Curly Bill and Ringo (14 page)

Curly bent low over the Appaloosa’s neck, reined the gelding off the trail and streaked across the desert toward the stage road. The five Apaches came screaming after him, their lead whistling through the air all around him. He couldn’t be sure whether they were trying to hit him or not this time, all he knew was that they didn’t. And their horses, though fresh and strong, were no match for the Appaloosa. Once in the stage road he thundered along it at a dead run, leaving a ribbon of dust behind him, and the Apaches were soon left so far behind that they abandoned the chase, shaking their guns in the air and screaming in fury.

Curly, smiling over his shoulder, gradually slowed his pace to a walk in order to let the Appaloosa cool off.

So once again he made it back to town with a whole skin and his curly locks still attached to his head and rode along the street grinning with affection at the familiar sights and feeling right proud just to be alive. He reined in and stepped down in front of the general store and went in casually taking the doctored list out of his shirt pocket and handing it to Grady. There were an even dozen of the horses they had brought back from Mexico and scattered on Uncle Willy’s range. The list showed no less than seventy. Grady looked the list over while Curly turned to look out at the empty street, quietly humming to himself. It was a fine day, only a few little clouds building up that he had scarcely noticed as he rode in.

“What’s this, Curly?” Grady asked.

Curly looked around at him in surprise. As usual, there wasn’t a hint of expression on the storekeeper’s small wrinkled face. Only his gray hair showed how much he thought and worried, and how the years were gaining on him.

“Why, it’s a list of the horses we brought back,” Curly said. “Didn’t Uncle Willy tell you about it before he left?”

Grady shook his head. “He told me to let you boys have whatever you needed on credit. But he didn’t say anything about any horses.”

“That’s just like Uncle Willy,” Curly said, rubbing his mouth and remembering now that he hadn’t mentioned the horses to Uncle Willy until he was in the stage, about to leave town. So there was no way Uncle Willy could have told Grady about the horses. “He told me to make out a list of the horses and he’d settle up with us when he gets back.”

“I see,” Grady said. He studied the list a moment. “’Fourteen sorrels. Fourteen chestnuts.’” He glanced up at Curly and asked, “What’s the difference between a sorrel and a chestnut? I’ve never been very clear on that point.”

“There are several different schools of thought on the subject,” Curly said evasively. “No two people seem to agree about it. Some claim the dark sorrels are chestnuts, some the light, some say neither. Some say they’re all sorrels, some say they’re all chestnuts, some say there ain’t a bit of difference. But Uncle Willy can decide for himself which is which.”

“If they’re not all stolen before he gets back,” Grady said. He was still glancing over the list. “’One buckskin. One line-back dun. One coyote dun. One zebra dun. One claybank. One copper dun. Looks like you brought back a lot of duns this trip.”

“You know how them duns are, Grady. They breed like rabbits.”

“So it seems,” Grady said. “It looks like even the geldings have been at it. Well, I’ll keep the list for him. But he didn’t leave any cash for me to pay you with.”

“I didn’t figger he would,” Curly said. He glanced toward the small post office window at the back of the store. “Reckon you ain’t got no mail for me?”

Grady shook his head. Then he grinned and asked, “Who do you know that can write, Curly?”

“Nobody much, I reckon,” Curly said, grinning too. “Tell me something, Grady. Who did Uncle Willy send that letter to that everybody’s been wondering about? Beanbelly was in here that day eating something and saw him give it to you.”

Grady shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that kind of information, Curly.”

“Does that mean you won’t tell me?”

“That’s what it means.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Grady just glanced at him and didn’t say anything. He put the list in the cash drawer, where he could look at it every time Curly and the Hatcher boys bought something on credit and see if they were overdrawn.

“I reckon nobody thinks I can keep my big mouth shut about anything,” Curly said and headed for the door. Then he stopped and turned. “Maybe there’s something you can tell me. Has Ringo bought a shotgun from you?”

Once more Grady shook his head. Curly had never seen him nod it. “He bought some clothes the first day he was in town, and a sack of grub yesterday morning. But he hasn’t bought a shotgun.”

“How much grub?” Curly asked.

“Almost ten dollars worth.”

“That’s a lot of grub. Even at today’s prices.”

Grady didn’t say anything.

“Well, thanks, Grady,” Curly said. “I won’t mention it to Ringo that you told me.”

Grady smiled. “I don’t imagine you’ll mention asking me, either.”

“No, I reckon I won’t,” Curly said, and went out wondering why Ringo had needed so much grub, since he was staying in town and not one to do his own cooking unless he just had to. Curly didn’t know for sure that the gunfighter had returned to town, but figured he soon would if he hadn’t already.

Curly decided to have a quick beer before taking his horse on to the stable, so he tied the gelding in front of the Road to Ruin and went in through the swing doors. There was no one in sight but Blondie, who stood behind the bar looking cool and pretty in a calico dress. Her eyes had no particular color that he ever noticed, but her hair was naturally blonde and her face was smooth and white, without a blemish, unless you counted the tiny mole on her cheek. She looked even better in the daylight, he thought. Which was unusual, as most saloon women looked like hags during the day. But they all looked good to men who hadn’t seen a woman of any kind for a while.

He propped his elbows on the bar and studied Blondie’s face, and she seemed to find his interest in her fascinating. “Women sure are good looking,” he said. “Even the ugly ones are beautiful.”

“Big Ella will be right pleased to hear that. What can I do for you, Curly?”

“Just a beer, I guess, to drown the dust. I’m running short of funds. Cash money is sure hard to come by these days.”

“You’re telling me,” Blondie said, as she set the foaming beer before him. “Everybody who comes here wants credit, but they never want to pay up. What do they think I’m running, a charitable establishment?”

Curly laughed and glanced about the room. “Where’s Big Ella and Crazy Mary? They got customers this early in the afternoon?”

“No such luck,” Blondie said. “I’ve got them cleaning up their rooms. It looks like a pig pen back there. No self-respecting man would come back the second time. Those two will drive me out of business yet.”

“If they don’t, hard times probably will,” Curly said.

Blondie gave him a sympathetic glance. “How’s the rustling business?”

“Getting tougher and riskier all the time. Looks like I may have to go into a safer line of work. Like hunting mountain lions or grizzly bears.”

“I heard about Parson Hatcher,” Blondie said. “The boys stopped by a little earlier. Why didn’t anyone let folks know, so they could go to the funeral?”

Curly wiped the back of a big hand across his wide mouth. “Wasn’t no funeral. That’s the disadvantage of being the only preacher around. Nobody to preach your funeral when it comes your turn. And Ma thinks only riffraff gets buried in the cemetery. But she seems to think that’s all there is in this town. Riffraff.”

“There’s not even much of that left,” Blondie said. “I sure picked the wrong town this time. I thought without any competition or law to worry about, I could grab my share of the loose money and get out before times got hard. Now it looks like I’ve already waited too long.”

“I think we all have,” Curly said, and finished his beer. He drank beer like water and for the same reason. He would get around to the hard stuff after he took care of his horse.

“You leaving already?” Blondie asked.

He grinned, laying his money on the bar. “I figgered it would be a good time to go, before you get mad about something and start swearing. I sure hate to hear a lady swear.”

“Oh, I don’t mean nothing by it,” Blondie said.

“I know it.”

“Besides,” she added, “I ain’t no lady.”

“I know that too.”

“Maybe you better go,” Blondie said.

He smiled. “I think you’re right. I’ll see you later.”

When he was almost to the door, Blondie said, “Curly.”

He turned and looked at her.

“You’re a fool if you keep thinking about Miss Sarah all the time the way you do,” she said. “She ain’t for you.”

“Who is she for?”

“I don’t know. But it ain’t you.”

He went on out and heard her say to the four walls, “The damn fool.”

He figured she was probably right about that. Anyway, he had this foolish notion that anything was possible. Sooner or later, he told himself, Miss Sarah was bound to see what a great fellow he was. And if all else failed, he could always steal her.

Lost in thought, he had the Appaloosa untied before he noticed the tall man in black standing on the boardwalk, idly smoking a cigarette.

“I thought there was something familiar about that horse,” the tall man said.

“Ringo!” Curly said with a broad grin. “How the hell are you?”

“Too early to tell,” Ringo said. “I’ll know more about it after I’ve had a few drinks.”

“You’re at the right place,” Curly said. “All the booze you can drink right in there, and the prettiest little bartender you ever saw to pour it for you.”

“You know I never go in places like that,” Ringo said.

“Since when?” Curly asked in surprise.

Ringo’s glance strayed toward the hotel. “Someone might get the wrong idea.”

“Nobody in this town gives a damn,” Curly told him.

“Somebody might.”

“Who?”

“You know I never mention names.”

Curly decided this was one of those times when Ringo wanted to be mysterious, so he shrugged and let it go at that. “I was just going to take my horse to the stable,” he said. “If you want to walk along, we’ll go to the Bent Elbow afterwards. I planned to go there anyway.” He grinned. “It always makes me realize how lucky I am that I ain’t Jackpot.”

He led the horse down the street and Ringo fell in step beside him. It seemed to Curly that Ringo had grown a little taller, and he tried to stand up straighter himself, feeling proud to be seen with the legendary gunfighter.

“You think it’s safe?” Ringo asked quietly.

Curly glanced at his hard expressionless face. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think your friends like me too much,” Ringo said.

Curly rubbed his big chin, glancing toward the Bent Elbow.

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it. What makes you think that?”

“You’re not very observant,” Ringo said. “You’re always looking, but you never see anything.”

Curly glanced aside. “I see more than you might think.”

Ringo shrugged and changed the subject. “I hear you killed Mad Dog Shorty.”

“That ain’t very funny,” Curly said.

“I never said it was funny. I’m just telling you what I heard. It’s all over town how you beat him up in the saloon, then followed him out of town and blasted him with a shotgun.”

“There’s just one thing wrong with that story,” Curly said. “I ain’t got a shotgun.”

“You used to have one.”

“That reminds me, Ringo. My shotgun disappeared while we were in Mexico, or on the way down there. I remember you going back to get it after you had me in the saddle at that waterhole, but that’s the last time I can remember ever seeing it. What happened to it?”

“I sold it,” Ringo said. “We were both broke, so I sold it for a few pesos. I thought you knew about it.”

“I don’t remember anything about it.”

“Hell, I told you I was going to sell it,” Ringo said. “You said all right.”

Curly had a feeling that Ringo still had the shotgun and that he had used it on Mad Dog Shorty. But he shrugged and said, “There’s a lot about them days I don’t remember. So I guess you’re right.”

“I never use a shotgun anyway,” Ringo said.

“You didn’t use to,” Curly said. “But with that bum arm, I thought you might of started using one.”

“I never said there was anything wrong with my arm,” Ringo grunted.

“You didn’t have to. Like I said before, I see more than you might think.”

“Try not to tell everyone you see about it,” Ringo said in a soft but savage tone, watching the Hatcher boys and the Bishop kid come out of the stable.

“Hey, Curly,” Cash said, “Billy’s been showing us how fast he can draw. He thinks he can beat you. I told him he couldn’t. Show him who’s right.”

Curly patted the Appaloosa on the rump and the rangy gelding trotted by them into the stable. “You boys know I don’t play them kid games. I’m too old to make a fool of myself.”

“Aw, come on, Curly,” the Bishop kid said. “It won’t hurt nothin’. I want to see what kind of chance I’d stand against a famous gunfighter like you.”

Curly glanced at Ringo out of one eye and Ringo just looked back at him as if to say, You got yourself into this with your big mouth, telling everyone what a famous gunfighter you are. Now get yourself out of it.

“Well, if you put it that way,” Curly said, “I don’t reckon it would hurt nothing. But I don’t want you to go and get sore if I win. I got my reputation to think of, you know.”

He didn’t like the way the kid smiled. “I won’t git sore.”

“Just being able to draw fast won’t mean much in a real gunfight if you can’t hit nothing,” Curly said. “Let’s see who can put the first five slugs in a tin can before it stops rolling. That all right with you, kid?”

The kid shrugged. “Sure, Curly. Any way you want it is all right with me.”

Cash and Comanche Joe found a couple of tin cans and set them on the ground about twenty feet away. Curly noticed that Ringo moved over and stood with his back against the barn wall, smoking his cigarette in silence, his eyes half closed against the bright sunlight. The Hatcher boys and Billy Bishop let on like he wasn’t there, but Curly had a feeling all this had something to do with the tall lean gunfighter.

“You ready, kid?” Curly asked.

“Sure thing, Curly,” the boy said, looking sort of smug and smiling his secret smile as if he knew something Curly didn’t.

“Cash,” Curly said, “toss a rock in the air and when it hits the ground we’ll draw and shoot.”

Cash found a small rock, pitched it up and when it hit the ground Curly reached for his gun.

Before he even got it out of the holster, the Bishop kid’s gun was roaring, and before Curly got off more than two shots the Bishop kid’s gun was silent. Even though Curly was concentrating on his own can, he could see the boy’s can jerking and rolling crazily and he knew Billy had put all five of his bullets through it.

Curly quit firing and felt his face getting hot as he looked at the boy, who was still smiling. Cash and Beanbelly were also grinning and Comanche Joe laughed his short laugh that sounded like a grunt. Curly had a feeling they had set him up.