the money to do all this… traveling?” Ben asked.
Top didn’t especially like the question. “We’re independently wealthy.”
"Yeah, they free a lot of banks of money,” Nate put in. Top gave the bartender a seriously nasty look.
“How long are you going to be in town?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know. We’ve been on the trail and need to give our horses a blow. But we won’t be here long.”
Ben turned away. “I’ll be watching you. Every step of the way.”
Lem was standing up now, working his jaw. “That’s a mean left jab and right uppercut you got, Marshal. Teach me sometime?”
“I think you’re mean enough without learning any more punches,” Ben said. “Lay off the booze for the rest of the night or I’ll be back.” He left the saloon, looking down at Snarky, who scowled at him, as he did.
“Looks like we got us a good ‘un, Nate,” one of the men at the bar said. “Marshal, I mean.”
Top watched Ben leave, a gravely thoughtful expression on his face. “Boys, let’s go. I ain’t having no luck at poker, Gus can’t even pick up a whore, and Lem you took a swing at the wrong man this time.” Then he gave Snarky a sour grin. “Never knew you could fly, Snarky.”
The little man scowled again. “That Marshall better not—“
“You leave the Marshal alone,” Top said. “Come on, I’m ready to go. See you around, barkeep.”
“There’s plenty of other saloons in town, Tolliver,” Nate responded, “and a whole lot more on the other side of the territory.” Top just grunted and walked out the door, his men trailing behind him.
They headed for the hotel, turning their coat collars up against a biting wind that had risen that evening. Top stopped about midway down the block and stared at the bank a few doors down and across the street.
“That Marshal seems kinda tough, boys. We can’t hit the bank anyway, as much as I’d like to now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t rough up the town a bit. We have to put that nigger in his place, where he belongs. The same place Indians need to be. Six feet underground.” He smiled a wicked smile.
“Let me have him, Top. I’d like to put a few bullets in him before I shoot him between the eyes,” Snarky said.
“Naw, he’s mine,” Lem said. “If I hadn’t been so drunk, he’da been easy pickin’s.”
“If you ask me, they ought to both stay out of his way,” Gus snorted. Then, “I don’t know, Top. This town seems a mite dangerous to me. Don’t you think we might be better moving on and just leave it be?”
“No, Gus. We owe this place. That bartender’s got to have a comeuppance, and we need to get rid of that marshal. We’ve got the Tolliver name to protect.” He grinned—evilly, again—at his companions. “Snarky, let’s figure out a way to provoke him into a gunfight. Then it would be self-defense.” He looked at the little man with a sarcastic grin. “You aren’t going to let a slave out-draw you, are you?”
Snarky grunted, and the others laughed. The problem was, Top wasn’t trying to be funny.
Chapter Four, Part One—The Wrong Kind of Tryst
Concerning that last chapter, I didn’t know any of the Tollivers, and probably wouldn’t have liked them if I did. I had heard of them, though. Yeah, I would have been quite interested to hear that Ben was marshal of River Bend. And I never thought about Evan Dryer, but then I’d never been engaged to him. I had other thoughts on my mind besides crooks and lawmen.
When I left my cabin in the hills, I didn’t make a beeline for River Bend. There was some country to the northwest that I had never seen and wanted to, so I headed in that direction, figuring I’d make a circle behind the mountains north of Clearwater Valley and come in that way. Like I mentioned at the end of chapter one, I had just about decided to go back to River Bend, but something…something…was holding me back. I didn’t know, of course, that Ben had said to Kelly that I might not go back there for fear of losing—or never having—her, but if I had considered that idea, it might have made some sense to me. Pain hurts, folks, and nothing more than a heart shattered into a billion pieces. And that had happened to me with both Julie and Robin. What’s the old saying…once burned, twice shy? What does that make three times?
Quite the philosopher, aren’t you, Conners…
Well, regardless, I was in a big hurry to get nowhere as slowly as I could, so Ol’ Paint and I meandered through some rolling hills, mostly dead grass, but some pines and junipers in the elevations above us. Some folks think junipers are cedars, but they’re not. A cedar is a cedar and a juniper is a juniper. That’s about all I know about it and probably a whole lot more than the reader wanted to know.
But I saw some cedars, too. I knew the difference because I had built my cabin out of cedar. Not juniper.
That’s the sort of stuff you think about, folks, when you’re riding for hours and hours…and days and days…and never see another human being. Try it sometime.
Things got a little more interesting one fine, warm, sunshine-filled morning. I had come across a well-traveled road that obviously led to somewhere—I think I was in Idaho now, but I wasn’t really sure. Anyway, I decided to follow this road because I figured it would eventually lead to a town and I wanted to pick up some more supplies. Green ham and eggs had lost its appeal a long time ago.
Anyway, the road was windy and hilly and I felt sorry for any horses that had to pull a stage through this territory. But I happened upon a circumstance where the horses were getting some rest—although that wasn’t the intention of the Jehu driving the stagecoach.
“Happened” upon it is the proper word because if I had seen it coming I wouldn’t have happened upon it and might have avoided it entirely, though with my pension for finding, starting, stirring up, or trying to stop trouble, I probably would have stuck my nose in anyway.
I topped a rise and, lo and behold, there was a stagecoach robbery in process right there in front of me. I couldn’t avoid it; it was right there. And the fellow doing the robbing happened to see me and he was holding a rifle, so turning around and going in the other direction didn’t seem to be an option at the moment.
“What have we here?” I brilliantly articulated.
There were seven people with their hands up; five of them on the ground—passengers, I deduced—and the stagecoach driver and his shotgun rider sitting up top. There was only one felon that I could see—a young, small snot but with a big gun aimed in the general direction of the human flesh he intended to relieve of any valuables on their person. And now, with me there, it appeared he had another person to relieve valuables from.
I wasn’t particularly in the mood to have my valuables relieved, especially since I had about $2,000 worth of them in my saddlebags.
Young Small Snot spoke. “Well, it’s just your unlucky day, mister, to ride into the middle of a stagecoach robbery. I reckon I might as well take whatever of yours I want, too. Why don’t you just toss that gun you’re carrying to the ground and join these other fine folks down here where I can see you better?”
I looked at the other fine folks he was talking about. They didn’t seem too happy, in fact, most of them appeared scared to death. There was an older couple who were holding hands; she had her head pointed up to the sky, eyes closed, lips moving—a silent prayer, I suspected. There was a fat man who looked like a drummer—they always ride in stagecoaches, and they are always fat. A young fellow was among the unfortunates, maybe not out of his teens, who was dressed like a cowboy but was as white as a ghost. I couldn’t tell for sure but I do believe he might have wet his britches. I didn’t think he’d be much help. The Jehu—stagecoach driver, called “Jehu” after the Biblical king who drove his chariot like a maniac—was a small, ruddy fellow with a huge tobacco stained Fu Manchu mustache. He had beady eyes, and I got the impression he might go for a gun if he had half a chance. Which meant he’d probably get himself, or somebody else, killed. The shotgun rider was—well, I couldn’t tell what he was because he was looking straight ahead and had his back to me. All I could tell was that he was wearing a light brown jacket and dark hat with dark hair underneath. Since he apparently didn’t know where the robbery was taking place, I doubted I could rely on him in a pinch.
Oh, I forgot mention that the fifth passenger was a young woman wearing a green-patterned camp dress. They were mainly work dresses, not exactly designed for women who were concerned about a shapely waist, but this lady would have looked good in anything. Blonde hair with curls that dangled down her cheeks, soft, mellow blue eyes, lips that were asking to be kissed (at least I was ready to answer the question), and lightly tanned skin that was almost transparent. I looked at her and she looked at me, but about the only thing I could read in her eyes was “Help!”
Well, apparently, I spent too much time analyzing the ill-fated from the stagecoach, because Young Small Snot said, not kindly, “Did you hear me, mister?”
I didn’t like this guy. “Did I hear you say what?
“Oh, wiseacre, huh.” Yeah, I think I’m pretty smart, though I haven’t figured a way out of this one yet… “Well, just in case you’re a lughead, I’ll repeat myself. Once. Throw down your gun, get off the horse, and come stand next to these other people. Is that too hard for you to understand?”
I scratched the back of my head. “No, I understand. You want me to throw down my gun, get off my horse, and go stand next to those other folks down there.” I grinned real big. “Can I kiss the pretty lady while I’m down there?” I looked at her and she blushed.
“That’s between you and her, buster, just do what I told you to.”
“Hmm,” I replied, scratching my head again. “What if I say ‘no’?”
Young Small Snot swung the rifle and pointed it at me. “Then I blow you off the horse. You’re going to get off one way or the other, alive or dead, it’s your choice.”
Now I really didn’t like this guy. I gave him a perturbed look. “Why don’t you shoot that fat drummer instead? He’s worthless, anyway. Or maybe that old man over there. It doesn’t look like he’s got many years left anyway, he won’t miss a few of ‘em.”
I heard a gasp from the audience when I said that. All I was doing, of course, was stalling, waiting for that young punk to make a mistake so I could send him to clean the toilet stalls of Hades where he belonged. That’s where all stagecoach robbers belong. I know, because I once was one.
“Mister, you’ve got three seconds to get off that horse voluntarily or you’ll get off involuntarily.” My, he knows some long words…”Your choice.”
“Buddy, I’d do what he says.” That from the stagecoach driver. “Do you know who you’re dealing with there?”
“Haven’t a clue. Some young, small snot, it looks like.” Another gasp from the amen corner.
“That’s Tristy Tolliver, and he ain’t exactly particular who he buries.” I had heard of Tristy Tolliver, but the only outlaw who had ever impressed me was myself.
“Please do as he says, mister,” the young cowboy with the wet britches said. “Let him get on with his business and he’ll leave us alone. You’re going to get somebody killed if you don’t do as he says.”
“Ok, ok,” I said, “I don’t want anybody to get hurt. Especially me.” I had an idea what to do now. It was risky, but it always is when the other fellow is holding a rifle and you aren’t.
I started to dismount, but he didn’t take the bait I wanted him to take, so I said, “Oh, you wanted my gun.” So I calmly reached back and deliberately, but not with undue, frightening haste, pulled my rifle from its scabbard, and tossed it in his direction. “Here.”
“Not that gun,” he shouted, but I had distracted him for the split-second that I needed. I drew my holstered gun—and it was he who got blown off his horse.
Seven heads, including the shotgun rider—still with their hands in the air—turned their heads as one, looking first at the recently dehorsed and deceased Tristy Tolliver, then to me. Shock registered initially on most faces, then I heard somebody, the drummer I think, blow out a huge breath.
“Thank the Lord,” the older lady muttered.
I wanted my rifle back, so I said, “I guess I better do what that little runt told me to do.” I dismounted, went and picked up my rifle and headed back towards Ol’ Paint. Everybody, except the driver, still had their hands up. “You can put your hands down now, I’m not going to rob you.” Three years ago, between Julie and Robin, I might have.
I went and crawled back onto Ol’ Paint’s back and figured it was time for me to leave. I didn’t see any reason to stay. But before I left, the driver asked, “Who are you, mister? That was as slick as anything I’ve ever witnessed and I’ve never seen anybody draw a gun that fast. I think you coulda beat Tristy straight up.”
I then made a huge, huge mistake, one I usually don’t make, but one that would cost some lives. I told him my name. “I’m Rob Conners. You folks have a nice day.” I touched my hat brim to the ladies and plumb forgot about kissing the pretty one. I rode off down the trail to let those folks pick up whatever pieces needed to be picked up—including Tristy Tolliver’s body.
“So that was Rob Conners,” the driver said and he watched the man who had just saved them ride off. “Just Tristy’s bad luck. Ain’t nobody faster than Conners.”
“I thought he was a loony, the way he was acting,” the drummer said.
“Yeah, but it was all an act. He was just waitin’ for his chance. In this case, he made his own.” Then the driver stared thoughtfully at the receding figure on horseback. “But I’d shore hate to be Rob Conners when Trent Tolliver hears he killed his brother….”
When I left my cabin in the hills, I didn’t make a beeline for River Bend. There was some country to the northwest that I had never seen and wanted to, so I headed in that direction, figuring I’d make a circle behind the mountains north of Clearwater Valley and come in that way. Like I mentioned at the end of chapter one, I had just about decided to go back to River Bend, but something…something…was holding me back. I didn’t know, of course, that Ben had said to Kelly that I might not go back there for fear of losing—or never having—her, but if I had considered that idea, it might have made some sense to me. Pain hurts, folks, and nothing more than a heart shattered into a billion pieces. And that had happened to me with both Julie and Robin. What’s the old saying…once burned, twice shy? What does that make three times?
Quite the philosopher, aren’t you, Conners…
Well, regardless, I was in a big hurry to get nowhere as slowly as I could, so Ol’ Paint and I meandered through some rolling hills, mostly dead grass, but some pines and junipers in the elevations above us. Some folks think junipers are cedars, but they’re not. A cedar is a cedar and a juniper is a juniper. That’s about all I know about it and probably a whole lot more than the reader wanted to know.
But I saw some cedars, too. I knew the difference because I had built my cabin out of cedar. Not juniper.
That’s the sort of stuff you think about, folks, when you’re riding for hours and hours…and days and days…and never see another human being. Try it sometime.
Things got a little more interesting one fine, warm, sunshine-filled morning. I had come across a well-traveled road that obviously led to somewhere—I think I was in Idaho now, but I wasn’t really sure. Anyway, I decided to follow this road because I figured it would eventually lead to a town and I wanted to pick up some more supplies. Green ham and eggs had lost its appeal a long time ago.
Anyway, the road was windy and hilly and I felt sorry for any horses that had to pull a stage through this territory. But I happened upon a circumstance where the horses were getting some rest—although that wasn’t the intention of the Jehu driving the stagecoach.
“Happened” upon it is the proper word because if I had seen it coming I wouldn’t have happened upon it and might have avoided it entirely, though with my pension for finding, starting, stirring up, or trying to stop trouble, I probably would have stuck my nose in anyway.
I topped a rise and, lo and behold, there was a stagecoach robbery in process right there in front of me. I couldn’t avoid it; it was right there. And the fellow doing the robbing happened to see me and he was holding a rifle, so turning around and going in the other direction didn’t seem to be an option at the moment.
“What have we here?” I brilliantly articulated.
There were seven people with their hands up; five of them on the ground—passengers, I deduced—and the stagecoach driver and his shotgun rider sitting up top. There was only one felon that I could see—a young, small snot but with a big gun aimed in the general direction of the human flesh he intended to relieve of any valuables on their person. And now, with me there, it appeared he had another person to relieve valuables from.
I wasn’t particularly in the mood to have my valuables relieved, especially since I had about $2,000 worth of them in my saddlebags.
Young Small Snot spoke. “Well, it’s just your unlucky day, mister, to ride into the middle of a stagecoach robbery. I reckon I might as well take whatever of yours I want, too. Why don’t you just toss that gun you’re carrying to the ground and join these other fine folks down here where I can see you better?”
I looked at the other fine folks he was talking about. They didn’t seem too happy, in fact, most of them appeared scared to death. There was an older couple who were holding hands; she had her head pointed up to the sky, eyes closed, lips moving—a silent prayer, I suspected. There was a fat man who looked like a drummer—they always ride in stagecoaches, and they are always fat. A young fellow was among the unfortunates, maybe not out of his teens, who was dressed like a cowboy but was as white as a ghost. I couldn’t tell for sure but I do believe he might have wet his britches. I didn’t think he’d be much help. The Jehu—stagecoach driver, called “Jehu” after the Biblical king who drove his chariot like a maniac—was a small, ruddy fellow with a huge tobacco stained Fu Manchu mustache. He had beady eyes, and I got the impression he might go for a gun if he had half a chance. Which meant he’d probably get himself, or somebody else, killed. The shotgun rider was—well, I couldn’t tell what he was because he was looking straight ahead and had his back to me. All I could tell was that he was wearing a light brown jacket and dark hat with dark hair underneath. Since he apparently didn’t know where the robbery was taking place, I doubted I could rely on him in a pinch.
Oh, I forgot mention that the fifth passenger was a young woman wearing a green-patterned camp dress. They were mainly work dresses, not exactly designed for women who were concerned about a shapely waist, but this lady would have looked good in anything. Blonde hair with curls that dangled down her cheeks, soft, mellow blue eyes, lips that were asking to be kissed (at least I was ready to answer the question), and lightly tanned skin that was almost transparent. I looked at her and she looked at me, but about the only thing I could read in her eyes was “Help!”
Well, apparently, I spent too much time analyzing the ill-fated from the stagecoach, because Young Small Snot said, not kindly, “Did you hear me, mister?”
I didn’t like this guy. “Did I hear you say what?
“Oh, wiseacre, huh.” Yeah, I think I’m pretty smart, though I haven’t figured a way out of this one yet… “Well, just in case you’re a lughead, I’ll repeat myself. Once. Throw down your gun, get off the horse, and come stand next to these other people. Is that too hard for you to understand?”
I scratched the back of my head. “No, I understand. You want me to throw down my gun, get off my horse, and go stand next to those other folks down there.” I grinned real big. “Can I kiss the pretty lady while I’m down there?” I looked at her and she blushed.
“That’s between you and her, buster, just do what I told you to.”
“Hmm,” I replied, scratching my head again. “What if I say ‘no’?”
Young Small Snot swung the rifle and pointed it at me. “Then I blow you off the horse. You’re going to get off one way or the other, alive or dead, it’s your choice.”
Now I really didn’t like this guy. I gave him a perturbed look. “Why don’t you shoot that fat drummer instead? He’s worthless, anyway. Or maybe that old man over there. It doesn’t look like he’s got many years left anyway, he won’t miss a few of ‘em.”
I heard a gasp from the audience when I said that. All I was doing, of course, was stalling, waiting for that young punk to make a mistake so I could send him to clean the toilet stalls of Hades where he belonged. That’s where all stagecoach robbers belong. I know, because I once was one.
“Mister, you’ve got three seconds to get off that horse voluntarily or you’ll get off involuntarily.” My, he knows some long words…”Your choice.”
“Buddy, I’d do what he says.” That from the stagecoach driver. “Do you know who you’re dealing with there?”
“Haven’t a clue. Some young, small snot, it looks like.” Another gasp from the amen corner.
“That’s Tristy Tolliver, and he ain’t exactly particular who he buries.” I had heard of Tristy Tolliver, but the only outlaw who had ever impressed me was myself.
“Please do as he says, mister,” the young cowboy with the wet britches said. “Let him get on with his business and he’ll leave us alone. You’re going to get somebody killed if you don’t do as he says.”
“Ok, ok,” I said, “I don’t want anybody to get hurt. Especially me.” I had an idea what to do now. It was risky, but it always is when the other fellow is holding a rifle and you aren’t.
I started to dismount, but he didn’t take the bait I wanted him to take, so I said, “Oh, you wanted my gun.” So I calmly reached back and deliberately, but not with undue, frightening haste, pulled my rifle from its scabbard, and tossed it in his direction. “Here.”
“Not that gun,” he shouted, but I had distracted him for the split-second that I needed. I drew my holstered gun—and it was he who got blown off his horse.
Seven heads, including the shotgun rider—still with their hands in the air—turned their heads as one, looking first at the recently dehorsed and deceased Tristy Tolliver, then to me. Shock registered initially on most faces, then I heard somebody, the drummer I think, blow out a huge breath.
“Thank the Lord,” the older lady muttered.
I wanted my rifle back, so I said, “I guess I better do what that little runt told me to do.” I dismounted, went and picked up my rifle and headed back towards Ol’ Paint. Everybody, except the driver, still had their hands up. “You can put your hands down now, I’m not going to rob you.” Three years ago, between Julie and Robin, I might have.
I went and crawled back onto Ol’ Paint’s back and figured it was time for me to leave. I didn’t see any reason to stay. But before I left, the driver asked, “Who are you, mister? That was as slick as anything I’ve ever witnessed and I’ve never seen anybody draw a gun that fast. I think you coulda beat Tristy straight up.”
I then made a huge, huge mistake, one I usually don’t make, but one that would cost some lives. I told him my name. “I’m Rob Conners. You folks have a nice day.” I touched my hat brim to the ladies and plumb forgot about kissing the pretty one. I rode off down the trail to let those folks pick up whatever pieces needed to be picked up—including Tristy Tolliver’s body.
“So that was Rob Conners,” the driver said and he watched the man who had just saved them ride off. “Just Tristy’s bad luck. Ain’t nobody faster than Conners.”
“I thought he was a loony, the way he was acting,” the drummer said.
“Yeah, but it was all an act. He was just waitin’ for his chance. In this case, he made his own.” Then the driver stared thoughtfully at the receding figure on horseback. “But I’d shore hate to be Rob Conners when Trent Tolliver hears he killed his brother….”
Chapter Four, Part Two—Park Twain
Trains can be as boring as stagecoaches, though a little more comfortable. And, as Allie had told Sheriff What’s-His-First-Name Donaldson, the food was horrible. But the train was the quickest way out of Denver and back home, so that’s the mode of transportation Ranger Summer used. That vacation McConnell promised her was sounding better and better every clackety-clacking mile. She didn’t especially like vacations, because she found them…as boring as a train ride. But she had an idea what she wanted to do this time, and it sounded interesting, so she thought she’d give it a shot. The up-in-the-mountains-trout-fishing thing Rob Conners had mentioned to her.
Allie was still 22 years old—it would be June before she turned 23—and she still enjoyed being a Ranger, every bit as much as she always had. As she was looking out the train window at the boring, repetitive, undulating grass-covered hills, her thoughts turned to getting married and having children, which they did from time to time. But it wasn’t her highest priority at the moment. She simply hadn’t found anybody that bowled her over yet—Rob Conners was the closest—but even he couldn’t pull her away from her first love—the Rangers. Not that he had even tried, she mused. Allie was a loner. She lived alone, she liked to operate alone, and men didn’t have much of a place in her life. Or women, either, for that matter. Allie smiled wryly at the thought that she really didn’t have any close friends; any friends, period. And the thought didn’t bother her in the least. I don’t like people and they don’t like me, and she chuckled inwardly at the thought. But something inside her had moved her to start going to church, and she wondered if that was partly because of some kind of longing in her for some human companionship. She even stayed occasionally for their afternoon potluck; better cooking that mine and nicer people than me. But she wouldn’t let anybody get too close, and she wasn’t quite sure why. She had been intimate with men before—in the ultimate sense—but only on the job, and once wholly involuntarily; Nicholas Backstrom and two of his men had raped her repeatedly one night. I never did kill those other two thugs who did that…Romance just…wasn’t that important to her.
I guess this is the kind of stuff you think about on a long, boring train ride. Why didn’t I bring a book? Well, maybe the next train station will have a newspaper or something to read….joy…
The next train station had something all right, but it wasn’t a newspaper or something for Allie to read on the trip…
She didn’t even know the name of the place; the sign at the station announcing the town’s name had fallen off and not been replaced yet. She figured she was in the Wyoming Territory, though. As the train began to slow in preparation for its stop, the conductor came through announcing, “We’ll have to take on some water and fuel, so we’re going to be here about an hour. You can go into town if you’d like, but be back by 1:30 sharp, because that’s when we’re going to leave.”
Might be worth finding a restaurant and getting a meal that doesn’t taste—and smell—like roast buzzard…
The train whistled and hissed to a stop and Allie hopped off. There was a station manager standing on the platform and she asked him, “Where’s the best place to eat in town?”
“German’s,” he said without hesitation—well, after looking Allie up and down, which almost every man did. Then he smiled. “They serve American food, though.” He pointed. “Two blocks, on your left.”
“Thanks.” Allie started to walk away, then paused and said, “Oh, what’s the name of this burg?”
“Crosby.”
“Never heard of it.” She looked past him into the town proper and said, “I see why you tore the sign down from the station roof.” The station man gave Allie a rather annoyed look, but she didn’t pay him any mind. Well, I HAVEN’T ever heard of it…don’t blame me if your rat hole town is nothing more than a speck on a map…She had been in Wyoming before, chasing some of the Hole-in-the-Wall gang. They’d done a bank job just across the border. They’d split up, but she caught a couple of them. They decided they didn’t want to go back to Montana and stand trial…
As Allie walked the two blocks to the restaurant, she got some looks—at least from those who recognized that she was a woman. It wasn’t common, to say the least, for women to wear pants and carry a gun, tied down low, on their hip. Since she had her hair shoved up under her hat, a lot of people mistook her for a man unless they looked real closely. Allie didn’t wear real tight fitting clothes, but she wouldn’t fool a perceptive eye. And until they met her, everybody who had heard of her—like Donaldson and Grigsby in Denver—thought she was a man with a peculiar name. After all, the Rangers don’t hire women--everybody knows that—and there are some men with strange names everywhere. So Allie Summer must be a man. It always tickled her when they learned differently.
She found the restaurant behind some dusty windows and went inside. She did a quick inspection; that was second nature to her now. She detected no danger. There were about 20 tables, most of them occupied, and some of the patrons glanced at her, but only briefly; they were busy eating their meals. She was hard to see clearly anyway because the daylight was to her back. The place smelled ok, so Allie thought she might get some decent food. Since McConnell is paying for it, I’m going to find the most expensive thing on the menu…She usually did that and he usually griped about her expense account—or at least he used to until she got tired of it and said to him one time, “Well, it would have been more, but some cowboy picked me up at a bar one night and bought me the best steak in town. Man, he was good-looking. You shoulda seen the pects on that guy…” McConnell never was quite sure when Allie was joking or not—and in this case, she was, because she never went into bars except to roust outlaws—but he never said anything about her expenses any more, either.
In the restaurant, she weaved her way between tables until she found an empty one at the back where she could see everybody and especially the front door. As noted earlier in this story, Allie didn’t like anybody behind her back. She didn’t take off her hat until she sat down, and then her straight, silky, shoulder-blade length, raven black hair fell, and she took a moment to push it back behind her ears and shoulders. Her hair, and the Indian headband she wore, did attract some attention—mainly from the male population of the restaurant—attention which, once again, Allie duly ignored. Some of the women were staring at her, too, most of them with unvarnished distaste.
The waitress came over. “Special today is chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Apple pie for dessert.”
Allie nodded, then played a hunch. “What’s the special tomorrow?”
“Chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Apple pie for dessert.”
“And day after tomorrow?”
“Chicken—
“—mashed potatoes, and green beans, apple pie for dessert,” Allie finished.
“Your steak any good?”
“You bet. We killed a horse just this morning.”
Allie made a face. She had a feeling the woman might have been telling the truth. “I’ll have the special. Milk to drink, unless you milked the donkey yesterday.”
“Nope, did that this morning myself,” the waitress said and then sauntered off, hollering the order loud enough to raise Lazarus again.
“She looks like the donkey’s mother,” Allie muttered to herself.
Allie studied the room and other customers a little more closely and saw nothing remarkable. Several older men, middle-aged, who looked like ranchers. A few merchant-types with their white shirts and string ties. A table full of fat biddies who kept glancing at Allie with disapproval. She stuck her tongue out at one of them, and laughed when the lady jumped in her chair with an “oh,” and then began jabbering to her friends like a monkey after a banana. Allie paid them no mind after that.
She did notice one younger man who kept surreptitiously glimpsing in her direction. She knew immediately what was going to happen when she saw him finish his coffee, wipe his lips with his napkin, and stand up. Allie watched him the whole time he walked over to her table. He was smiling at her, his hands in his pockets.
“Ah, the belle of the ball,” he said.
“Ah, the lord of the apes,” Allie responded, and he laughed.
He really wasn’t bad looking. Mid-30s, a businessman, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and bolo tie. His hair was black and had some wave to it, his eyes were brown, and he had a black mustache that ran from one lip corner to the other and covered everything from nose to mouth. His head might have been a little too round for him to be truly handsome, but he displayed some confidence that Allie found acceptable.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked. “I’ll pay for your meal for the privilege of spending a few minutes in the presence of such beauty.”
Oh, get off it, Jungle Jim…Allie received compliments like that with some frequency and she could always tell when they were stuffed full of cow manure. Not that she wasn’t aware that she was an attractive woman; but there was a difference between sincerity and sincerity, and Allie had learned it a long time ago. But she’d give the guy another chance and see if he could recover. After all, I’m leaving town in less than an hour and probably never see the creep again.
She responded to his compliment with an equally insincere smile and “thank you,” and agreed to let him join her.
“Thank you,” he said, and sat down in the chair next to her. Allie didn’t miss the fact that his knee touched hers. She didn’t move hers—yet.
Allie started the conversation before the man had a chance to. “Didn’t I meet you in New Haven once before?”
The man made a thoughtful face. “No, I’ve never been to New Haven.”
“I haven’t, either. Must have been two other people.”
He gave her a curious smile, but let the matter pass. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Bruce Tompkins, and I’m a geologist for the Atwater Oil Company. We think there is some oil in this area, and I’m here to check it out.” He even handed Allie a card.
She was already bored, so she put the card on the table without glancing at it. “It’s nice to meet you,” she replied. Well, I’ve just told one lie, I might as well tell another…”My name is Agnes Flatbottom. I work for the NoSmell Fish Company and we think there are some fish in the area and I’m here to check it out.”
Tompkins chuckled. “Why do I think you’re pulling my leg?”
Speaking of legs…She moved hers and, in a seemingly natural move, picked up her foot and set it down—hard—on his. She saw him grimace and said, “Oh, excuse me.” She smiled the insincere smile again and even batted her eyelashes at him a few times.
Tompkins was losing big and he knew it, but he was a good loser so he said, “Oh, that’s all right. I didn’t mean to get my foot in the way of your boot.” Not bad…not good, but not bad…”Now, will you tell me who you really are?”
Allie raised her eyes as if thinking. “Uhhhh, would you believe me if I told you my name is Madame Gertrude Finklestein and I think there are some women in this area and I’m here to check that out?”
Tompkins laughed. “No, I don’t think I’d buy that one, either.”
“Well, how about if I said my name is Allie Summer and I work for the territorial Rangers?”
Tompkins rolled his eyes. “That’s the worst one yet.”
Allie’s food came at that moment. And it looked—and smelled—good.
But she never got to eat it—well, most of it.
There was some gunfire—four or five shots, so close together it was hard to count them. Everybody in the restaurant, including Bruce Tompkins and Allie, looked out the window. Then, a voice shouting, “The bank’s bein’ robbed! The bank’s bein’ robbed! They killed the marshal!” And then the scene turned grisly as the man who had been shouting spread his arms and cried out as he was shot in the back by someone on horseback—and this was something the whole restaurant witnessed from out the window. There were some expressions of horror from the people inside the café.
“Oh, crud,” Allie said, though I’ve cleaned up her language a bit. She grabbed a chicken leg from off her plate, picked up her hat, said to Tompkins, “You told me you’d pay,” and started towards the door in a rush, munching on the chicken as she went.
“Hey, where are you going?” he called after her.
“To catch some fish,” she replied, but he didn’t hear her.
Allie went outside and saw four men on horses heading out of town. People were shouting, screaming, running in circles—the mob without a clue. There was an older man standing near Allie with a rifle in his hands, but the look on his face was of total incomprehension, as if he didn’t know what was going on or what to do about it. Allie yelled at him, “Are you going to use that thing or not?”
He looked at her. “Huh?”
“The rifle!”
The man now stared at the rifle in his hands.
“Oh, good grief,” Allie said, stuck the chicken leg between her teeth, and yanked the rifle out of the man’s hands. A couple of the thieves were still in range. Allie leveled the rifle and fired twice. Both of the horsemen dropped to the ground. The other two outlaws had disappeared around a corner and made their escape.
“Good shooting,” Allie said to the man, sarcastically, as she handed him back his rifle. Now he stared at her. Then, a little disgusted, she headed back to the train. “My food is cold now anyway, I don’t want to talk to that Romeo, and I can’t stand donkey milk,” she muttered to herself. She finished the chicken leg she had been eating and tossed the bone to a nearby dog, who caught it on the fly and downed it in two bites and a gulp. Then hacked several times. Serves you right for not chewing your food, you mangy mutt….
A few of the townsfolk had figured out what was going on, but there was still mass confusion. Allie was gone before anybody could stop her. As she entered the train station, she noticed the time: 1:10. “Well, I probably wouldn’t have had time to finish my lunch anyway.” Talking to herself again.
She boarded the train, found her seat, leaned back, put her hat over her face, and prepared for a nap. It was interrupted a few minutes later.
“Uh…miss?”
Allie knew they were talking to her, but didn’t want any company. So she let out a couple of snores, hoping they’d get the hint and leave.
“She’s asleep, Steve,” she heard another man say.
She detected some angst in Steve’s voice as he said, “I know, but we really need to talk with her.”
Allie sighed inwardly. Might as well get this over with…She pulled her hat off her face and said, “I’m not asleep. What do you want?”
There were two men standing in the aisle of the train; well, the conductor was standing there, too. Both of the men were well-dressed and obviously from town. One of them was tall, 30ish, dark hair, blue eyes, elongated fact, big ears, but had a pleasant face. The other man was short, fat, balding, and perspiring, even though it certainly wasn’t hot. The tall man introduced them.
“I’m Steve Haley,” he said, “and this is Roscoe Hamilton. We’re councilmen from Crosby.” He seemed a little hesitant; Allie’s demeanor probably didn’t help.
Should I tell another lie?... ”Nice to meet you,” is all she replied. Yeah, I did…
“May we…sit down?”
“I think the train is fixing to leave.” Like I wish you would…
“We’ll only be a few minutes,” Haley said.
The conductor rushed in with, “We’ll hold off leavin’ till they’re finished.”
Allie gave him an irritated glance, but waved the men to the seats across from her. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
The two councilmen seemed a little perplexed at her attitude. “Well, we understand that you are the…young lady…who shot the two robbers.”
“I just did what any other manure spreader would have done.”
“Maybe so, but we still appreciate very much what you did. One of the men you shot was carrying the money so all of it was retrieved.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Now may I get back to my nap?... But there was something more to this, Allie noted. They were more uncomfortable than they should have been around an annoyed young woman.
“May we ask your name?” Hamilton said.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
They both stared at her a moment, not quite comprehending. Allie figured they weren’t going to go away until they’d finished their business, and the sooner the better, so she said, “My name is Allie Summer.” She waited for the inevitable, “Allie Summer? We thought you were a man…”
But this time her arrogance was deflated. It was obvious her name meant nothing to either man. “You shoot very well, Miss Summer,” Haley said. “Not many men—people—could have done what you did. It was a terrible situation. Those robbers killed three people, including our marshal, wounded another, and two of them escaped. But, as I said, we did get the money back, thanks to your quick action.”
“Are you going to form a posse and go after the other two?” Allie asked, and the expressions on their faces answered her question.
“Well, Deputy Cannon might do that, but…” Haley sighed. “Miss Summer, do you know who you killed?”
Allie shook her head. “Two men who needed killing is all I know.”
“One of them was Twain Tolliver. Have you heard of the Tolliver gang?”
Yes, Allie had, and knew that the Rangers had been trying to capture them for years; the reader might remember the conversation, recorded earlier, between her and Captain McConnell regarding the Tollivers. She’d never gotten the assignment to go after them because she’d had plenty of other work to do; the Tollivers weren’t the only outlaws in the territory, and again, they weren’t wanted for anything within Allie’s jurisdiction anyway. Still, they were among the worst—probably the worst now that the Buckner gang had been eliminated. She was glad she was able to dispose of one of them.
“I’ve heard of them. Bad lot.”
“Yes, they are. Trent’s not going to be happy when he hears Twain was killed here.”
Allie caught on. “Ah. So you fear he’ll bring his army of miscreants to Crosby and burn the town down.”
Haley smiled painfully. Hamilton was gazing out the window, not wanting to look at Allie. “We’re businessmen, farmers, ranchers, Miss Summer, not gunfighters.”
“I see,” Allie responded. “So when Trent shows up, to save your own hides you’re going to draw him a map to my house.”
Haley winced, and said, “Well, not quite…”
Allie was finished with this conversation. She leaned back and put her hat over her eyes again. “Warn him that if he gets within 200 yards of my place I’ll blow him to the far side of hell where he belongs. Good day, gentlemen.”
They weren’t quite through. “Uh, Miss Summer…there’s a reward for Twain Tolliver and the town would like to give you something for saving the bank.”
Allie lifted her hat, looked at him, and actually smiled. “The only thing I want, Mr. Haley, is a nap.” Down went the hat again.
She heard Haley and Hamilton rise. “Who are you, Miss Summer? You’re not…like most people.”
“Go check your wanted posters.”
They finally took the hint, but at the back of the cabin she overheard this whispered conversation:
Conductor: “Don’t you know who that is? That’s Allie Summer, the Ranger.”
Haley: “Allie Summer? The Allie Summer? We thought he—she—was a man…”
Allie rolled her eyes.
What Allie didn’t hear, though, was Haley’s comment after deboarding the train: “I’d sure hate to be Allie Summer when Trent Tolliver hears that she killed his brother…”
Allie was still 22 years old—it would be June before she turned 23—and she still enjoyed being a Ranger, every bit as much as she always had. As she was looking out the train window at the boring, repetitive, undulating grass-covered hills, her thoughts turned to getting married and having children, which they did from time to time. But it wasn’t her highest priority at the moment. She simply hadn’t found anybody that bowled her over yet—Rob Conners was the closest—but even he couldn’t pull her away from her first love—the Rangers. Not that he had even tried, she mused. Allie was a loner. She lived alone, she liked to operate alone, and men didn’t have much of a place in her life. Or women, either, for that matter. Allie smiled wryly at the thought that she really didn’t have any close friends; any friends, period. And the thought didn’t bother her in the least. I don’t like people and they don’t like me, and she chuckled inwardly at the thought. But something inside her had moved her to start going to church, and she wondered if that was partly because of some kind of longing in her for some human companionship. She even stayed occasionally for their afternoon potluck; better cooking that mine and nicer people than me. But she wouldn’t let anybody get too close, and she wasn’t quite sure why. She had been intimate with men before—in the ultimate sense—but only on the job, and once wholly involuntarily; Nicholas Backstrom and two of his men had raped her repeatedly one night. I never did kill those other two thugs who did that…Romance just…wasn’t that important to her.
I guess this is the kind of stuff you think about on a long, boring train ride. Why didn’t I bring a book? Well, maybe the next train station will have a newspaper or something to read….joy…
The next train station had something all right, but it wasn’t a newspaper or something for Allie to read on the trip…
She didn’t even know the name of the place; the sign at the station announcing the town’s name had fallen off and not been replaced yet. She figured she was in the Wyoming Territory, though. As the train began to slow in preparation for its stop, the conductor came through announcing, “We’ll have to take on some water and fuel, so we’re going to be here about an hour. You can go into town if you’d like, but be back by 1:30 sharp, because that’s when we’re going to leave.”
Might be worth finding a restaurant and getting a meal that doesn’t taste—and smell—like roast buzzard…
The train whistled and hissed to a stop and Allie hopped off. There was a station manager standing on the platform and she asked him, “Where’s the best place to eat in town?”
“German’s,” he said without hesitation—well, after looking Allie up and down, which almost every man did. Then he smiled. “They serve American food, though.” He pointed. “Two blocks, on your left.”
“Thanks.” Allie started to walk away, then paused and said, “Oh, what’s the name of this burg?”
“Crosby.”
“Never heard of it.” She looked past him into the town proper and said, “I see why you tore the sign down from the station roof.” The station man gave Allie a rather annoyed look, but she didn’t pay him any mind. Well, I HAVEN’T ever heard of it…don’t blame me if your rat hole town is nothing more than a speck on a map…She had been in Wyoming before, chasing some of the Hole-in-the-Wall gang. They’d done a bank job just across the border. They’d split up, but she caught a couple of them. They decided they didn’t want to go back to Montana and stand trial…
As Allie walked the two blocks to the restaurant, she got some looks—at least from those who recognized that she was a woman. It wasn’t common, to say the least, for women to wear pants and carry a gun, tied down low, on their hip. Since she had her hair shoved up under her hat, a lot of people mistook her for a man unless they looked real closely. Allie didn’t wear real tight fitting clothes, but she wouldn’t fool a perceptive eye. And until they met her, everybody who had heard of her—like Donaldson and Grigsby in Denver—thought she was a man with a peculiar name. After all, the Rangers don’t hire women--everybody knows that—and there are some men with strange names everywhere. So Allie Summer must be a man. It always tickled her when they learned differently.
She found the restaurant behind some dusty windows and went inside. She did a quick inspection; that was second nature to her now. She detected no danger. There were about 20 tables, most of them occupied, and some of the patrons glanced at her, but only briefly; they were busy eating their meals. She was hard to see clearly anyway because the daylight was to her back. The place smelled ok, so Allie thought she might get some decent food. Since McConnell is paying for it, I’m going to find the most expensive thing on the menu…She usually did that and he usually griped about her expense account—or at least he used to until she got tired of it and said to him one time, “Well, it would have been more, but some cowboy picked me up at a bar one night and bought me the best steak in town. Man, he was good-looking. You shoulda seen the pects on that guy…” McConnell never was quite sure when Allie was joking or not—and in this case, she was, because she never went into bars except to roust outlaws—but he never said anything about her expenses any more, either.
In the restaurant, she weaved her way between tables until she found an empty one at the back where she could see everybody and especially the front door. As noted earlier in this story, Allie didn’t like anybody behind her back. She didn’t take off her hat until she sat down, and then her straight, silky, shoulder-blade length, raven black hair fell, and she took a moment to push it back behind her ears and shoulders. Her hair, and the Indian headband she wore, did attract some attention—mainly from the male population of the restaurant—attention which, once again, Allie duly ignored. Some of the women were staring at her, too, most of them with unvarnished distaste.
The waitress came over. “Special today is chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Apple pie for dessert.”
Allie nodded, then played a hunch. “What’s the special tomorrow?”
“Chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Apple pie for dessert.”
“And day after tomorrow?”
“Chicken—
“—mashed potatoes, and green beans, apple pie for dessert,” Allie finished.
“Your steak any good?”
“You bet. We killed a horse just this morning.”
Allie made a face. She had a feeling the woman might have been telling the truth. “I’ll have the special. Milk to drink, unless you milked the donkey yesterday.”
“Nope, did that this morning myself,” the waitress said and then sauntered off, hollering the order loud enough to raise Lazarus again.
“She looks like the donkey’s mother,” Allie muttered to herself.
Allie studied the room and other customers a little more closely and saw nothing remarkable. Several older men, middle-aged, who looked like ranchers. A few merchant-types with their white shirts and string ties. A table full of fat biddies who kept glancing at Allie with disapproval. She stuck her tongue out at one of them, and laughed when the lady jumped in her chair with an “oh,” and then began jabbering to her friends like a monkey after a banana. Allie paid them no mind after that.
She did notice one younger man who kept surreptitiously glimpsing in her direction. She knew immediately what was going to happen when she saw him finish his coffee, wipe his lips with his napkin, and stand up. Allie watched him the whole time he walked over to her table. He was smiling at her, his hands in his pockets.
“Ah, the belle of the ball,” he said.
“Ah, the lord of the apes,” Allie responded, and he laughed.
He really wasn’t bad looking. Mid-30s, a businessman, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and bolo tie. His hair was black and had some wave to it, his eyes were brown, and he had a black mustache that ran from one lip corner to the other and covered everything from nose to mouth. His head might have been a little too round for him to be truly handsome, but he displayed some confidence that Allie found acceptable.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked. “I’ll pay for your meal for the privilege of spending a few minutes in the presence of such beauty.”
Oh, get off it, Jungle Jim…Allie received compliments like that with some frequency and she could always tell when they were stuffed full of cow manure. Not that she wasn’t aware that she was an attractive woman; but there was a difference between sincerity and sincerity, and Allie had learned it a long time ago. But she’d give the guy another chance and see if he could recover. After all, I’m leaving town in less than an hour and probably never see the creep again.
She responded to his compliment with an equally insincere smile and “thank you,” and agreed to let him join her.
“Thank you,” he said, and sat down in the chair next to her. Allie didn’t miss the fact that his knee touched hers. She didn’t move hers—yet.
Allie started the conversation before the man had a chance to. “Didn’t I meet you in New Haven once before?”
The man made a thoughtful face. “No, I’ve never been to New Haven.”
“I haven’t, either. Must have been two other people.”
He gave her a curious smile, but let the matter pass. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Bruce Tompkins, and I’m a geologist for the Atwater Oil Company. We think there is some oil in this area, and I’m here to check it out.” He even handed Allie a card.
She was already bored, so she put the card on the table without glancing at it. “It’s nice to meet you,” she replied. Well, I’ve just told one lie, I might as well tell another…”My name is Agnes Flatbottom. I work for the NoSmell Fish Company and we think there are some fish in the area and I’m here to check it out.”
Tompkins chuckled. “Why do I think you’re pulling my leg?”
Speaking of legs…She moved hers and, in a seemingly natural move, picked up her foot and set it down—hard—on his. She saw him grimace and said, “Oh, excuse me.” She smiled the insincere smile again and even batted her eyelashes at him a few times.
Tompkins was losing big and he knew it, but he was a good loser so he said, “Oh, that’s all right. I didn’t mean to get my foot in the way of your boot.” Not bad…not good, but not bad…”Now, will you tell me who you really are?”
Allie raised her eyes as if thinking. “Uhhhh, would you believe me if I told you my name is Madame Gertrude Finklestein and I think there are some women in this area and I’m here to check that out?”
Tompkins laughed. “No, I don’t think I’d buy that one, either.”
“Well, how about if I said my name is Allie Summer and I work for the territorial Rangers?”
Tompkins rolled his eyes. “That’s the worst one yet.”
Allie’s food came at that moment. And it looked—and smelled—good.
But she never got to eat it—well, most of it.
There was some gunfire—four or five shots, so close together it was hard to count them. Everybody in the restaurant, including Bruce Tompkins and Allie, looked out the window. Then, a voice shouting, “The bank’s bein’ robbed! The bank’s bein’ robbed! They killed the marshal!” And then the scene turned grisly as the man who had been shouting spread his arms and cried out as he was shot in the back by someone on horseback—and this was something the whole restaurant witnessed from out the window. There were some expressions of horror from the people inside the café.
“Oh, crud,” Allie said, though I’ve cleaned up her language a bit. She grabbed a chicken leg from off her plate, picked up her hat, said to Tompkins, “You told me you’d pay,” and started towards the door in a rush, munching on the chicken as she went.
“Hey, where are you going?” he called after her.
“To catch some fish,” she replied, but he didn’t hear her.
Allie went outside and saw four men on horses heading out of town. People were shouting, screaming, running in circles—the mob without a clue. There was an older man standing near Allie with a rifle in his hands, but the look on his face was of total incomprehension, as if he didn’t know what was going on or what to do about it. Allie yelled at him, “Are you going to use that thing or not?”
He looked at her. “Huh?”
“The rifle!”
The man now stared at the rifle in his hands.
“Oh, good grief,” Allie said, stuck the chicken leg between her teeth, and yanked the rifle out of the man’s hands. A couple of the thieves were still in range. Allie leveled the rifle and fired twice. Both of the horsemen dropped to the ground. The other two outlaws had disappeared around a corner and made their escape.
“Good shooting,” Allie said to the man, sarcastically, as she handed him back his rifle. Now he stared at her. Then, a little disgusted, she headed back to the train. “My food is cold now anyway, I don’t want to talk to that Romeo, and I can’t stand donkey milk,” she muttered to herself. She finished the chicken leg she had been eating and tossed the bone to a nearby dog, who caught it on the fly and downed it in two bites and a gulp. Then hacked several times. Serves you right for not chewing your food, you mangy mutt….
A few of the townsfolk had figured out what was going on, but there was still mass confusion. Allie was gone before anybody could stop her. As she entered the train station, she noticed the time: 1:10. “Well, I probably wouldn’t have had time to finish my lunch anyway.” Talking to herself again.
She boarded the train, found her seat, leaned back, put her hat over her face, and prepared for a nap. It was interrupted a few minutes later.
“Uh…miss?”
Allie knew they were talking to her, but didn’t want any company. So she let out a couple of snores, hoping they’d get the hint and leave.
“She’s asleep, Steve,” she heard another man say.
She detected some angst in Steve’s voice as he said, “I know, but we really need to talk with her.”
Allie sighed inwardly. Might as well get this over with…She pulled her hat off her face and said, “I’m not asleep. What do you want?”
There were two men standing in the aisle of the train; well, the conductor was standing there, too. Both of the men were well-dressed and obviously from town. One of them was tall, 30ish, dark hair, blue eyes, elongated fact, big ears, but had a pleasant face. The other man was short, fat, balding, and perspiring, even though it certainly wasn’t hot. The tall man introduced them.
“I’m Steve Haley,” he said, “and this is Roscoe Hamilton. We’re councilmen from Crosby.” He seemed a little hesitant; Allie’s demeanor probably didn’t help.
Should I tell another lie?... ”Nice to meet you,” is all she replied. Yeah, I did…
“May we…sit down?”
“I think the train is fixing to leave.” Like I wish you would…
“We’ll only be a few minutes,” Haley said.
The conductor rushed in with, “We’ll hold off leavin’ till they’re finished.”
Allie gave him an irritated glance, but waved the men to the seats across from her. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
The two councilmen seemed a little perplexed at her attitude. “Well, we understand that you are the…young lady…who shot the two robbers.”
“I just did what any other manure spreader would have done.”
“Maybe so, but we still appreciate very much what you did. One of the men you shot was carrying the money so all of it was retrieved.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Now may I get back to my nap?... But there was something more to this, Allie noted. They were more uncomfortable than they should have been around an annoyed young woman.
“May we ask your name?” Hamilton said.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
They both stared at her a moment, not quite comprehending. Allie figured they weren’t going to go away until they’d finished their business, and the sooner the better, so she said, “My name is Allie Summer.” She waited for the inevitable, “Allie Summer? We thought you were a man…”
But this time her arrogance was deflated. It was obvious her name meant nothing to either man. “You shoot very well, Miss Summer,” Haley said. “Not many men—people—could have done what you did. It was a terrible situation. Those robbers killed three people, including our marshal, wounded another, and two of them escaped. But, as I said, we did get the money back, thanks to your quick action.”
“Are you going to form a posse and go after the other two?” Allie asked, and the expressions on their faces answered her question.
“Well, Deputy Cannon might do that, but…” Haley sighed. “Miss Summer, do you know who you killed?”
Allie shook her head. “Two men who needed killing is all I know.”
“One of them was Twain Tolliver. Have you heard of the Tolliver gang?”
Yes, Allie had, and knew that the Rangers had been trying to capture them for years; the reader might remember the conversation, recorded earlier, between her and Captain McConnell regarding the Tollivers. She’d never gotten the assignment to go after them because she’d had plenty of other work to do; the Tollivers weren’t the only outlaws in the territory, and again, they weren’t wanted for anything within Allie’s jurisdiction anyway. Still, they were among the worst—probably the worst now that the Buckner gang had been eliminated. She was glad she was able to dispose of one of them.
“I’ve heard of them. Bad lot.”
“Yes, they are. Trent’s not going to be happy when he hears Twain was killed here.”
Allie caught on. “Ah. So you fear he’ll bring his army of miscreants to Crosby and burn the town down.”
Haley smiled painfully. Hamilton was gazing out the window, not wanting to look at Allie. “We’re businessmen, farmers, ranchers, Miss Summer, not gunfighters.”
“I see,” Allie responded. “So when Trent shows up, to save your own hides you’re going to draw him a map to my house.”
Haley winced, and said, “Well, not quite…”
Allie was finished with this conversation. She leaned back and put her hat over her eyes again. “Warn him that if he gets within 200 yards of my place I’ll blow him to the far side of hell where he belongs. Good day, gentlemen.”
They weren’t quite through. “Uh, Miss Summer…there’s a reward for Twain Tolliver and the town would like to give you something for saving the bank.”
Allie lifted her hat, looked at him, and actually smiled. “The only thing I want, Mr. Haley, is a nap.” Down went the hat again.
She heard Haley and Hamilton rise. “Who are you, Miss Summer? You’re not…like most people.”
“Go check your wanted posters.”
They finally took the hint, but at the back of the cabin she overheard this whispered conversation:
Conductor: “Don’t you know who that is? That’s Allie Summer, the Ranger.”
Haley: “Allie Summer? The Allie Summer? We thought he—she—was a man…”
Allie rolled her eyes.
What Allie didn’t hear, though, was Haley’s comment after deboarding the train: “I’d sure hate to be Allie Summer when Trent Tolliver hears that she killed his brother…”
Chapter Four, Part Three—Toppling
Kelly Atkins might have been right about Clearwater Valley being the best in the country. It was certainly beautiful, large enough for many settlements, with excellent water year-round, and the grass to go with it. The summers were hot and the winters could be brutally cold, but that was about all the area had against it.
Clearwater Valley was named after the Clearwater River, which largely divided the valley in half. The valley ran roughly north and south, and was surrounded by mountains, though the range stretching from northwest to northeast was the mightiest. Clearwater Valley was shaped much like a baseball field. If the reader will allow the analogy, the river came in from the mountains deep down the left field foul line, meandered lazily through left-center field, down near second base, over the pitcher’s mound, and then not far up the first base line where it the disappeared into the hills to the southeast. The town of River Bend lay on the west side, in a curve in the river between second base and the mound. The whole valley consisted of several hundred thousand acres. Gail Sanders had a ranch and owned most of the eastern half, which she called East Clearwater. Actually, she also owned the western half of the valley, but was selling that in parcels to settlers. There was some growth as new people moved in, but it wasn’t a boom. Still, River Bend was a prosperous town, the home now of several hundred people—including the ranchers who lived out in the valley.
Kelly and her father, Fred, owned a small, 160-acre spread on a hillside in the southwestern part of the valley. They weren’t getting rich, but they made do and were very happy with what they had. They ran about 20 cattle on their land, and Fred would sell a few every so often if they started overgrazing the grass he had. But the Atkins also had a number of domestic animals, such as chickens, pigs, and goats, and Kelly worked a small garden in which she grew some vegetables and fruit. She was also a near marksman with a rifle and kept the family sufficiently supplied with meat. As noted earlier, her mother had died many years before—Kelly never knew her—so Fred and his daughter lived alone. And were very well respected in Clearwater Valley.
Fred adored his daughter and didn’t want to lose her to another man, though he knew it was going to happen soon enough. But he tried. Kelly had come home one afternoon and spotted three new crosses sticking up in the ground. She had asked her father what they were doing there. With a twinkle in his eye, Fred had responded, “Well, three fellows came out today wanting to court you, but I…persuaded them otherwise.”
Kelly had laughed…but had also removed the crosses.
River Bend was a nice town, with many good people, but it was far from perfect. And while the Negro Ben Baker had been accepted and was well-liked by most of the populace, there was that element—lewd fellows of the baser sort, in the words of the Good Book—that took offense just because of the color of his skin. They were outnumbered, and hadn’t caused Ben any problems yet. And that was partly because they had no real leadership in organizing against him.
No leadership, that is, until Top Tolliver and his men arrived in River Bend.
In spite of all his conciliatory gestures towards bartender Nate Nation and Marshal Ben Baker, Top Tolliver was stewing. Nation had gotten the best of him—publicly—and Ben had made fools of two of his men. This simply could not be allowed to stand without retribution. If people were laughing at the Tollivers, they weren’t fearing them; and fear was a crucial element to the success of any outlaw gang. If word of what Nate and Ben had done got around, people would begin to believe in the vulnerability of the gang. That could be disastrous.
Plus, Trent would never tolerate Top leaving town without re-establishing the credibility and dread of the Tolliver name. The only question to Top was not that Ben, especially, must die, but how he would die, and what else could be done to punish the town of River Bend. Robbing the bank became secondary to the revenge that was necessary to restore the Tolliver reputation.
And Top knew a way to accomplish that.
The Royal Flush wasn’t the only saloon in River Bend, it was just the classiest. And had the toughest bartender. That baser sort of lewd fellows mentioned a few paragraphs earlier haunted the less respectable establishments in town, the ones with the watered-down whiskey and the two dollar whores. It was in these establishments where Top figured he could find the help he needed to bring down Ben Baker.
It was a place creatively named “River Bend Saloon.” It was in a seedier part of town —called the “Hot Spot,” for reasons unknown--and as the Tolliver men had walked down the lane looking for a likely locale, they had been repulsed by what they had seen. Most of the buildings were empty and boarded up. There were drunks moaning in the alleys. The cheap, washed-up, and ugly “ladies of the night” were standing outside their brothels—and there were several—trying to talk passers-by out of their money. The area wasn’t very well lit, and it smelled of raw sewage. But actually, there wasn’t a whole lot of crime in the area. There wasn’t much to steal. The occasional brawl broke out, but Ben and his deputy, Turley Edwards, frankly didn’t waste much time in the Hot Spot; it had a way of policing itself so the lawmen largely let it do it.
The River Bend Saloon was typical of the area. It had a regular door--instead of swinging doors--announcing the “.ive. Be.. Salloon”—yes, “salloon,” not “saloon.” Top and his men walked in; the room was thick with smoke and rancid whiskey smells. There were only a couple of lanterns providing light. The bar was old, faded, and cracked—and the bartender looked the same. There was a piano, and a barely-clad female was beating an unrecognizable, out-of-tune ditty on it. Plenty of tables occupied most of the space, and plenty of patrons occupied most of the tables. Top wrinkled his nose and sneezed as he walked towards the bar.
“This place is awful,” he murmured to his companions. Then smiled. “But just what we’re looking for.”
He ordered whiskey, and took the bottle and four glasses. Nobody paid any attention or said anything to them. Poker was common at most of the tables, and Top idly wondered where any of these louses got enough money to play a hand.
The Tolliver men found a suitable table and it didn’t take long for Top to strike up a conversation with a nearby contingent of…lewd fellows of the baser sort.
“Quite a town you got here,” he said, having to lift his voice a bit to be heard over the music, cursing, spitting, hacking, laughing, chip-rattling, and whore bottom-slapping that generally can be heard in such palaces of pleasure.
The fellow he had spoken to grunted and the other men at his table—and there were five total—laughed softly. “Yeah, a reg’lar Garden of Eden,” the man replied. It was so dark that Top could hardly see him, but he appeared to have a rather weathered face under a hat that was bent out of shape. The other men didn’t appear in much better condition. “Me, Duke, and the boys is thinkin’ about headin’ somewheres else.” He made a general motion with his hand around the table, indicating who “Duke and the boys” were. “Fact is, we was talkin’ about it right now.”
“Where would you go? I’ve been lots of places. They’re all pretty much the same. Watered down whiskey, ugly whores, and law that won’t mind its own business.” Top scooted his chair over to enable quieter conversation. He thought he might have found the men he wanted.
“Well, that pretty much describes River Bend. Gotta be better over the hill somewhere.”
“Must be bad here if you gents are thinking about pulling out.”
Another grunt. “Well, we got the cheap whiskey and ugly women, but the worst thing is they went and hired an uppity nigger for a marshal.” He shook his head and downed his drink. “That’s downright embarrassin.” Top reached over with his bottle of whiskey and poured him another. The man had taken the conversation in exactly the direction Tolliver had wanted. “Obliged,” the fellow said. “You boys not from around here?”
“No, we’re just passing through,” Top replied. “That is embarrassing, having a slave for law around here. The world sure has turned upside down, hasn’t it.” The group all chuckled. He looked at the man. “Why don’t you fellows do something about it? Put him in his place? By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
“Hardy,” the man responded. “Hardy Nippo. That’s Duke, Rhino, Samson, and Digger,” pointing around the table as he called out the names. “Who are you gents?”
“I’m Top Tolliver,” he said. “This is Lem, Snarky, and Gus. You heard of Trent Tolliver and his brothers?”
Hardy’s eyes got big and he seemed to sober up a little. “Yeah. You one of them Tollivers?” When Top nodded, Hardy turned to his friends and said, “Hey, boys, did you hear that? These guys are part of the Tolliver gang.”
That did seem to get through to the inebriated brains of his buddies, and a couple of other men at a nearby table overheard, too, and were now watching and listening.
Hardy lowered his voice, leaned over, and said to Top, “Whachu boys doin’ in town? Gonna hit the bank?” He burped and Top made a face at the sour whiskey smell that reached his olfactory senses.
Tolliver shook his head. “No, like I said, we’re just riding through. We’re not wanted in this territory and we’re going to keep it that way.” But then, he appeared to be thinking—an illusion, he already had this planned, of course. “We did have a run-in with your marshal, though. And that ape of a bartender over at the Royal Flush. Both of ‘em think they’re hot stuff, and me and my boys were thinking about teaching them a lesson or two before we got shuck of this place.” He looked around at Hardy and his men. “You fellows want to help out? If you do a good enough job…” He shrugged. “We Tollivers are always looking for good men. I’ll talk to Trent…” And though he left that hanging, the implication obvious, Top had no intention of doing any such thing. This scum was far below the caliber of men that rode with the Tollivers, but they would serve Top’s purpose in River Bend. But let them think they might be good enough to ride with the gang—that was part of the bait. An appeal to ego.
Hardy’s eyes glistened and he looked at the men around the table. A couple of them appeared skeptical, but Hardy said to Top, “What have you got in mind?”
Top replied, “Pretty simple. You guys go into the Royal Flush. Get a ruckus started. Make it a good one. The marshal will come over, the bartender will stick his nose in it, and we’ll wipe out both of them. At least the marshal.” He looked around the table, his face serious and mean. “Nobody crosses a Tolliver and lives to tell about it.”
The men got the message and they were suitably impressed—and intimidated. One of them, Rhino—called that because of his upturned nose, Top figured—responded, “I don’t want to be killin’ no lawman. That’s serious stuff that can get a fellow a rope mighty quick.”
“No, you won’t be doing any killing. In fact, you don’t even need to be wearing guns, so you won’t be accused of shooting anybody. Just start the fracas, we’ll be around, and when the marshal shows up, we’ll provoke him into a gunfight. Snarky here is awful quick to clear leather and he’ll take him. We’ll make it look like self-defense. You boys will get off, scot-free, have a good time, and maybe—just maybe—end up riding with the Tollivers.”
This plan wasn’t exactly what Top had in mind—it wasn’t foolproof enough—but it was simple, and he’d found those sorts of plans were usually the best, especially when dealing with men whose intelligence level ranked right up there with turkeys and sheep. “What do you say?” he asked, looking around the table. “I’ll even sweeten the pot with a little cash. Say, 50 dollars apiece—after you’ve done the job, of course. I’ll give you some whiskey money, and maybe a little stake in a poker game. Go in there, pick a fight, get it going, and we’ll do the rest when the marshal shows up. Just make sure the fight gets out into the street where it’ll be easier for us to pick off Baker.”
The money seemed to swing the skeptical to Top’s idea. “Well, as long as we don’t have to shoot no lawman,” Duke said. Then he grinned. “50 bucks for startin’ a brawl. That’s not a bad night’s work. How about it, boys?”
There were general nods around the table, and one of the men at the other table who had been listening piped up, “Can we get in on that? That big nigger busted my lip and tossed me in the hoosegow not long ago and I been wantin’ to pay him back ever since.”
“The more, the merrier,” Top said. He had no intention of paying any of these men $50, and they didn’t seem to recognize any inconsistencies in his plan. But that didn’t matter. All they needed to do was get the fight started and get Ben involved in it. He’d take care of the rest. He decided he wasn’t going to bother with Nate Nation—unless an easy circumstance arose.
“When do you want us to do this?” Hardy asked.
Top sort of shrugged. “Tomorrow’s Friday; how about tomorrow night? There’ll be a big crowd there. You boys get together around 7:30 or so and go into the Royal Flush. Let it be known that you’re now part of the Tolliver gang, and that me, Gus, Lem, and Snarky will be there soon. We’ll be there, probably outside. Start the fight. Since you’re part of the Tolliver gang now”—it was nice how he slipped that in there—“somebody might even start the fight before you do, trying to show how tough they are.” He grinned. “I’ll bet you boys can work up a doozy.”
He got grins all around the table. “Yeah,” Rhino said. “I ain’t been in a good scrap in a long time. It’ll feel good to rub my knuckles on somebody’s nose.”
“When are you goin’ to get there?” Hardy asked Top.
“You may not even see us, but we’ll be there. I want to see how you boys handle this to see if your worthy of riding with us. Understand?”
All the men around the table nodded their heads, though Top wasn’t sure he saw understanding in everybody’s eyes.
Tolliver nodded, and stood up. “Ok, tomorrow night. I’ll let you boys handle the details of how to start the fight. That’s all you need to do.” He tossed $100 on the table. “Divide that up among yourselves. That’ll get you started tomorrow night.”
“Oooo-wheee,” Hardy said, reaching out for the money. “I might try out one of the Flush’s whores with my hunk of that.”
“Just get it done,” Top said. “Let’s meet here, say 10 o’clock, after it’s all over and I’ll pay you and we’ll talk about…other things.” And he gave them a knowing smile.
“Sounds good, Mr. Tolliver. We’ll do our part, don’t you worry none about that.”
Top nodded, motioned with his head to his men, and they left the bar. Lem heaved a sigh when they were outside. “Lord, I think this is the first decent breath I’ve had since we went in that place.”
“And it stinks out here,” Snarky said.
Gus spoke up. “Boss, do you really trust those fellows? Seem like a bunch of low-lifes to me.”
“They are, but, yeah, I think they’ll do it. For 50 bucks, most of them would probably shoot their own mothers.”
“You don’t really intend to pay them, do you? And ride with us…?”
Top gave Gus a “get real” look. “Of course not. In fact, you boys are going to be long gone by tomorrow night.” He smiled.
He received a collective “Huh?” for that last comment.
“We’re going to drop by the marshal’s office tomorrow morning and ask him how to get to Miles’ Heading in Idaho. We’ll let him know that we’re leaving town—immediately. He’ll be glad to hear that, of course, and we’ll go about 10 miles or so and you boys will camp out. I’ll sneak back into town about 7:30 when it’s dark, and hide out somewhere near the saloon. When the fight hits the street and Baker is…preoccupied…I’ll put a bullet in his gullet and slip back out of town. Maybe that bartender, too, if he’s around, but I especially want that marshal. That bunch of clowns I just hired will brag their fool heads off that they were working for the Tollivers, but nobody will be able to prove anything—after all, we left town. They’ll show back up at the River Bend Saloon at 10, but we won’t be there, of course. They’ll cuss us all the more, and people in town won’t know what to think—except not to mess with the Tollivers.”
“I thought you were going to let me have that marshal, Top,” Snarky said. “I want him real bad.”
“No, Snarky, I don’t know if you can coax Baker into a gunfight or not. I’m not going to risk that. And you can’t shoot him down in cold blood—not where people can witness it. We’ll get the credit for doing it, but nobody will be able to prove it was us because nobody will see me shoot the marshal.”
Gus didn’t especially like the plan; he thought he saw too many “ifs” in it. If those men even showed up at the Royal Flush; he wasn’t convinced they were sober enough tonight to understand what was expected of them. If they could get a good fight started; Nate Nation would probably pull out that shotgun of his. If they could get it out into the street; that didn’t always happen. If Ben Baker showed up; it might be the deputy making the rounds. If nobody saw Top shoot the marshal; gunshots draw attention. If the Tollivers got the credit for killing Baker without Top being seen doing it. But Gus wasn’t going to voice any objection. Except to say, “I hope those boys are up to it.”
Top was a little peeved at him. “Gus, all they’ve got to do is start a barroom brawl. How difficult is that?”
“What if Baker doesn’t show up?”
“He did the other night and nothing was really going on. He just happened to be making his rounds and lucked into Lem about to start that fight. Well, he’ll be making his rounds tomorrow night, too, and he’ll hear the noise and investigate. I’ll get him. You boys just have supper ready, that’s all you’ll need to do.”
Gus still didn’t like it, but he let it go. Top usually knew what he was doing.
And, after all, how hard is it to get a fight started in a drunken saloon?
The next day…
Kelly Atkins, as usual, was up before dawn, and before her father, fixing breakfast for them. Fred usually rose at the smell of bacon and had a cup of coffee while his daughter was preparing eggs or pancakes or whatever she had in store for the morning.
“I’m going to need to go into town this morning, dad,” she said to him as she heaped some scrambled eggs onto a platter. “Something’s not right with my rifle and I’m going to take it to Randy Tate and get him to fix it.” Tate was a local blacksmith who doubled as gunsmith.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“The trigger is acting strange. Sometimes it’s too loose and sometimes it sticks. I can’t figure it out.”
“Well, that’s more up Tate’s line than mine, so I’ll let him deal with it. Pick up the mail while you’re in town, will you?”
Kelly always did, but she said “yes,” and after breakfast she saddled her horse, Buckeye, and rode into River Bend. The days were starting to warm up, but there was still a chill on the morning air. But the sun was out and that brightened Kelly’s mood some. Some…a little…well, probably not at all, if truth be told…
Randy Tate examined Kelly’s gun for a few minutes. “The problem, Miss Atkins, is that this whachamacallit that fits here into the thingamabob is all catty-wampus and I’m going to have to conjure up a hootnanny to fix it with and it will require major surgery….” That’s not exactly what Randy said, but as far as Kelly was concerned, that’s what it amounted to. The only thing she knew about rifles was how to load, aim, and pull the trigger. So Randy’s explanation made no sense to her.
“How long will it take?”
Randy rubbed his jaw, which was covered with about a week’s growth of red beard. He was a big fellow, a lot of it in a gut that had had too many beers, but he was a skilled gunsmith. “I reckon I can have it done by tonight. I’m sorry, but I got a couple other jobs to do, so it will be this afternoon before I can get to yours. But I can have it finished by, say, 8 P.M.”
That wasn’t especially to Kelly’s liking. She didn’t want to leave the rifle with Tate overnight; that gun slept in the bed with her, just in case some four—or two—legged varmint came prowling around the house at night. But the thought of riding home after dark wasn’t terribly appealing, either. After a few moments’ thought, however, the latter was the lesser of the two evils in her mind, so she nodded and said, “Ok, I’ll be in town and drop by around 7 or so and see how you’re coming along. Try to get it done as early as you can.”
All of Randy’s customers said that, of course, and he responded with his customary, “I’ll have her to ye as quick as molasses,” and then he chuckled at his own dumb joke.
They settled on a price that Kelly thought was too high, but she agreed to it. Her mood had turned a little more sour. Rob Conners bought me that rifle…no wonder it broke…
Top Tolliver and his men stopped by Marshal Ben Baker’s office about 10. “Just thought you’d like to know that we’re leaving town, Marshal. Thanks for all your hospitality.” Top spoke the last sentence with a touch of sarcasm to it.
“You don’t need directions how to get out of River Bend, do you?” Ben asked, with a little bite to it.
“Actually, now that you mention it, do you know how to get to Miles’ Heading in Idaho? I know there’s a cutoff about 50 miles up the road, but I’m not sure whether to take the left fork or the right one.”
“The left one. Right fork goes to Canada. Come to think of it, take the right one, keep riding, and don’t stop. Polar bears need to eat, too. But, if you head to Idaho, you ought to know that the bank in Miles’ Heading is awfully small.”
“Going to do some fishing up there, Marshal. And thanks. Have a nice day.”
“Come back when you can’t stay so long.”
Top gave Ben a rancid look. “This town doesn’t have anything we want, anyway. The dogs are better looking than the women and the food looks and smells like pig slop.” He sniffed a couple of times. “Everything else around here smells, too.”
Ben understood the insult but ignored it. “I suspect the dogs would have you before the women would. And the air will be a lot cleaner in a few minutes,” meaning, of course, when the Tolliver men had left town. “Enjoy the jail in Idaho.”
“I’ve never seen the inside of one, Marshal, and I never intend to,” Top said, turning away. He walked outside, fuming. I can’t wait to put him six feet under…he thinks he’s as good as white man, and there’s nothing worse than a nigger who doesn’t know where he belongs….His men could tell he was mad so they didn’t say anything. But Top said, “Come on, let’s ride.”
Ben stared at the door thoughtfully for a few moments after Top shut it. Then he got up and walked outside. He spotted the Tolliver men and his eyes followed them till they were out of sight.
“’Morning, Marshal,” somebody said as he walked.
“Yeah, it is,” Ben replied
And a good one at that… Ben went back inside his office.
Kelly didn’t want to spend the entire day in town waiting for her rifle. She had several friends she could have gone to visit, but she wasn’t in a visiting frame of mind. So she did something she knew she shouldn’t do, but had done more than once—and increasingly—over the last few weeks.
She went out to Nicholas Backstrom’s grave.
It was in the back of the cemetery, in an isolated, ugly spot. There was a very small, cheap headstone that read “N Backstrom” and that was almost always overspread with weeds. As she had been doing on her visits, Kelly pulled the weeds. She never brought flowers. She simply stood over his grave for a few minutes, talking to him.
“I know I ought to hate your guts for what you did to me, Evan”—she still called him that. A tear trickled down her cheek. “And I guess, in a way, I do. But I loved you…and I guess…in a way…I still do. Maybe if Rob were here….” She closed her eyes and her thoughts drifted…I wonder where he and that ugly horse of his are…I bet he’ll wander from now to eternity…after what happened to him with his two wives, I doubt he’ll ever want to settle down again…Ben was wrong, Rob’s not going to come back to River Bend, and certainly not for me…why would he, I ran him off both times he was here…That wasn’t true, not even close to the truth, but the sun wasn’t brightening Kelly’s mood enough to move her from the melancholia that had plagued her since Backstrom’s death and Rob’s departure…No, Rob will go someplace far, far away, as far away from all these memories as possible, and start over again…and I can’t blame him one bit…I just know that I’ll never hear from him again…
Kelly opened her eyes, looked one more time at the small, grey headstone beneath her, and her eyes filled with tears. “Evan…you could be so nice, so sweet, so romantic. Why wasn’t that really you?”
She closed her eyes once more and shook her head, as if trying to shake something out of her mind. Then she turned and slowly walked away.
“If only Rob were here…”
But would that really be the answer?
“You still going to take him tonight, boss?” Snarky asked Top once they cleared the city limits of River Bend.
“Better believe I am. That is one arrogant African who’s got a mouth on him a mile wide.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Top,” Gus said. “He’s tough and he’s sharp, regardless of the color of his skin.”
Top snorted. “Yeah, maybe so, but his blood is red and there’ll be plenty of it on the streets of River Bend tonight…”
Hardy Nippo and his worthless band of ruffians started spending the $100 Tate Tolliver had given them long before 7 P.M., so they were already feeling good before they entered the Royal Flush saloon a little after 7:30. The place was already doing a brisk business and the murmur and clamor of saloon racket, along with the haze and smell of tobacco smoke, were being shared and enjoyed by all. Hardy, his voice bolstered by the excess of liquid nourishment he had already quaffed, was heard above the din: “Hey, boys, gather round. Drinks are on us.” He dropped an undetermined amount of coinage on the bar and that racket could be heard above every other racket—ears were attuned to it—and drew the flies to the honey.
Nate the bartender, who knew every drunk in town, looked at Hardy with skepticism. “Where did you get that kind of money, Nippo? You and that ragtag herd you hang around with don’t make that much money in a month. All of you together.”
Hardy gave Nate a smug look. “You’re looking at the newest members of the Tolliver gang, Nation, so you better watch your tongue. Top give us this money last night and we’ll be ridin’ with him soon.”
Nate snorted as he poured drinks. “Don’t make me laugh. The Tollivers wouldn’t let you clean the bottom of their outhouse, must less ride with them.”
Hardy then scowled. “Well, we’ll see about that when Top and the boys show up.”
“Are they coming to the Royal Flush?”
“They’ll be along,” is all Hardy offered, and leaned an elbow on the bar, looking around like he was somebody important.
Jess Hopper, a patron sharing in the benefits of the Tolliver finances, was standing close by and heard the conversation. Bug-eyed, he looked at Nippo, Duke, and the others who had come with Hardy. “Are you boys really part of the Tolliver gang now, Hardy?” A few drinks will make some men very credulous.
“Sure are, Jess. Top told us last night when he invited us to join him that the Tollivers were always lookin’ for good men. He was right pleased that we were willin’ to ride with him. Said solid hands like us were hard to find and he’d been lookin’ for a long time.” This wasn’t exactly what Top had said, of course, but Jess didn’t know that, and Hardy had probably convinced himself that he was saying what Tolliver had told them.
Nate Nation, still pouring drinks, just shook his head. He’d heard taller tales than this from smaller men than Hardy Nippo.
But Hardy was there to get a fight started, and he intended to do it and impress Top Tolliver. He wasn’t very bright, but he wasn’t all that stupid, either, at least when it came to starting brawls. He had sent Rhino, one of his friends, into the Royal Flush earlier as a “plant,” just to make sure the fight got going.
And Rhino played his part well. With a shot glass in his hand, he picked up the thread, he said, “Hardy, you can’t even ride a horse, much less ride with the Tollivers.” He downed his drink, feigning unconcern.
Hardy turned to him. “I could take offense to that, you know.”
Rhino gave him a disgusted look. “I don’t care if you do or not, just quit fillin’ the air with stuff that smells almost as bad as you do.”
Nate saw it coming, but he was a split-second too late in reaching for his shotgun. Hardy called Rhino an unprintable name and gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling into a nearby table, breaking up a poker game and scattering money and chips everywhere. Rhino hopped up immediately and socked the nearest man to him, who just happened to be one of the card players. And the merriment was on.
Once one of these melees starts, it doesn’t matter who you hit. It’s all fun and games and if your best friend gets in the way of your fist, that’s just his tough luck. Everybody involved in the thing would have a good laugh and share a drink later on and lie about who they had whipped. It began with a rumble, then became an avalanche, and all Nate Nation could do was fire his shotgun once, get everybody’s attention—fists held in mid-air—and say, “Outside, boys.” Hardy then made a low run at a couple of fellows, grabbed each of them around the waist, and bolted through the saloon doors with them in tow. About a second later, a man came crashing through the front window, another bloke came out leaping on top of him, and soon there were about 20 men outside the Royal Flush, rolling and tumbling, spitting and cursing, swinging and ducking, and generally enjoying the finer things in life.
Because it was Friday night, both Ben and his deputy, Turley Edwards, were working. Ben happened to be in the office when Turley stuck his head in the door and said, “There’s a pretty bad one going on in front of the Royal Flush, Marshal. This is one we might ought to try to head off.”
Ben frowned. He knew what a “one” was, but in River Bend, those sorts of things usually happened in the Hot Spot, not the Royal Flush. But whiskey was whiskey and the stuff had a way of encouraging even the best of drunks into the most squalid of deeds, so he wasn’t terribly surprised. He grabbed two rifles, tossed one to Turley, and said, “Let’s go see if we can keep it from spreading.” And he and his deputy headed in that direction.
Top Tolliver was hiding in the shadows of an alley adjacent to the Royal Flush, enjoying the show in the street. He double-checked the rifle he was carrying. It won’t be long now till the marshal shows up…
He smiled, a wicked, malevolent smile…
Kelly Atkins had arrived at Randy Tate’s shop about 7:30 and was pleased to discover that he had finished repairing her rifle. She wasn’t thrilled to have to stand around and listen to how the widget that worked the thingamajig had been bent by the thingummy that released the doohickey....but she had her rifle back and that pleased her. She stayed pleased for, oh, three or four minutes longer….
“I even loaded her up for you, Miss Atkins,” Randy said. “No charge for that.”
Kelly appreciated that, especially since the charge for everything else was, in her mind, exorbitant. But she had to admit, as she checked all the functions, that Randy had done a good job; the rifle looked, and worked, as if it were brand new.
“Thanks, Randy,” she said and left the shop.
She went outside, standing under a light, re-examining her rifle. Then, hearing a loud commotion, she looked around.
Her eyes got big…
Randy Tate’s shop was on the opposite side of the street, but only two doors down from the Royal Flush saloon…
Ben grimaced when he saw the size of the fight going on outside the bar. “Turley, go around to the other side and bash anybody’s head that needs it. I’m not about to get into the middle of that. Let them play themselves out. It won’t take long.”
“Yessir.” Turley grinned. “Shore looks like their havin’ themselves a good time.”
Ben gave him an annoyed look. Turley headed off in the direction his boss had told him.
Ben moved closer to the fighting, but kept his distance. He’d give them three or four more minutes, then, if they hadn’t stopped, he’d point his rifle in the air and shoot a few times. That would be the signal for Turley to do the same, and would almost surely put an end to the festivities.
The River Bend marshal never got a shot away…
There he is…Top Tolliver raised and pointed his rifle at Ben Baker, who stood immobile less than 50 feet away…
“Ben, look out!” Kelly Atkins had seen Tolliver aim the Winchester….
One of the things that Rob Conners had drilled into Ben in their short time together was move first, look later. In other words, when somebody shouts “look out!”, don’t turn and search for the source of the shout or danger. Hit the deck.
And that’s what Ben did.
Top Tolliver’s bullet whizzed harmlessly over his head.
Kelly Atkins’ bullet went straight into Top Tolliver’s heart.
After hitting the deck, the next thing to do is to find the source of the “look out,” and why it was shouted. Ben rolled, hearing the two rifle shots. The first thing he saw was Kelly standing with her gun at her hip, looking past him. He turned his head. The next thing he saw was Top Tolliver stagger out of an alley…and fall to the street. Dead.
Kelly acted instinctively. She yelled her warning and saw the man shoot at Ben. She quickly positioned her rifle and pulled the trigger. As noted earlier, Kelly was a near marksman. And she didn’t miss this time.
But after watching the would-be assassin drop to the ground, she stood there, dazed. I just…killed a man…She had killed Nicholas Backstrom a few months before, and hoped she would never have to end another man’s life. But she did.
And the thought didn’t brighten her mood at all.
The gunfire stopped the brawl in the street. Men were looking around for the cause of the shooting. Ben, his face hard as granite, slowly rose to his feet. He had quickly surmised what had taken place.
“Are ye all right, Marshal?” one of the fighters asked him.
Ben threw him a quick, severe glance. “Yeah, I’m fine. You boys break it up and go home, hear me?”
The men gathered round, looking down at Top Tolliver’s body. Nobody noticed that Hardy Nippo had a horrified expression on his face and slowly backed away and disappeared into the night. Ben checked to make sure that Tolliver was dead, and then looked over to where Kelly was standing across the street. She still hadn’t moved, an amazed, shocked expression on her face.
Turley Edwards came running over. “I heard the shooting. What happened, Ben?”
Ben was still looking at Kelly. “Top Tolliver was waiting in the alley to dry gulch me.” He nodded towards Kelly. “She saved my life. Shouted at me then fired the shot that killed Tolliver.” He turned to Turley. “Take care of the body, will you?”
“Ok,” Turley responded, then shooed the crowd. “You boys have had your fun and almost got the marshal killed. Now, get out of here…”
Ben walked over to Kelly. She still hadn’t moved, her eyes transfixed on Tolliver’s body. She spoke first. “I…I shot a man, Ben. Is he…dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead, Kelly. And you saved my life and I appreciate it.”
Kelly finally looked at him. “Why was he trying to kill you?”
“His name is—was—Top Tolliver, one of the Tolliver gang. You did the world a favor, Kelly, like you did with Nicholas Backstrom.”
That was a little insensitive and Kelly winced, but Ben had no way of knowing that she still had feelings for Backstrom. Finally, she took a deep breath, sighed, and lowered her rifle. “I don’t like…killing people, Ben.” Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t like it…”
“Nobody does, Kelly,” Ben responded, his voice soft. “But sometimes it’s necessary. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me.”
Kelly looked at the marshal, and she smiled, but there were still tears in her eyes. “Then I’m glad I did it.” But then she dropped the rifle, put her arms around Ben, and cried.
A couple of the men who were in the brawl were walking home together wiping the blood and the beer from themselves. “I wonder what happened to Hardy Nippo,” Sam Tucker commented.
“Don’t know,” Coak Wheeler said. “But he ain’t gonna be ridin’ with the Tolliver gang, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah. Boy, Kelly plugged Top dead-center, didn’t she.”
“Shore did,” Wheeler answered. Then he shook his head. “But I’d shore hate to be Kelly Atkins when Trent Tolliver hears that she killed his brother….”
Clearwater Valley was named after the Clearwater River, which largely divided the valley in half. The valley ran roughly north and south, and was surrounded by mountains, though the range stretching from northwest to northeast was the mightiest. Clearwater Valley was shaped much like a baseball field. If the reader will allow the analogy, the river came in from the mountains deep down the left field foul line, meandered lazily through left-center field, down near second base, over the pitcher’s mound, and then not far up the first base line where it the disappeared into the hills to the southeast. The town of River Bend lay on the west side, in a curve in the river between second base and the mound. The whole valley consisted of several hundred thousand acres. Gail Sanders had a ranch and owned most of the eastern half, which she called East Clearwater. Actually, she also owned the western half of the valley, but was selling that in parcels to settlers. There was some growth as new people moved in, but it wasn’t a boom. Still, River Bend was a prosperous town, the home now of several hundred people—including the ranchers who lived out in the valley.
Kelly and her father, Fred, owned a small, 160-acre spread on a hillside in the southwestern part of the valley. They weren’t getting rich, but they made do and were very happy with what they had. They ran about 20 cattle on their land, and Fred would sell a few every so often if they started overgrazing the grass he had. But the Atkins also had a number of domestic animals, such as chickens, pigs, and goats, and Kelly worked a small garden in which she grew some vegetables and fruit. She was also a near marksman with a rifle and kept the family sufficiently supplied with meat. As noted earlier, her mother had died many years before—Kelly never knew her—so Fred and his daughter lived alone. And were very well respected in Clearwater Valley.
Fred adored his daughter and didn’t want to lose her to another man, though he knew it was going to happen soon enough. But he tried. Kelly had come home one afternoon and spotted three new crosses sticking up in the ground. She had asked her father what they were doing there. With a twinkle in his eye, Fred had responded, “Well, three fellows came out today wanting to court you, but I…persuaded them otherwise.”
Kelly had laughed…but had also removed the crosses.
River Bend was a nice town, with many good people, but it was far from perfect. And while the Negro Ben Baker had been accepted and was well-liked by most of the populace, there was that element—lewd fellows of the baser sort, in the words of the Good Book—that took offense just because of the color of his skin. They were outnumbered, and hadn’t caused Ben any problems yet. And that was partly because they had no real leadership in organizing against him.
No leadership, that is, until Top Tolliver and his men arrived in River Bend.
In spite of all his conciliatory gestures towards bartender Nate Nation and Marshal Ben Baker, Top Tolliver was stewing. Nation had gotten the best of him—publicly—and Ben had made fools of two of his men. This simply could not be allowed to stand without retribution. If people were laughing at the Tollivers, they weren’t fearing them; and fear was a crucial element to the success of any outlaw gang. If word of what Nate and Ben had done got around, people would begin to believe in the vulnerability of the gang. That could be disastrous.
Plus, Trent would never tolerate Top leaving town without re-establishing the credibility and dread of the Tolliver name. The only question to Top was not that Ben, especially, must die, but how he would die, and what else could be done to punish the town of River Bend. Robbing the bank became secondary to the revenge that was necessary to restore the Tolliver reputation.
And Top knew a way to accomplish that.
The Royal Flush wasn’t the only saloon in River Bend, it was just the classiest. And had the toughest bartender. That baser sort of lewd fellows mentioned a few paragraphs earlier haunted the less respectable establishments in town, the ones with the watered-down whiskey and the two dollar whores. It was in these establishments where Top figured he could find the help he needed to bring down Ben Baker.
It was a place creatively named “River Bend Saloon.” It was in a seedier part of town —called the “Hot Spot,” for reasons unknown--and as the Tolliver men had walked down the lane looking for a likely locale, they had been repulsed by what they had seen. Most of the buildings were empty and boarded up. There were drunks moaning in the alleys. The cheap, washed-up, and ugly “ladies of the night” were standing outside their brothels—and there were several—trying to talk passers-by out of their money. The area wasn’t very well lit, and it smelled of raw sewage. But actually, there wasn’t a whole lot of crime in the area. There wasn’t much to steal. The occasional brawl broke out, but Ben and his deputy, Turley Edwards, frankly didn’t waste much time in the Hot Spot; it had a way of policing itself so the lawmen largely let it do it.
The River Bend Saloon was typical of the area. It had a regular door--instead of swinging doors--announcing the “.ive. Be.. Salloon”—yes, “salloon,” not “saloon.” Top and his men walked in; the room was thick with smoke and rancid whiskey smells. There were only a couple of lanterns providing light. The bar was old, faded, and cracked—and the bartender looked the same. There was a piano, and a barely-clad female was beating an unrecognizable, out-of-tune ditty on it. Plenty of tables occupied most of the space, and plenty of patrons occupied most of the tables. Top wrinkled his nose and sneezed as he walked towards the bar.
“This place is awful,” he murmured to his companions. Then smiled. “But just what we’re looking for.”
He ordered whiskey, and took the bottle and four glasses. Nobody paid any attention or said anything to them. Poker was common at most of the tables, and Top idly wondered where any of these louses got enough money to play a hand.
The Tolliver men found a suitable table and it didn’t take long for Top to strike up a conversation with a nearby contingent of…lewd fellows of the baser sort.
“Quite a town you got here,” he said, having to lift his voice a bit to be heard over the music, cursing, spitting, hacking, laughing, chip-rattling, and whore bottom-slapping that generally can be heard in such palaces of pleasure.
The fellow he had spoken to grunted and the other men at his table—and there were five total—laughed softly. “Yeah, a reg’lar Garden of Eden,” the man replied. It was so dark that Top could hardly see him, but he appeared to have a rather weathered face under a hat that was bent out of shape. The other men didn’t appear in much better condition. “Me, Duke, and the boys is thinkin’ about headin’ somewheres else.” He made a general motion with his hand around the table, indicating who “Duke and the boys” were. “Fact is, we was talkin’ about it right now.”
“Where would you go? I’ve been lots of places. They’re all pretty much the same. Watered down whiskey, ugly whores, and law that won’t mind its own business.” Top scooted his chair over to enable quieter conversation. He thought he might have found the men he wanted.
“Well, that pretty much describes River Bend. Gotta be better over the hill somewhere.”
“Must be bad here if you gents are thinking about pulling out.”
Another grunt. “Well, we got the cheap whiskey and ugly women, but the worst thing is they went and hired an uppity nigger for a marshal.” He shook his head and downed his drink. “That’s downright embarrassin.” Top reached over with his bottle of whiskey and poured him another. The man had taken the conversation in exactly the direction Tolliver had wanted. “Obliged,” the fellow said. “You boys not from around here?”
“No, we’re just passing through,” Top replied. “That is embarrassing, having a slave for law around here. The world sure has turned upside down, hasn’t it.” The group all chuckled. He looked at the man. “Why don’t you fellows do something about it? Put him in his place? By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
“Hardy,” the man responded. “Hardy Nippo. That’s Duke, Rhino, Samson, and Digger,” pointing around the table as he called out the names. “Who are you gents?”
“I’m Top Tolliver,” he said. “This is Lem, Snarky, and Gus. You heard of Trent Tolliver and his brothers?”
Hardy’s eyes got big and he seemed to sober up a little. “Yeah. You one of them Tollivers?” When Top nodded, Hardy turned to his friends and said, “Hey, boys, did you hear that? These guys are part of the Tolliver gang.”
That did seem to get through to the inebriated brains of his buddies, and a couple of other men at a nearby table overheard, too, and were now watching and listening.
Hardy lowered his voice, leaned over, and said to Top, “Whachu boys doin’ in town? Gonna hit the bank?” He burped and Top made a face at the sour whiskey smell that reached his olfactory senses.
Tolliver shook his head. “No, like I said, we’re just riding through. We’re not wanted in this territory and we’re going to keep it that way.” But then, he appeared to be thinking—an illusion, he already had this planned, of course. “We did have a run-in with your marshal, though. And that ape of a bartender over at the Royal Flush. Both of ‘em think they’re hot stuff, and me and my boys were thinking about teaching them a lesson or two before we got shuck of this place.” He looked around at Hardy and his men. “You fellows want to help out? If you do a good enough job…” He shrugged. “We Tollivers are always looking for good men. I’ll talk to Trent…” And though he left that hanging, the implication obvious, Top had no intention of doing any such thing. This scum was far below the caliber of men that rode with the Tollivers, but they would serve Top’s purpose in River Bend. But let them think they might be good enough to ride with the gang—that was part of the bait. An appeal to ego.
Hardy’s eyes glistened and he looked at the men around the table. A couple of them appeared skeptical, but Hardy said to Top, “What have you got in mind?”
Top replied, “Pretty simple. You guys go into the Royal Flush. Get a ruckus started. Make it a good one. The marshal will come over, the bartender will stick his nose in it, and we’ll wipe out both of them. At least the marshal.” He looked around the table, his face serious and mean. “Nobody crosses a Tolliver and lives to tell about it.”
The men got the message and they were suitably impressed—and intimidated. One of them, Rhino—called that because of his upturned nose, Top figured—responded, “I don’t want to be killin’ no lawman. That’s serious stuff that can get a fellow a rope mighty quick.”
“No, you won’t be doing any killing. In fact, you don’t even need to be wearing guns, so you won’t be accused of shooting anybody. Just start the fracas, we’ll be around, and when the marshal shows up, we’ll provoke him into a gunfight. Snarky here is awful quick to clear leather and he’ll take him. We’ll make it look like self-defense. You boys will get off, scot-free, have a good time, and maybe—just maybe—end up riding with the Tollivers.”
This plan wasn’t exactly what Top had in mind—it wasn’t foolproof enough—but it was simple, and he’d found those sorts of plans were usually the best, especially when dealing with men whose intelligence level ranked right up there with turkeys and sheep. “What do you say?” he asked, looking around the table. “I’ll even sweeten the pot with a little cash. Say, 50 dollars apiece—after you’ve done the job, of course. I’ll give you some whiskey money, and maybe a little stake in a poker game. Go in there, pick a fight, get it going, and we’ll do the rest when the marshal shows up. Just make sure the fight gets out into the street where it’ll be easier for us to pick off Baker.”
The money seemed to swing the skeptical to Top’s idea. “Well, as long as we don’t have to shoot no lawman,” Duke said. Then he grinned. “50 bucks for startin’ a brawl. That’s not a bad night’s work. How about it, boys?”
There were general nods around the table, and one of the men at the other table who had been listening piped up, “Can we get in on that? That big nigger busted my lip and tossed me in the hoosegow not long ago and I been wantin’ to pay him back ever since.”
“The more, the merrier,” Top said. He had no intention of paying any of these men $50, and they didn’t seem to recognize any inconsistencies in his plan. But that didn’t matter. All they needed to do was get the fight started and get Ben involved in it. He’d take care of the rest. He decided he wasn’t going to bother with Nate Nation—unless an easy circumstance arose.
“When do you want us to do this?” Hardy asked.
Top sort of shrugged. “Tomorrow’s Friday; how about tomorrow night? There’ll be a big crowd there. You boys get together around 7:30 or so and go into the Royal Flush. Let it be known that you’re now part of the Tolliver gang, and that me, Gus, Lem, and Snarky will be there soon. We’ll be there, probably outside. Start the fight. Since you’re part of the Tolliver gang now”—it was nice how he slipped that in there—“somebody might even start the fight before you do, trying to show how tough they are.” He grinned. “I’ll bet you boys can work up a doozy.”
He got grins all around the table. “Yeah,” Rhino said. “I ain’t been in a good scrap in a long time. It’ll feel good to rub my knuckles on somebody’s nose.”
“When are you goin’ to get there?” Hardy asked Top.
“You may not even see us, but we’ll be there. I want to see how you boys handle this to see if your worthy of riding with us. Understand?”
All the men around the table nodded their heads, though Top wasn’t sure he saw understanding in everybody’s eyes.
Tolliver nodded, and stood up. “Ok, tomorrow night. I’ll let you boys handle the details of how to start the fight. That’s all you need to do.” He tossed $100 on the table. “Divide that up among yourselves. That’ll get you started tomorrow night.”
“Oooo-wheee,” Hardy said, reaching out for the money. “I might try out one of the Flush’s whores with my hunk of that.”
“Just get it done,” Top said. “Let’s meet here, say 10 o’clock, after it’s all over and I’ll pay you and we’ll talk about…other things.” And he gave them a knowing smile.
“Sounds good, Mr. Tolliver. We’ll do our part, don’t you worry none about that.”
Top nodded, motioned with his head to his men, and they left the bar. Lem heaved a sigh when they were outside. “Lord, I think this is the first decent breath I’ve had since we went in that place.”
“And it stinks out here,” Snarky said.
Gus spoke up. “Boss, do you really trust those fellows? Seem like a bunch of low-lifes to me.”
“They are, but, yeah, I think they’ll do it. For 50 bucks, most of them would probably shoot their own mothers.”
“You don’t really intend to pay them, do you? And ride with us…?”
Top gave Gus a “get real” look. “Of course not. In fact, you boys are going to be long gone by tomorrow night.” He smiled.
He received a collective “Huh?” for that last comment.
“We’re going to drop by the marshal’s office tomorrow morning and ask him how to get to Miles’ Heading in Idaho. We’ll let him know that we’re leaving town—immediately. He’ll be glad to hear that, of course, and we’ll go about 10 miles or so and you boys will camp out. I’ll sneak back into town about 7:30 when it’s dark, and hide out somewhere near the saloon. When the fight hits the street and Baker is…preoccupied…I’ll put a bullet in his gullet and slip back out of town. Maybe that bartender, too, if he’s around, but I especially want that marshal. That bunch of clowns I just hired will brag their fool heads off that they were working for the Tollivers, but nobody will be able to prove anything—after all, we left town. They’ll show back up at the River Bend Saloon at 10, but we won’t be there, of course. They’ll cuss us all the more, and people in town won’t know what to think—except not to mess with the Tollivers.”
“I thought you were going to let me have that marshal, Top,” Snarky said. “I want him real bad.”
“No, Snarky, I don’t know if you can coax Baker into a gunfight or not. I’m not going to risk that. And you can’t shoot him down in cold blood—not where people can witness it. We’ll get the credit for doing it, but nobody will be able to prove it was us because nobody will see me shoot the marshal.”
Gus didn’t especially like the plan; he thought he saw too many “ifs” in it. If those men even showed up at the Royal Flush; he wasn’t convinced they were sober enough tonight to understand what was expected of them. If they could get a good fight started; Nate Nation would probably pull out that shotgun of his. If they could get it out into the street; that didn’t always happen. If Ben Baker showed up; it might be the deputy making the rounds. If nobody saw Top shoot the marshal; gunshots draw attention. If the Tollivers got the credit for killing Baker without Top being seen doing it. But Gus wasn’t going to voice any objection. Except to say, “I hope those boys are up to it.”
Top was a little peeved at him. “Gus, all they’ve got to do is start a barroom brawl. How difficult is that?”
“What if Baker doesn’t show up?”
“He did the other night and nothing was really going on. He just happened to be making his rounds and lucked into Lem about to start that fight. Well, he’ll be making his rounds tomorrow night, too, and he’ll hear the noise and investigate. I’ll get him. You boys just have supper ready, that’s all you’ll need to do.”
Gus still didn’t like it, but he let it go. Top usually knew what he was doing.
And, after all, how hard is it to get a fight started in a drunken saloon?
The next day…
Kelly Atkins, as usual, was up before dawn, and before her father, fixing breakfast for them. Fred usually rose at the smell of bacon and had a cup of coffee while his daughter was preparing eggs or pancakes or whatever she had in store for the morning.
“I’m going to need to go into town this morning, dad,” she said to him as she heaped some scrambled eggs onto a platter. “Something’s not right with my rifle and I’m going to take it to Randy Tate and get him to fix it.” Tate was a local blacksmith who doubled as gunsmith.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“The trigger is acting strange. Sometimes it’s too loose and sometimes it sticks. I can’t figure it out.”
“Well, that’s more up Tate’s line than mine, so I’ll let him deal with it. Pick up the mail while you’re in town, will you?”
Kelly always did, but she said “yes,” and after breakfast she saddled her horse, Buckeye, and rode into River Bend. The days were starting to warm up, but there was still a chill on the morning air. But the sun was out and that brightened Kelly’s mood some. Some…a little…well, probably not at all, if truth be told…
Randy Tate examined Kelly’s gun for a few minutes. “The problem, Miss Atkins, is that this whachamacallit that fits here into the thingamabob is all catty-wampus and I’m going to have to conjure up a hootnanny to fix it with and it will require major surgery….” That’s not exactly what Randy said, but as far as Kelly was concerned, that’s what it amounted to. The only thing she knew about rifles was how to load, aim, and pull the trigger. So Randy’s explanation made no sense to her.
“How long will it take?”
Randy rubbed his jaw, which was covered with about a week’s growth of red beard. He was a big fellow, a lot of it in a gut that had had too many beers, but he was a skilled gunsmith. “I reckon I can have it done by tonight. I’m sorry, but I got a couple other jobs to do, so it will be this afternoon before I can get to yours. But I can have it finished by, say, 8 P.M.”
That wasn’t especially to Kelly’s liking. She didn’t want to leave the rifle with Tate overnight; that gun slept in the bed with her, just in case some four—or two—legged varmint came prowling around the house at night. But the thought of riding home after dark wasn’t terribly appealing, either. After a few moments’ thought, however, the latter was the lesser of the two evils in her mind, so she nodded and said, “Ok, I’ll be in town and drop by around 7 or so and see how you’re coming along. Try to get it done as early as you can.”
All of Randy’s customers said that, of course, and he responded with his customary, “I’ll have her to ye as quick as molasses,” and then he chuckled at his own dumb joke.
They settled on a price that Kelly thought was too high, but she agreed to it. Her mood had turned a little more sour. Rob Conners bought me that rifle…no wonder it broke…
Top Tolliver and his men stopped by Marshal Ben Baker’s office about 10. “Just thought you’d like to know that we’re leaving town, Marshal. Thanks for all your hospitality.” Top spoke the last sentence with a touch of sarcasm to it.
“You don’t need directions how to get out of River Bend, do you?” Ben asked, with a little bite to it.
“Actually, now that you mention it, do you know how to get to Miles’ Heading in Idaho? I know there’s a cutoff about 50 miles up the road, but I’m not sure whether to take the left fork or the right one.”
“The left one. Right fork goes to Canada. Come to think of it, take the right one, keep riding, and don’t stop. Polar bears need to eat, too. But, if you head to Idaho, you ought to know that the bank in Miles’ Heading is awfully small.”
“Going to do some fishing up there, Marshal. And thanks. Have a nice day.”
“Come back when you can’t stay so long.”
Top gave Ben a rancid look. “This town doesn’t have anything we want, anyway. The dogs are better looking than the women and the food looks and smells like pig slop.” He sniffed a couple of times. “Everything else around here smells, too.”
Ben understood the insult but ignored it. “I suspect the dogs would have you before the women would. And the air will be a lot cleaner in a few minutes,” meaning, of course, when the Tolliver men had left town. “Enjoy the jail in Idaho.”
“I’ve never seen the inside of one, Marshal, and I never intend to,” Top said, turning away. He walked outside, fuming. I can’t wait to put him six feet under…he thinks he’s as good as white man, and there’s nothing worse than a nigger who doesn’t know where he belongs….His men could tell he was mad so they didn’t say anything. But Top said, “Come on, let’s ride.”
Ben stared at the door thoughtfully for a few moments after Top shut it. Then he got up and walked outside. He spotted the Tolliver men and his eyes followed them till they were out of sight.
“’Morning, Marshal,” somebody said as he walked.
“Yeah, it is,” Ben replied
And a good one at that… Ben went back inside his office.
Kelly didn’t want to spend the entire day in town waiting for her rifle. She had several friends she could have gone to visit, but she wasn’t in a visiting frame of mind. So she did something she knew she shouldn’t do, but had done more than once—and increasingly—over the last few weeks.
She went out to Nicholas Backstrom’s grave.
It was in the back of the cemetery, in an isolated, ugly spot. There was a very small, cheap headstone that read “N Backstrom” and that was almost always overspread with weeds. As she had been doing on her visits, Kelly pulled the weeds. She never brought flowers. She simply stood over his grave for a few minutes, talking to him.
“I know I ought to hate your guts for what you did to me, Evan”—she still called him that. A tear trickled down her cheek. “And I guess, in a way, I do. But I loved you…and I guess…in a way…I still do. Maybe if Rob were here….” She closed her eyes and her thoughts drifted…I wonder where he and that ugly horse of his are…I bet he’ll wander from now to eternity…after what happened to him with his two wives, I doubt he’ll ever want to settle down again…Ben was wrong, Rob’s not going to come back to River Bend, and certainly not for me…why would he, I ran him off both times he was here…That wasn’t true, not even close to the truth, but the sun wasn’t brightening Kelly’s mood enough to move her from the melancholia that had plagued her since Backstrom’s death and Rob’s departure…No, Rob will go someplace far, far away, as far away from all these memories as possible, and start over again…and I can’t blame him one bit…I just know that I’ll never hear from him again…
Kelly opened her eyes, looked one more time at the small, grey headstone beneath her, and her eyes filled with tears. “Evan…you could be so nice, so sweet, so romantic. Why wasn’t that really you?”
She closed her eyes once more and shook her head, as if trying to shake something out of her mind. Then she turned and slowly walked away.
“If only Rob were here…”
But would that really be the answer?
“You still going to take him tonight, boss?” Snarky asked Top once they cleared the city limits of River Bend.
“Better believe I am. That is one arrogant African who’s got a mouth on him a mile wide.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Top,” Gus said. “He’s tough and he’s sharp, regardless of the color of his skin.”
Top snorted. “Yeah, maybe so, but his blood is red and there’ll be plenty of it on the streets of River Bend tonight…”
Hardy Nippo and his worthless band of ruffians started spending the $100 Tate Tolliver had given them long before 7 P.M., so they were already feeling good before they entered the Royal Flush saloon a little after 7:30. The place was already doing a brisk business and the murmur and clamor of saloon racket, along with the haze and smell of tobacco smoke, were being shared and enjoyed by all. Hardy, his voice bolstered by the excess of liquid nourishment he had already quaffed, was heard above the din: “Hey, boys, gather round. Drinks are on us.” He dropped an undetermined amount of coinage on the bar and that racket could be heard above every other racket—ears were attuned to it—and drew the flies to the honey.
Nate the bartender, who knew every drunk in town, looked at Hardy with skepticism. “Where did you get that kind of money, Nippo? You and that ragtag herd you hang around with don’t make that much money in a month. All of you together.”
Hardy gave Nate a smug look. “You’re looking at the newest members of the Tolliver gang, Nation, so you better watch your tongue. Top give us this money last night and we’ll be ridin’ with him soon.”
Nate snorted as he poured drinks. “Don’t make me laugh. The Tollivers wouldn’t let you clean the bottom of their outhouse, must less ride with them.”
Hardy then scowled. “Well, we’ll see about that when Top and the boys show up.”
“Are they coming to the Royal Flush?”
“They’ll be along,” is all Hardy offered, and leaned an elbow on the bar, looking around like he was somebody important.
Jess Hopper, a patron sharing in the benefits of the Tolliver finances, was standing close by and heard the conversation. Bug-eyed, he looked at Nippo, Duke, and the others who had come with Hardy. “Are you boys really part of the Tolliver gang now, Hardy?” A few drinks will make some men very credulous.
“Sure are, Jess. Top told us last night when he invited us to join him that the Tollivers were always lookin’ for good men. He was right pleased that we were willin’ to ride with him. Said solid hands like us were hard to find and he’d been lookin’ for a long time.” This wasn’t exactly what Top had said, of course, but Jess didn’t know that, and Hardy had probably convinced himself that he was saying what Tolliver had told them.
Nate Nation, still pouring drinks, just shook his head. He’d heard taller tales than this from smaller men than Hardy Nippo.
But Hardy was there to get a fight started, and he intended to do it and impress Top Tolliver. He wasn’t very bright, but he wasn’t all that stupid, either, at least when it came to starting brawls. He had sent Rhino, one of his friends, into the Royal Flush earlier as a “plant,” just to make sure the fight got going.
And Rhino played his part well. With a shot glass in his hand, he picked up the thread, he said, “Hardy, you can’t even ride a horse, much less ride with the Tollivers.” He downed his drink, feigning unconcern.
Hardy turned to him. “I could take offense to that, you know.”
Rhino gave him a disgusted look. “I don’t care if you do or not, just quit fillin’ the air with stuff that smells almost as bad as you do.”
Nate saw it coming, but he was a split-second too late in reaching for his shotgun. Hardy called Rhino an unprintable name and gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling into a nearby table, breaking up a poker game and scattering money and chips everywhere. Rhino hopped up immediately and socked the nearest man to him, who just happened to be one of the card players. And the merriment was on.
Once one of these melees starts, it doesn’t matter who you hit. It’s all fun and games and if your best friend gets in the way of your fist, that’s just his tough luck. Everybody involved in the thing would have a good laugh and share a drink later on and lie about who they had whipped. It began with a rumble, then became an avalanche, and all Nate Nation could do was fire his shotgun once, get everybody’s attention—fists held in mid-air—and say, “Outside, boys.” Hardy then made a low run at a couple of fellows, grabbed each of them around the waist, and bolted through the saloon doors with them in tow. About a second later, a man came crashing through the front window, another bloke came out leaping on top of him, and soon there were about 20 men outside the Royal Flush, rolling and tumbling, spitting and cursing, swinging and ducking, and generally enjoying the finer things in life.
Because it was Friday night, both Ben and his deputy, Turley Edwards, were working. Ben happened to be in the office when Turley stuck his head in the door and said, “There’s a pretty bad one going on in front of the Royal Flush, Marshal. This is one we might ought to try to head off.”
Ben frowned. He knew what a “one” was, but in River Bend, those sorts of things usually happened in the Hot Spot, not the Royal Flush. But whiskey was whiskey and the stuff had a way of encouraging even the best of drunks into the most squalid of deeds, so he wasn’t terribly surprised. He grabbed two rifles, tossed one to Turley, and said, “Let’s go see if we can keep it from spreading.” And he and his deputy headed in that direction.
Top Tolliver was hiding in the shadows of an alley adjacent to the Royal Flush, enjoying the show in the street. He double-checked the rifle he was carrying. It won’t be long now till the marshal shows up…
He smiled, a wicked, malevolent smile…
Kelly Atkins had arrived at Randy Tate’s shop about 7:30 and was pleased to discover that he had finished repairing her rifle. She wasn’t thrilled to have to stand around and listen to how the widget that worked the thingamajig had been bent by the thingummy that released the doohickey....but she had her rifle back and that pleased her. She stayed pleased for, oh, three or four minutes longer….
“I even loaded her up for you, Miss Atkins,” Randy said. “No charge for that.”
Kelly appreciated that, especially since the charge for everything else was, in her mind, exorbitant. But she had to admit, as she checked all the functions, that Randy had done a good job; the rifle looked, and worked, as if it were brand new.
“Thanks, Randy,” she said and left the shop.
She went outside, standing under a light, re-examining her rifle. Then, hearing a loud commotion, she looked around.
Her eyes got big…
Randy Tate’s shop was on the opposite side of the street, but only two doors down from the Royal Flush saloon…
Ben grimaced when he saw the size of the fight going on outside the bar. “Turley, go around to the other side and bash anybody’s head that needs it. I’m not about to get into the middle of that. Let them play themselves out. It won’t take long.”
“Yessir.” Turley grinned. “Shore looks like their havin’ themselves a good time.”
Ben gave him an annoyed look. Turley headed off in the direction his boss had told him.
Ben moved closer to the fighting, but kept his distance. He’d give them three or four more minutes, then, if they hadn’t stopped, he’d point his rifle in the air and shoot a few times. That would be the signal for Turley to do the same, and would almost surely put an end to the festivities.
The River Bend marshal never got a shot away…
There he is…Top Tolliver raised and pointed his rifle at Ben Baker, who stood immobile less than 50 feet away…
“Ben, look out!” Kelly Atkins had seen Tolliver aim the Winchester….
One of the things that Rob Conners had drilled into Ben in their short time together was move first, look later. In other words, when somebody shouts “look out!”, don’t turn and search for the source of the shout or danger. Hit the deck.
And that’s what Ben did.
Top Tolliver’s bullet whizzed harmlessly over his head.
Kelly Atkins’ bullet went straight into Top Tolliver’s heart.
After hitting the deck, the next thing to do is to find the source of the “look out,” and why it was shouted. Ben rolled, hearing the two rifle shots. The first thing he saw was Kelly standing with her gun at her hip, looking past him. He turned his head. The next thing he saw was Top Tolliver stagger out of an alley…and fall to the street. Dead.
Kelly acted instinctively. She yelled her warning and saw the man shoot at Ben. She quickly positioned her rifle and pulled the trigger. As noted earlier, Kelly was a near marksman. And she didn’t miss this time.
But after watching the would-be assassin drop to the ground, she stood there, dazed. I just…killed a man…She had killed Nicholas Backstrom a few months before, and hoped she would never have to end another man’s life. But she did.
And the thought didn’t brighten her mood at all.
The gunfire stopped the brawl in the street. Men were looking around for the cause of the shooting. Ben, his face hard as granite, slowly rose to his feet. He had quickly surmised what had taken place.
“Are ye all right, Marshal?” one of the fighters asked him.
Ben threw him a quick, severe glance. “Yeah, I’m fine. You boys break it up and go home, hear me?”
The men gathered round, looking down at Top Tolliver’s body. Nobody noticed that Hardy Nippo had a horrified expression on his face and slowly backed away and disappeared into the night. Ben checked to make sure that Tolliver was dead, and then looked over to where Kelly was standing across the street. She still hadn’t moved, an amazed, shocked expression on her face.
Turley Edwards came running over. “I heard the shooting. What happened, Ben?”
Ben was still looking at Kelly. “Top Tolliver was waiting in the alley to dry gulch me.” He nodded towards Kelly. “She saved my life. Shouted at me then fired the shot that killed Tolliver.” He turned to Turley. “Take care of the body, will you?”
“Ok,” Turley responded, then shooed the crowd. “You boys have had your fun and almost got the marshal killed. Now, get out of here…”
Ben walked over to Kelly. She still hadn’t moved, her eyes transfixed on Tolliver’s body. She spoke first. “I…I shot a man, Ben. Is he…dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead, Kelly. And you saved my life and I appreciate it.”
Kelly finally looked at him. “Why was he trying to kill you?”
“His name is—was—Top Tolliver, one of the Tolliver gang. You did the world a favor, Kelly, like you did with Nicholas Backstrom.”
That was a little insensitive and Kelly winced, but Ben had no way of knowing that she still had feelings for Backstrom. Finally, she took a deep breath, sighed, and lowered her rifle. “I don’t like…killing people, Ben.” Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t like it…”
“Nobody does, Kelly,” Ben responded, his voice soft. “But sometimes it’s necessary. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me.”
Kelly looked at the marshal, and she smiled, but there were still tears in her eyes. “Then I’m glad I did it.” But then she dropped the rifle, put her arms around Ben, and cried.
A couple of the men who were in the brawl were walking home together wiping the blood and the beer from themselves. “I wonder what happened to Hardy Nippo,” Sam Tucker commented.
“Don’t know,” Coak Wheeler said. “But he ain’t gonna be ridin’ with the Tolliver gang, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah. Boy, Kelly plugged Top dead-center, didn’t she.”
“Shore did,” Wheeler answered. Then he shook his head. “But I’d shore hate to be Kelly Atkins when Trent Tolliver hears that she killed his brother….”
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