“All right, who are they?”
“Like I say, there’s two of ’em. The young one is as big as a tree. His name is MacCallister. The old one with him is Gleason. Elmer Gleason.”
“And you say they are in town now?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“Right now, they’re in the café across the street. I reckon they’ll be comin’ in here pretty soon.”
“How do you know they’ll come in here?”
“Because they are lookin’ for me,” Kingsley said. “And when you are lookin’ for someone, the best place to start is a saloon.”
“I got me an idea,” Byrd said.
“What’s that?”
“We’ll split up, one of us sittin’ in each corner of the saloon. Soon as they come in, why, you can give us the signal. We’ll have ’em surrounded, an’ they won’t have no idea that they are in danger.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Rawlins said. “What about you, Kingsley? What do you think?”
“Yeah. I say we can give it a try,” Kingsley said.
Across the street in Kirby’s Café, Duff and Elmer were just having their dinner. Outside, the rain had stopped, but it was still dark because of the heavy cloud cover.
“Elmer, look at that table over there, in the ash tray,” Duff said.
The table Duff pointed out was one of the smaller tables that were set up against the wall with only two chairs. In the ashtray was half of a cigar. A waitress was walking by then, and Duff got her attention.
“Yes, sir, something else for you?” she asked with a practiced smile.
“Could you be for tellin’ me, lass, about the man who left the cigar in the ash tray there?”
“Oh,” she said. “How awful. Who would want to eat there with a smelly cigar butt in front of them? Thank you for calling it to my attention.”
“Yes, ma’am, but ’tis more interested I am in the man who left it there. Was he tall and gaunt? And did he have a scar, here?” Duff traced his face where young Harley had said there was a scar.
“Yes, oh, quite a frightening thing he was, what with the scar. And his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like his. They were like the eyes of a snake.” She shivered as she explained them.
“Thank you, lass, you have been most helpful.”
“Did you see where he went when he left the café?” Elmer asked.
The waitress shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”
“He went over to the Cow Lot,” one of the others in the café said.
“The Cow Lot?”
“That’s the saloon just across the street.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Behind the bar of the Cow Lot Saloon there was a sign that read: “We insist upon honest gambling. Please report any cheating to the management.”
Just above the sign was a life-size painting of a reclining nude woman. Some marksman had already added his own improvement to the painting by putting three holes through the woman in all the appropriate places, though one shot had missed the target slightly, giving her left breast two nipples.
To either side of the painting, there was a long glass shelf upon which stood several bottles of various kinds of liquor, their number doubled by the reflection in the mirror behind. There were also several large jars of pickled pigs’ feet on the bar.
The saloon had an upstairs section at the back, with a stairway that led up to the second floor. A heavily painted saloon girl was taking a cowboy up the stairs with her.
The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front of the building. The main room of the saloon was big, with exposed rafters below the high ceiling. There were several tables in the saloon, nearly all filled with men who were drinking and talking, some of whom were playing cards.
The piano player wore a small, round derby hat and kept his sleeves up with garter belts. He was pounding on the keyboard, though the music was practically lost amidst the ambient noise of the saloon.
Duff and Elmer stepped up to the bar.
“You men look pretty wet,” the bartender said. “Is it still raining outside?”
“Not at the moment,” Duff said. “Would you have any Scotch?”
“A Scotch man, are you? Well, I’m a rye man myself, but I do have Scotch for them that fancies it. And you, sir?” he asked Elmer.
“Sonny, I’ve drunk ever’thing from coal oil to champagne. Whatever you put in front of me will be just fine,” Elmer said.
The bartender chuckled. “Since I have the Scotch bottle out, that’s what you’ll get.”
Suddenly a shot rang out and the bottle of Scotch exploded in the bartender’s hand. Passing through the bottle, the bullet slammed into the mirror behind the bar, sending cracks all through it. The women in the saloon screamed, and several of the men shouted out in alarm. Many of the men ran, though a few dove to the floor. A second shot hit the bar between Duff and Elmer, erasing any doubt, if there had been any, as to who the targets were.
“Go that way!” Duff shouted, pushing Elmer toward one end of the bar to get him out of the line of fire. Duff ran toward the other end of the bar, pulling his pistol as he did so. Now two rounds were fired at the same time, but, as before, the bullets missed.
When Duff reached the end of the bar, he stepped around the end of it, then squatted down. He saw one of the shooters, a man standing in the corner and holding a smoking gun in his hand. For the moment, it was as if the man was confused and was trying to make up his mind whether to shoot at Duff or Elmer. Duff took one shot and the man fell back into the corner, then slid down to the floor.
Elmer fired, and from the corner of his eye, Duff saw another man go down.
“Kingsley!” someone yelled. “This is your fight. Don’t you run from this, you cowardly bastard!”
Duff looked toward the back door just as Kingsley slipped through it. He started toward him, but was interrupted by a shot from the man who had yelled at Kingsley. Duff had to retreat momentarily to the relative safety of the corner of the bar.
There was another exchange of shots. Duff’s adversary missed. Duff didn’t.
For a long moment after Duff’s final shot, there was total silence in the saloon. Men, and the few women who were there, stayed absolutely still. Duff ran to the back door and looked out, but saw nothing. By the time he turned back toward the saloon, the patrons, those who had run and those who had dove to the floor, were beginning to be animated.
“Duff, are you all right?” Elmer called.
“Aye, I’m fine. And you?”
“I wasn’t hit.”
“How about you, bartender?” Duff called, and the bartender, who had dove for cover after the opening volley, was now standing up, examining himself carefully.
“I’m all right,” the bartender said, tentatively. Then, when he realized for sure that he was unhurt, he repeated it, much louder and with more enthusiasm. “Yes, sir, I’m all right! I ain’t hurt at all!”
“That there is Loomis Byrd,” one of the saloon customers said, pointing to Byrd’s body.
“This here is Lou Rawlins.”
“And this one over in this corner is Gordon Curtis.”
“What the hell! Why are they all scattered out like that? They was all sittin’ together when I come in here a while ago. I mean, they was all good friends, you purt nigh always seen ’em sittin’ at the same table. But lookie here, they’s one of ’em in ever’ corner.”
“I’ll tell you why,” someone said. “They was all spread out ’cause they was set up special to bushwhack them two fellers that just come in to the saloon.”
Now the attention turned to Duff and Elmer.
“Who are you fellers, and why was they shootin’ at you?” the bartender asked.
Before they could answer, two officers from the Lincoln police came into the saloon. Both had their guns drawn, but seeing that the shooting was over and relative peace had been restored, they holstered their pistols.
“What happened in here?” one of the policemen asked.
A dozen men started talking at once, trying to tell what happened. It took a while for the police to get the story all sorted out, but when they did, they were convinced that Duff and Elmer had acted in self-defense.
“Do you know any of these men?” the police sergeant asked.
“I’ve never seen any of them before,” Duff said.
Elmer went over to look at all of them before he replied. “I don’t know any of them either,” he said.
“Their names are Byrd, Curtis, and Rawlins,” the sergeant said. “They are locals, and all of them have been in trouble at one time or another. But as far as I know, they’ve never shot anyone. Why do you suppose they tried to shoot you two?”
“I expect it had something to do with Crack Kingsley,” Duff said.
“Crack Kingsley? Who is that?”
“If you will check your files, you will see that Kingsley is wanted for murder. He is also the man who stole a great deal of money from me.”
“What did he have to do with the shooting?”
“He was here, but he ran out the back door when the shooting started.”
“That’s right, Sergeant,” the bartender said. “I seen him go out myself.”
“You know this man, Kingsley?” the police sergeant asked the bartender.
“No. But Loomis Byrd yelled at him, called him by name. Called him a coward too, for running away. And now that I think about, he yelled, ‘this is your fight.’”
“You’re sure that’s what he yelled? ‘This is your fight’?”
“That’s what he yelled all right, Sergeant, I heard it too,” one of the saloon patrons said.
“Yeah, I heard it, too.”
“Are either of you men wanted?” the police sergeant asked.
“There ain’t no paper out on neither one of us,” Elmer said.
“Of course that is what you would say. What are your names?”
“My name is Duff MacCallister.”
“I’m Elmer Gleason.”
“Where are you from, Mr. MacCallister?”
“We’re both from Chugwater, Wyoming. The constable there is a man named Jerry Ferrell. You could telegraph him, he can tell you about us.”
“We will do that. I don’t suppose you would mind coming to the police station with us while we take care of that?”
“We won’t mind at all,” Duff said.
It took less than half an hour for the exchange of telegrams. When Duff’s story was verified, the police let the two of them go.
“I’m sorry about the rough welcome you received from some of our citizens,” the chief said. “And I apologize for detaining you.”
“No apology necessary,” Duff said. “We understand that you were just doing your job.”
As they left the police office, Elmer spoke up.
“I didn’t want to say nothin’ before, but the fella named Byrd? I have run across him before.”
“Where?” Duff asked.
“Mind that I told you that I caught up with the ones that kilt Alma and her family, and that I kilt ’em all ’cept for Kingsley? Well, that ain’t quite true. There was another’n who rode with Kingsley, and that was Loomis Byrd. I’m not sure I would have recognized him, if that police feller hadn’t a’ spoke his name.”
“Aye, it all makes sense now,” Duff said.
“What makes sense?”
“How three strangers would suddenly start shooting at us. They were strangers to us, but not to Kingsley. I’m sure he recruited them for this, though how he did so I don’t know.”
“You said he stole all the money from you. More’n likely he paid them,” Elmer said.
“Aye, that would be my belief. The question now is where did he go?”
“That’s a good question, all right,” Elmer said. “And the problem is with all this rain, it ain’t goin’ to be that easy to track him.”
The first thing Kingsley did after running from the saloon was return to the abandoned house where he had hidden the money. His first thought was to get on the next train leaving Lincoln, but he was certain that MacCallister and Gleason would be checking the depot. He wished now that he hadn’t let his horse go. He could steal another one, but in order to do that, he would have to go back into town, and he didn’t particularly want to do that. On the other hand, if he was walking and they were both mounted, they would overtake him in no time at all.
Then, even as it seemed as if he had nowhere to turn, he saw someone riding up the road headed for town. He stood on the side of the road and held up his hand to stop the rider.
“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” the rider asked.
“I want to buy your horse,” Kingsley said.
“Well, Mister, I couldn’t sell you this horse even if I wanted to,” the rider replied. “This here horse belongs to Mr. Barkley, who owns Crossback Ranch. He just lets those of us that work for him use the horses.”
“I’ll give you three hundred fifty dollars.”
“I told you, it ain’t my horse to sell.”
“Five hundred dollars,” Kingsley said, growing more desperate.
“If you need a horse that bad, hell, you ain’t more’n a quarter of a mile from town. They sell ’em at the livery and prob’ly half a dozen other places too.”
“I’ll give you seven hundred dollars for your horse.”
“Seven hundred dollars? Mister, are you loco? That’s three times what this horse is worth!”
“Are you going to take the offer or not?”
“Well, yeah, I’ll take it. I can pay Mr. Barkley what the horse is worth and keep some for myself.”
The cowboy dismounted, then, with a big smile on his face, held out his hand. “Where’s the money?” he asked.
The smile left the cowboy’s face when he saw a pistol pointed toward him.
“Hold on, here! What’s this about?”
“You didn’t really think I would give you seven hundred dollars for that horse, did you?” Kingsley asked.
Kingsley pulled the trigger and the cowboy went down.
Fifteen minutes later as Duff and Elmer were about to leave Lincoln, they saw a man walking toward them, holding his stomach, weaving about, stumbling, barely staying on his feet. They hurried to him and saw a lot of blood on his right thigh.
“Here! What happened?” Duff asked.
“Some son of a bitch shot me and stole my horse,” the cowboy replied.
“Elmer, help me get him up on Sky,” Duff said. “We’ll get him to a doctor.”
The doctor washed his hands, then looked over at Duff and Elmer. “I’ve got the bullet out and the bleeding stopped.”
“Is he going to make it?” Elmer asked.
“I don’t know. Caine has lost a lot of blood.”
“You know him?” Duff asked.
“Yes. He rides for the Crossback Ranch. I know most of Mr. Barkley’s riders.”
“You say he has lost a lot of blood. I have read about replacing blood. Is that a possibility?” Duff asked.
“I know about blood transfusions,” the doctor said. “Sometimes they are successful, and sometimes they seem to make the situation worse. Nobody knows why. I think if he rests, he’ll build his own blood back up. That is certainly safer than trying to replace his blood.”
“Is he conscious?” Duff asked.
“Yes. He is weak, but he is conscious.”