“Uh-oh, here comes trouble.” Grubby picked up the shotgun he’d parked beside his chair, laid it across his lap and pulled back both hammers. Grubby kept his eyes on the burly newcomer as he marched across the barroom and up to the bar. It was mutual; the man didn’t stop glaring at Gubby either.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Dangerous Dagwood,” Grubby replied. “The terror of the Yukon, the meanest, most ornery cuss in the Klondike. He got the claim right above our’n. Tried to jump us three times already. Now, after us’n hit today, he’ll be gunnin’ for real.”
“Whiskey!” Dangerous Dagwood’s voice wasn’t loud in volume, but nevertheless it boomed out over the saloon with the timbre of a foghorn.
The bartender gave him a bottle and a glass and backed away. The saloon became very quiet. A few of the patrons slipped out. The others got their backs against something, getting out of the way of whatever trouble was coming. A clear path was left between Dangerous Dagwood and our table.
Dangerous Dagwood picked up the glass. A sneer crossed his ugly face. He dropped the glass to the floor and then ground it into the sawdust with his boot. The grating sound was followed by another, the audible sound of gurgling as Dangerous Dagwood raised the whiskey bottle to his lips and sucked at it until it was empty. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tossed the bottle over his shoulder to the bartender, and pulled a very large pistol from the holster at his hip. Bouncing it casually in the palm of his hand, he strode over to Grubby.
“Big strike today, hey Grubby?” His voice was a grunt in an ice cave.
“Yep.” Grubby stroked the trigger of the shotgun.
“That stream you hit with the mother lode—that thar stream’s milkin’ my vein.” Dangerous Dagwood was still coming on icy mild.
“Shame.” Grubby kept his voice even, but he was sweating.
“Ain’t it the truth? Now, Grubby, fair’s fair, and I reckon as how the fair thing’d be for you an’ Belch an’ Flame to cut me in as a full partner seein’ as how the Lucky Seven’s hit into my lode. Whaddaya say?”
“I’ll pass it on to ‘em.”
“You tell ’em that’s how it’s gonna be, Grubby.” He looked thoughtful. “ ‘Course, gen’rally speakin’, a four-way split ain’t near as good as a three-way split. You’d allow that’s true, now wouldn’t you, Grubby?”
“I reckon, Dangerous Dagwood.”
“A sight better. Question is which one of the four’s gonna bow out. You got any idea, Grubby?”
“Some idea, Dangerous Dagwood.”
“Grubby!” It was a reproach. “You wouldn’t be thinkin’ I’m the one should be cut out, now would you?”
Grubby made no reply.
“That’d be plumb eye-ronic. ’Cause truth is I was think- in’ it’d be easier all ’round if’n you was the one. ’Member what they say, Grubby, it’s a sight better to give than to receive.”
Grubby raised his shotgun and pointed it straight at Dangerous Dagwood’s mammoth chest. “I grubbed too many years to be givin’ anything away now that I hit,” he told him.
“Grubby! What for you pointin’ that weapon at me? That ain’t friendly. It could go off and hurt me. That’d make rne plumb angry. I got a mighty foul temper when I get riled, Grubby.”
“Just move off now, Dangerous Dagwood. Just put up your gun and move off ’fore we have any trouble.”
“That what’s worryin’ you? This here peashooter?”
Dangerous Dagwood bounced the pistol in the palm of his hand. “Shucks, I fergot I even had it. Ain’t no cause for alarm, Grubby. It be makin’ you nervous, I’ll just put it away.” Dangerous Dagwood holstered his gun and started walking away from the table. The path he chose took him right past Grubby’s left elbow.
Grubby relaxed his hold slightly as Dangerous Dagwood seemed to be willing to depart in peace. That was his mistake. As he passed Grubby, Dangerous Dagwood slapped down hard on the barrel of the shotgun. Reflex made Grubby pull the trigger as the muzzle was forced upwards. The blast came so close to the top of my head that it almost parted my hair. It blew out a large chunk of the ceiling and a rain of plaster fell over the table.
“Why, Grubby, you went and shot at me,” Dangerous Dagwood said in an injured tone. “Now you all saw that.” He addressed the room at large. “And the law of the Klondike is a man’s ’title to defend hisself.” He wrenched the shotgun from Grubby’s hands easily. He clubbed Grubby over the head with it—one mighty blow that left the sourdough unconscious. “A man can use any force necessary to save his life,” Dangerous Dagwood observed. He stuck the muzzle of the gun in Grubby’s mouth, propped the barrel against Grubby’s lap, and wedged Grubby’s fingers against the trigger. “Now I got just cause to kill this man in self-defense, but you all know how chicken-hearted I am. I believe in forgiveness. I ain’t gonna kill him even if’n he did try to kill me. No sir!” Dangerous Dagwood stepped away a pace and stood with his back to Grubby. “I forgive this man,” he announced, reaching behind him and clapping Grubby on the shoulder. Grubby’s arm jerked downward under the impetus of the hand on his shoulder. His fingers were yanked against the trigger. The shotgun blasted a second time and the top of Grubby’s head sailed through the hole in the ceiling. Other bits and pieces of his brain splattered around the saloon. “Ain’t that the saddest?” Dangerous Dagwood mused. “Pore Grubby musta been so overwrought with conscience ’counta his tryin’ to kill me he just up an’ did his own self in. Or mebbe it’s on’y that his success was too much for him. It just plain went to his head!” Dangerous Dagwood chortled briefly. Then he shook his head sadly. “Pore Grubby a suicide,” he sighed. “You go tell Miss Flame she done lost a partner,” he instructed me. “But tell her not to fret. I consider it my rightful duty to be takin’ his place. Move now!” He gave me a shove.
I moved. I hotfooted it over to the dance hall and told Flame what had happened. “That Dangerous Dagwood has a mean streak in him,” I concluded.
“Environmental.” Flame dismissed my comment. “Poor Grubby. Spent his whole life grubstaking on a shoestring and now when he finally hits pay dirt, he swallows a mouthful of hot lead. That’s the Klondike for you.”’ She eyed me appraisingly. “You want a job?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
“How you gonna eat? How you gonna pay for a room? How you gonna pay me back for the clothes on your back? You want a job!” She was telling me now, not asking me.
“Okay, so I want a job.”
“Then you’re hired. You’re working for the Lucky Seven.”
“What are my duties?”
“That depends what comes up. First thing is for you to get over to the mine and tell Belch what happened to Grubby. Warn him to keep a weather eye peeled for Dangerous Dagwood. Tell him I said he should shoot that critter on sight. While you’re gone, I’ll arrange for you to have a room of your own here. I’ll pay the rent and take it outa your first week’s salary. If you live out the first week,” she added blithely.
On that cheerful note, I made tracks for the Lucky Seven. Belch stuck his Colt under my chin as I entered the gate. I stammered through the story of what had happened to Grubby once again. When I finished, Belch put the Colt away, implying his acceptance of the fact that I was on his side.
“That polecat!” Belch belched with outrage. “I’m gonna blow his guts out!” Belch belched murderously. “I was right fond of Grubby.” Belch belched mournfully.