Chapter 18
“Gonna kill that son of a bitch,” Selmon muttered as he wrapped a makeshift bandage around Benny’s injured foot. He had cleaned up the wound as best he could. “Gonna find him and kill him. Try standin’ on that.”
Benny used the wagon to help him stand up and winced as he rested a little weight on the bad foot. When he rested a little more on it, he yelled and clutched harder at the wagon, lifting the foot again.
“I can’t stand on it,” he said, panting from the pain. “I think . . . I think it’s broken.”
“Well, you’re just gonna have to put up with it,” Selmon said. “There ain’t nothin’ else I can do for you.”
“Maybe you could make me a crutch?” Benny suggested.
“Out of what? And we’re ten miles or more from anywhere. Even with a crutch, how you gonna walk that far? You can’t.” Selmon sighed. “I got to leave you here, Benny, while I go for help.”
“You . . . you ain’t gonna leave me for good, are you?”
“No, of course not, just for a while. Anyway, we can’t both go off and leave this here load of moonshine unprotected. Hell, we got all our money tied up in it. You got to stay here and watch over it. That damn varmint tossed your guns out in the grass. I’ll go find ’em.”
“Can you help me sit down first?”
Selmon rolled his eyes, but he took hold of Benny’s arm and supported him. “All right, take it nice and easy.”
Benny sat down on the ground next to the wagon, out of the trail. Selmon found his friend’s two revolvers and brought them back. He handed one of them to Benny. “I’m keepin’ one of these guns since that polecat rode off with mine.”
Benny nodded. “That’s fine. I don’t mind sharin’ my shootin’ irons.”
“I wasn’t askin’,” Selmon snapped. “Now, I’m countin’ on you, Benny. You can’t let nothin’ happen to this hooch.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Benny promised. “Selmon . . . you ain’t really goin’ after that fella, are you? He pretty much said he’d shoot you on sight if he ever saw you again.”
“After what happened to you, don’t you want the score settled with him?”
“Well, sure I would, but I don’t know that it’s worth gettin’ killed over. Anyway, we don’t even know who he is. He never said his name.”
“We know he’s travelin’ with that old Marshal Tate from Copperhead Springs. Lotsa folks in these parts know Tate, or at least know of him. He was a reg’lar town tamer for a good long while.”
“Reckon he’s still pretty tough, judgin’ from the way he tackled you.”
“He took me by surprise, is all, damn it,” Selmon said defensively.
Benny looked down. He and Selmon had been working together long enough for him to know it wasn’t wise to push the smaller man too far. Selmon had a loco streak in him and didn’t always bother to hold it in.
“Anyway, I’ll settle up with those fellas later,” Selmon went on. “Right now, I got to do somethin’ about this mess we’re in. I’ll walk to Rutherford’s place and get some help there.”
“That’ll take you half the night,” Benny protested.
“You got any better ideas?”
Benny sighed and shook his head. “No, I reckon I don’t,” he admitted. “You know me, Selmon. I ain’t much of one for ideas.”
Selmon grunted. “I know. I’m used to doin’ the thinkin’ for both of us. You just stay here. I’ll be back.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Benny said dispiritedly. “Not with this busted foot.”
Selmon checked the gun he’d kept to make sure dirt hadn’t fouled the barrel and found that it appeared to be all right, still in good working condition. With a nod to Benny, he started trudging westward along the trail.
A couple miles from there, a smaller trail turned off to the north. He and Benny had traveled the route before. That northbound trail ran into an isolated area and after ten miles or so he would come to Rutherford’s Store. Despite its name, it was actually a saloon and whorehouse that catered to men on the dodge. Abner Rutherford was a regular customer of the moonshine Selmon and Benny cooked up. He would be willing to help. He wouldn’t let a whole wagonload of the stuff go to waste.
It was a long walk. Selmon knew it wouldn’t take him half the night, the way Benny had said, but it probably would be well after dark by the time he reached Rutherford’s. He hoped nobody would come along in the meantime, kill Benny, and steal the moonshine. He could always get another partner, but he’d hate to lose that hooch.
Cowboys hated to walk. To a cowboy’s way of thinking, any chore that couldn’t be done from horseback was a chore not worth doing.
Selmon, on the other hand, had never been a cowboy. The work struck him as being way too hard for the amount of money a fella could earn.
Even so, he didn’t care much for walking, either, and he liked it less by the time Rutherford’s Store came into view. Blisters had sprung up on his feet, and every step sent pain jabbing into them.
He’d hoped somebody would come along with a buggy or a wagon and give him a ride. Even somebody on horseback who’d let him ride double would have been welcome. But Selmon seemed to be the only one who was headed for Rutherford’s place.
When he spotted the lights up ahead he felt the impulse to run. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could get off his feet.
He couldn’t stand the extra punishment running caused, so he kept moving at the same slow, steady pace, gradually drawing closer to the store. The moon had risen, and along with the stars it provided enough light for him to see the low, rambling sod structure and a number of horses in the corral off to the side. Selmon hoped he could take some of those horses back to the wagon, as well as somebody who’d help him fix the busted wheel.
He stepped through the open doorway into the large, smoky barroom. In a slight nod to the name of the place, a few shelves of supplies and other goods occupied the right end of the room, but nearly all the space was given over to tables and a long, plank bar supported by barrels of whiskey and beer. The left end of the room sported a row of curtained-off cubicles where three or four soiled doves plied their trade.
At the moment, only a couple tables had customers seated at them. A desultory poker game was going on at one of them, while at the other several men were drinking in morose silence. Nearly a dozen men were crowded up to the bar, where Rutherford and his fat Indian wife served them.
Rutherford spotted Selmon, and his bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I was expectin’ you earlier today, Selmon.” He waved over the newcomer. “What happened?”
Selmon limped up to the bar, grimacing with every step as he had been for the past five miles. “Benny and me ran into some trouble. Our wagon lost a wheel, then some fellas came along, tried to kill us, and stole our mules.”
“Good Lord,” Rutherford muttered. “You look like you could use a drink.”
“Yeah, and a place to sit. I walked the whole way up here, a good twelve miles.”
More like a
bad
twelve miles,
he thought.
“Sit down there at that table. I’ll bring you a glass.”
“Much obliged,” Selmon said with a nod.
It was a great relief to get the weight off his feet. He looked down at his boots and frowned. He was almost afraid to look at the damage done to his feet. Besides, if he took the boots off, he might not be able to get them back on. The smartest thing was to leave them alone until he rescued Benny and got the wagon to the saloon.
Rutherford came over with a glass and a bottle. The whiskey wasn’t as good as the shine Selmon and Benny brewed, but Selmon was happy to get it. He took the glass and gulped it down. A welcome warmth spread through him.
“Tell me what happened,” Rutherford urged.
“We were headed up here to make that delivery to you when we lost a nut off one of the back wheels,” Selmon explained. He picked up the bottle and splashed more whiskey into the glass. “Damn wheel came all the way off before we realized what was goin’ on.”
“Shoot, Benny’s big enough he should’ve been able to pick up the wagon so you could put the wheel back on.”
Selmon grunted in disgust. “Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? But he couldn’t raise it high enough by himself, and if I helped him, there wasn’t anybody to slip the wheel back on. Then a couple of fellas came ridin’ along.”
“The ones who stole your mules.”
“That’s right. But before they did that . . .” Selmon hesitated as he debated how much to tell Rutherford. He decided not to lie about it. Rutherford was as big a crook as anybody in those parts and had no love for the law.
“We sort of had a run-in with those fellas. One of ’em was that old gunfightin’ marshal from over at Copperhead Springs.”
Rutherford frowned in confusion. “What are you talkin’ about? Riley Cumberland’s the marshal at Copperhead Springs. At least he was the last time I heard.”
“No, no,” Selmon muttered. “I mean old Marshal Tate.”
“Jared Tate? Why, he hasn’t been a lawman for four or five years, maybe longer.”
“Well, I didn’t know that, all right?” Selmon tossed off the second drink and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I got better things to do with my time than keep up with who’s wearin’ a badge and who ain’t.”
Rutherford looked like he was trying not to smile as he said, “Lemme get this straight. You started a fight with that old retired marshal because you were afraid he was gonna arrest you for haulin’ moonshine?”
“It wasn’t just him,” Selmon said miserably. “He had some young hotshot with him. Could’ve been a federal man for all I know.”
Rutherford couldn’t hold in a chuckle. “So you got roughed up by a retired star packer and a kid, and then they stole your mules. You are quite the desperado, Selmon, you really are.”
It was all Selmon could do to keep from losing his temper. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’ll settle that score with ’em one of these days. You can bet on that, Ab.”
“Yeah, well, what’re you gonna do now?”
“I thought maybe you’d let me borrow some horses so I can go back down there and fetch Benny and the wagon.”
“Is Benny all right?”
“Yeah, the wagon, uh, sort of fell on his foot and—”
Rutherford laughed again, then shook his head and waved a hand. “I’m sorry. Go on.”
“I need a team, and I need somebody to help me get that wheel back on the wagon. Then we can finish deliverin’ that load of shine to you.”
“If I’ve got to loan you some horses and lend you a hand, I’ll expect a nice discount on the price.”
Selmon winced, and it had nothing to do with the pain in his feet. “We’re already givin’ you the rock-bottom price, Ab—”
“If you’re not ready to deal, you can find some help somewhere else.”
There wasn’t anywhere else, and Rutherford damn well knew it, Selmon thought. He sighed. “All right, we’ll knock some off the price.”
“A third?”
“A third!” Selmon yelped. “We won’t make no money at all, at that price! I was thinkin’ . . . five percent?”
“Twenty-five.”
They haggled back and forth for a few minutes, and Selmon actually forgot about how much his feet hurt as he got caught up in the negotiating. They settled on twenty percent. Rutherford wouldn’t budge from that price.
“We’ll head down there to get Benny and the wagon first thing in the mornin’,” the proprietor said.
“We can’t go tonight?”
Rutherford let out a snort. “Hell, no. The night’s half gone, and I plan on sleepin’ in my own bed. Tomorrow mornin’s soon enough.”
Selmon nodded in agreement. There was nothing else he could do.
A shadow fell over the table, causing him to look up. A shaggy-haired man in a buckskin jacket and high-crowned felt hat stood there. The man had a soup-strainer mustache hanging over his mouth, under a prominent beak of a nose. Selmon didn’t recognize him.
“Somethin’ I can do for you, mister?” he asked, trying not to whine.
“Did I hear you mention Marshal Jared Tate a few minutes ago?” the man asked in a deep, gravelly voice.
“What if I did?” Selmon tried to move his hand closer to the butt of the pistol tucked in his waistband without being obvious about it. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“A friend of mine?” the shaggy stranger repeated. He laughed. “Not hardly. I didn’t know he was anywhere around these parts.”
“Well, he is, and he ain’t a lawman no more. Ain’t much better than an owlhoot, if you ask me, the way him and that other fella jumped me and my pard and hurt us and stole our mules.”
The stranger shook his head. “That don’t sound like Tate. He was always so upright. Acted like he had a ramrod instead of a spine.” The man’s voice hardened. “And he hid behind that badge of his when he killed my brother. I been waitin’ years to get even with him for that.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Selmon said. “All I know is he sure mistreated us.”