“Yes, sir, here is your mount, as fresh as he was when he boarded the train.” The groom held the horse’s reins in one hand, while his other hand was palm up for the expected tip.
Harley ignored the groom’s palm and, without a sound, mounted, and rode away. It took but a minute to ride from the depot to the saloon where he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rail. He glanced up and down the street as if making certain there was no potential threat, then pushed his way through the swinging bat wing doors.
He was wearing a gun strapped low on his right hip, and once inside, he stepped away from the door so he wasn’t back lighted. He paused for a moment. Only when his eyes were fully adjusted to the dimmer light, did he walk over to the bar.
“You know who that is?” Dinkins whispered to the others.
“Can’t say as I do,” Parnell said.
“That is Wes Harley. I reckon you’ve heard of him, ain’t you?
“I’ve heard of ’im,” Travis said. “He’s a—”
“He’s a gunfighter,” Dinkins interrupted, intending to keep control of the conversation.
“He’s supposed to be fast,” Travis said.
“He’s not just supposed to be fast, he is fast,” Dinkins said.
“I don’t believe that is him,” Parnell said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well think about it. What would someone like that be doin’ here?”
“He’s here ’cause I asked him to be here,” Dinkins said.
“What?”
“He’s the one I was telling you about. He’s the one I asked to join us. He’ll be with us when we hit the bank in Crystal.”
“You really think we need someone like that to hold up the bank in that little town?” Parnell asked.
“If people like Smoke Jensen are going to start coming after us, it would be good to have someone like Harley on our side,” Dinkins said.
Harley stepped up to the bar and slapped a coin down.
“Whiskey,” he grunted. “The good stuff.”
“Oh, sorry, mister, but you are just a little too late for any of our good stuff. That miner down there at the other end of the bar just bought our last bottle of blended whiskey. But I think you’ll find our trade liquor ain’t that bad.”
Harley turned to look at the young miner, who had just poured himself a glass from the bottle. “Mister, I’ll be askin’ you to sell that bottle to me.”
The miner shook his head. “Friend, I been bustin’ up hard rock all week, just a’ thinkin’ about comin’ in here for a good bottle of whiskey. I aim to keep it for myself.”
Harley put some money on the bar and slid it toward the cowboy.
“Mister, don’t you hear good?” the miner asked. “I told you, I ain’t sellin’ my whiskey.”
“Either pick up the money, or go for your gun,” Harley said.
“What?”
“I said, pull your gun or give me the bottle.”
“I ain’t even wearin’ a gun. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“You.” Harley looked toward Travis Slater. “You’re wearin’ a gun. Give it to the miner there.”
“All right.” Travis pulled his pistol from his holster by thumb and forefinger, carried it over to the miner, and held it out toward him.
The miner held up his hands, as if pushing Travis away. “I don’t want your gun.”
“Put it on the bar, then back out of the way,” Harley said.
Travis did as Harley directed.
“You’re armed now,” Harley said. “Pick it up.”
“Mister, are you serious?” The miner’s voice was high-pitched and cracking with fear. “You really aimin’ to throw down on me over a bottle of whiskey?”
“For God’s sake, give him the bottle, boy,” the bartender said.
“I paid for this bottle, and there ain’t nobody goin’ to buffalo me into givin’ it up. I don’t know who you are, mister, but I ain’t givin’ you my bottle, and I ain’t goin’ to pick up this pistol.”
Harley pulled his gun and fired. Pink mist sprayed from the miner’s earlobe and he slapped his hand up to the side of his head with a howl of pain. By the time the smoke cleared, the pistol was back in Harley’s holster.
“Give me the bottle,” Harley ordered.
With his left hand still pressed against his ear, the miner shoved the bottle down the bar with his right. “Here. Take the goddamn bottle.” He reached for the money.
“Uh-uh. That ain’t your money now. You didn’t take it when I give you the chance.”
The miner stared at Harley through terror-stricken eyes. Keeping his hand pressed against the side of his head, he rushed out of the saloon.
Harley picked up the bottle. Carrying it and Travis’s pistol with him, he walked over to join Dinkins and the others at his table. “I thank you for the loan of the pistol.” He held the gun across the table. Raising the bottle to his lips, he took a couple swallows, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked over at Dinkins. He smiled. “Hello, Little Brother.”
“Brother?” Frank Slater said. “You two are brothers?”
“Yeah.” Dinkins reached over to shake hands with Harley.
“How come you ain’t got the same last name?”
“We got the same mama, but different daddies,” Dinkins said.
Harley took another swallow from the bottle. “We think.”
“You think?” Parnell asked, clearly confused by the strange answer. “What do you mean, you think? Do you have different daddies or not?”
“Mama was a whore,” Dinkins said. “She didn’t always keep track of the men she slept with.”
“When you sent for me, you said you had somethin’ in mind,” Harley said. “What is it?”
“Banks,” Dinkins replied. “Startin’ with one over in Crystal, tomorrow.”
“Banks?” Parnell asked.
“You didn’t think we was goin’ to do only that one in Gothic, then quit, did you?” Dinkins asked.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know. I mean the first one sure didn’t turn out well now, did it?” Parnell said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Elco
Smoke had been on the trail for two days, but so far he had no leads on where the bandits were, or even where they were going. He saw a small town rising ahead of him. He hadn’t happened on the town by accident. He knew it was there, and he knew, too, that the men he was looking for would be in a town somewhere. Because towns were few and relatively far between, he was prepared to search every town until he found them.
As he approached the town Smoke decided to get a haircut. He had to find someone talkative enough to engage in conversation if he was going to find out any information. He didn’t know anyone more talkative than a barber. He wasn’t in desperate need of a haircut, but he could use one.
Emerson Bates had his chair tipped back against the rip-sawed boards that made up the false-front of Wong’s Laundry. He liked sitting there, because he lusted after the Chinaman’s two daughters. Of course, he had never been able to act on his lust. They were not whores, and he could not get them to show any interest in him. At the moment, his feet were wrapped around the front legs of the chair and his hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The sun was almost dead overhead so there were no shadows on the street. It was the hottest time of the day which meant most citizens stayed out of the sun as much as they could.
Bates was a deputy sheriff and the only one out in the noonday sun. The other deputies and the sheriff were in the saloon drinking beer and playing cards.
Bates heard the hollow, clumping sounds of a single rider and looked toward the south to see a horseman coming into town. Tipping his chair forward Bates stood up and watched as the rider came farther into town. Just across the street from the Chinese laundry, the rider pulled up, then dismounted in front of Max’s Barbershop.
As Smoke was tying his horse off at the hitching rail, the barber stepped out through the door of his shop. “Yes, sir.” He smiled at his potential customer as he stood with a damp towel draped across his shoulder. “Would you be wanting a haircut and a shave?”