Slip Gun (3 page)

In all Derham
’s experience, which stretched
back over more years than he cared to consider, he had never seen a
gun carried in such a manner. Other details about Smith’s armament
might have struck the hostler, but he became aware of something
which drove all thoughts on it from his head.

Dropping the straw, Smith walked
by the saddle which hung on the wall near his jacket. Derham was
holding out the feed-bag and the Texan reached over the gate to
take it from him. Idly the hostler glanced down as the transfer was
being made. Then his eyes
swiveled from Smith’s extended right hand to the
tanned face and back in what would eventually become known as a
double-take.

Where the three sections of the
first digit should be, only a small, puckered pad of flesh
remained. Derham decided that must be the reason for the
stranger
’s
unconventional method of toting the Colt, he drew it cross-hand
with his left.

Thinking back to the
newcomer
’s
first unsociable response—and forgetting that Smith had been
wearing gloves—Derham decided that he had expected some comment
about his injury. A man who had suffered such a loss would not want
reminding of it. So the hostler relinquished the feedbag and
schooled his face into an expression which he hoped would register
disinterested, unseeing nonchalance.

All Derham
’s ability as a poker-player was
needed a moment later. Taking hold of the feedbag’s strap with his
left hand, ready to fix it on the gelding’s head, the stranger
showed that it too had lost its trigger-finger. Only by a
considerable effort did the old hostler hold down an exclamation of
surprise.

‘
I’ll
get you some hay,’ Derham offered, setting down the
bucket.

Straightening up, he stared at the Texan.
Memory came to the old timer, of stories which he had previously
discounted as newspaper lies, about a man who had lost both
trigger-fingers and yet still followed the trade of hired gun
fighter.

Could the stranger be that man?

Certainly the loss of the two
fingers did not greatly handicap him. He had removed his
gelding
’s
saddle and bridle quickly enough. Come to that, he had displayed
considerable speed in producing the rifle from its boot. No wonder
that the McCobb boys had suspected nothing. The way that long Texan
handled the rifle, he might have had two extra fingers a hand
instead of one less.

Derham suddenly became aware
that he was staring at the
stranger; showing all too much interest when
dealing with a man who might earn his keep by selling his
gun-savvy.

‘
Thanks,’ the Texan said, showing no annoyance at the
scrutiny. ‘And you’re figuring right. I’m Waxahachie
Smith.’

‘
I’m
right
sorry for staring thatways, Mr. Smith,’ Derham apologized.
‘That must’ve been a bad accident.’

‘
It was
bad, but it wasn’t an accident,’ the Texan replied and his tone
warned that the subject must be forgotten. ‘Say, were them two
lame-headed yacks for real deputies?’

‘
There’s some argument on that,’ the hostler admitted. ‘You
sure handed them a surprise. Hey, what’s that there
mal—whatever-you-called-it?’

‘
Malabusement of civic authority?’ Smith grinned. ‘I dunno.
I made it up, but it sure sounds like it means plenty. Why’d the
sheriff have them here, is he expecting trouble?’

‘
Naw!’
Derham sniffed contemptuously. ‘Allows that with all the folks
headed for Widow’s Creek, the stages’d be sweet pickings for
owlhoots. Now me, I reckon he don’t go for keeping ’em ’round Green
River for fear the tax-payers start figuring he’s feeding his kin
outen their pockets.’

‘
Such
doings wouldn’t be tolerated back in Texas,’ Smith declared. ‘So
there’s big doings in Widow’s Creek then?’

‘
They’re fixing to throw the biggest, fanciest county fair
Wyoming Territory’s ever seed, all I hear be true. Yes sir, their
mayor’s—’

‘
Gilbert! Gilbert Derham!’ screeched a tinny female voice.
‘If you want anything to eat, quit loafing in the barn and get in
here.’

‘
That’s
me wife,’ the hostler informed Smith. ‘She don’t understand me Or
she do, which’s a danged sight worse. I’ll get the hay.’

Despite the waiting meal, Derham
hovered around until Smith had
finished attending to the gelding’s needs. After
donning his coat and gloves, Smith left the stall carrying his
saddle.

‘
There’ll be somebody around all night?’ the Texan inquired
as he hung the rig and bridle over the burro.

‘
Sure,’
the hostler confirmed. ‘Couple of the boys sleep in
here.’

Freeing his bed-roll, Smith tucked it under
his left arm and drew out the rifle with his right hand.

‘
Ain’t
never seed a Winchester like that one,’ Derham hinted.

‘
Maybe
that’s ‘cause it’s a Colt New Lightning,’ Smith replied amiably.
‘What they call Elliott’s trombone slide-action. This here’s one of
the first. I had it fitted out special.’

Taking a closer look as Smith
held the rifle for his inspection, Derham received yet another
surprise. Not only was the traditional Winchester lever
missing
—hardly surprising, considering the rampant colt motif
engraved on the hand grip and words
‘colt’s lightning
.44/.40
cal’
inscribed on the barrel near the frame—but the
weapon had neither trigger guard nor trigger.

‘
Gilbert Derham!’ yelled the woman, before the hostler could
comment on the phenomenon. ‘You get in here, or I’ll throw it to
the hawgs.’

‘
Maybe
I’d best go,’ the old timer remarked. ‘She’s likely to do it and I
don’t have a thing again them hawgs.’

‘
I’m
through here,’ Smith replied, watching the horse munching at the
hay, the feedbag having been emptied and removed. ‘Now I can tend
to my needings.’

Going to the big main building,
Smith entered and secured his accommodation. He left his rifle and
bed-roll on the rope-bedstead allocated to him in the
men
’s
communal quarters. Returning to the porch, he removed jacket and
gloves so that he could take a wash in the basin which stood on a
bench by the front door. While drying himself on a somewhat cleaner
than usual roller-towel attached to the wall over the basin, he
heard the sound of hooves and wheels. Looking around, he saw a big,
heavily-mustached, florid faced man driving up in a buggy. From his
bowler hat and grey overcoat, open to show a matching suit and
gaudy necktie, taken with the trunk strapped to the back of the
vehicle, he might be a drummer of some kind. Nodding a greeting to
Smith, the man went by and halted outside the barn.

With his hands dry, Smith gathered his
property and entered the combined bar and dining-room. He selected
a small table by one of the windows and sat at it. The owner had
warned him that no food would be available until the stage arrived,
so he settled in what comfort he could manage to wait for it.
Letting the jacket hang on the back of his chair, he slid on his
gloves. The first drops of rain splattered against the window-panes
and he felt the expected twinge of pain commence.

Experience had taught Smith that
he could forget the pain if he found something to occupy his mind.
So he took his wallet from the jacket
’s inside pocket and extracted a
buff-colored telegraph message form. Opening the paper, he laid it
and the wallet before him on the table.

‘
W.
Smith. Marshal’s Office. Albertsville, New Mexico,’
Smith read,
‘Need your services
urgently by end of month. If can come, bank your town authorized to
advance two hundred dollars as evidence our good faith, also
railroad fare to Laramie. W. S. P. Jeffreys, Mayor. Widow’s Creek,
Wyoming Territory.’

Not much to go on there, but
Smith had felt justified in investigating. The money had been
handed over by the
Albertsville banker without batting an eye. If anything,
considering that he was one of the city fathers, the banker had
probably been pleased with the sign that Smith was
leaving.

They were all the same, Smith mused, eager
to hire his gun in times of trouble; but even more eager to see him
move on once he had hauled their hot chestnuts out of the fire.
That was understandable, for his services came higher than the
wages paid to an ordinary town marshal. Of course, Smith took
chances and handled chores an ordinary town marshal would never be
called upon to face. That was why he was hired.

Folks did not like hired gun fighters, even
when they brought one in to help them. Such a man provided an
answer to difficult problems, or applied a drastic remedy for
certain social ills. With the problems solved, or the ills cured,
he became an expensive luxury and an unpleasant reminder of things
the sober, upright citizens who hired him would rather forget.

All right. So Smith had known
what he was getting into
when he had first hired his gun. Doing so had
seemed to be the only answer to
his
problems. Until he had lost his trigger-fingers,
his sole trade had been that of peace officer. The skills he had
acquired at it were of small use in any other field.

‘
Easy
there!’ Smith warned himself silently but sharply. ‘You always get
to thinking that ways when it’s raining and your hands
hurt.’

Even as he gave himself the
advice, Smith became aware of a feeling that somebody was watching
him. The front door had opened and the scrutiny came from that
direction. Swinging his head, Smith found that the dude from the
buggy had just entered. For a moment, the Texan thought that he had
forgotten to replace his gloves. His hands always attracted
attention, which was why he kept them covered. No, he had the
gloves on. By his hands lay his open wallet, its well-filled
interior exposed to the newcomer
’s gaze.

‘
Howdy,’ greeted the man, bringing his eyes to Smith’s face.
‘We’re in for a real wet one tonight, I’d say.’

‘
Looks
that way,’ Smith admitted and wondered why the hell folks always
had to talk about the weather.

‘
I’m
pleased I got here before the storm breaks,’ the man went
on.

Crossing to the bar without as
much as another glance at Smith
’s wallet, the man spoke to the big, bulky
stationmaster. He would be arranging for his accommodation, Smith
guessed. Sure enough, Gilpin took him into the men’s bedroom.
Replacing the telegraph message in his wallet, Smith returned them
to his jacket’s pocket. More rain beat at the windows. Like the
nagging throb of toothache, the pain grew
in
his hands. Coming to his feet, he draped
the coat over his shoulders and went to the counter.

‘
Stage
should be along soon,’ Gilpin commented, slouching back to his
position behind the bar. ‘If it’s not, I’ll have the missus set out
your meal.’

‘
Gracias,’
Smith replied.

Going by the
stationmaster
’s lack of interest in his gloved hands, Smith guessed that
the old hostler had not mentioned his identity. That was lucky.
Some folks fought shy of giving information to a known gun fighter.
Being something of an unknown quantity, Smith might learn about the
prevailing conditions around Widow’s Creek. Maybe he would even
discover the reason he had been sent for. Way station personnel
heard much gossip and Gilpin had the look of a man who liked to
talk.

‘
Have
something while you’re waiting,’ the stationmaster suggested,
reaching under the bar to bring out a bottle and two glasses.
Winking as he drew the cork, he went on, ‘Missus don’t cotton to me
drinking alone, so you’ll be doing me service taking
one.’

‘
I’ve
always been told we was sent here to help others,’ Smith drawled.
‘Only nobody ever says what the others were sent for. Anyways, all
us fellers should stand together.’

‘
You
headed for Widow’s Creek?’ Galpin inquired, after they had
exchanged salutations over the drinks.

‘
If I
get there,’ Smith answered, in a non-committal manner calculated to
extract further information about the town and its
affairs.

‘
All
I’ve heard,’ Gilpin said, ‘it’ll be something to see, that county
fair. ‘Less there’s trouble.’

‘
Should
there be?’ Smith asked, sensing that he was close to achieving his
desire.

‘
You
mix cowhands and nesters, that’s trouble,’ Gilpin replied.
‘Which’ll be a damned shame. Wil Jeffreys’s aiming for a
celebration that’ll make the big county fair they held at Tombstone
a few years back look like a church social in a one-hoss
village.’
^iv