Rather than ride down Main Street, Madigan turned the buckskin down an alley and made his way around the back of the town. Coming to another alley he glanced down it and saw the front of the local saloon, the Durango Pleasure Palace.
The sun was down and Madigan had little fear of being spotted in the darkness between the buildings, so he moved closer to the Main Street for a better look while still remaining hidden from prying eyes from the saloon.
Beside the Pleasure Palace was a makeshift corral, while a loafing shed stood to one side. Inside the corral were six horses with various brands. Some of the brands he recognized as being from large Texas spreads known for their rough ways and tough men-men that didn’t think twice about leaving with one of the ranch’s cow ponies.
Madigan had no doubt that these were the horses of the hombres that had followed the two men several nights back. An uneasy feeling crept through Madigan as he realized the potential for disaster if he got careless for even a minute.
Madigan took a last look along the street while he patted the buckskin on the neck. “Hope there’s more than one livery in town,” he told the big horse, “or we might be in a little trouble.”
Reining the big horse around, he started out of the alley when a noise caught his attention; it came from somewhere above. He froze, a reaction borne of years as an army scout. Two stories above, a window was raised and he could hear voices and laughter coming from inside. Suddenly a basin of water was thrown out the open window, followed shortly by a woman’s face peering down. The water spattered on the ground a few feet away from Madigan. The woman’s face was quickly withdrawn and Madigan wondered why people threw things first, then looked to see if anyone was below.
Another sound caught his attention, and he looked up again just in time to see the face of a man retreat out of sight at the same window. He only got a look at it for an instant before the face vanished back into the room. But it was enough for him to know that it was the same man he had clobbered in the moonlight several nights back.
Not being able to see the front of the building, Madigan surmised it must be another saloon or cheap boarding house. Most men on the move didn’t have much money to spend on room and board, and most of them liked to wash the trail dust out of their throats after a long ride, so there were always cheap rooms to be had close to one or more of the saloons in town. Sometimes the rooms were right in the saloon itself and many had girls available for the price of a few drinks. Madigan made a mental note to stay clear of this end of town.
Riding down the back street, his packhorse in tow, he soon came to the back side of a livery stable. There was a small corral in back and into this Madigan unsaddled and put the horses. He had just closed the gate when an old man with snowy white hair appeared from nowhere carrying a sawed-off twelve-gauge.
“Can I get them some corn, stranger?” he asked. The man had come on him like a cat stalks a mouse, taking Madigan totally unaware. In a flash too quick for the eye to follow, he palmed his Colt.
“No need for that, mister!” the old man said. “Wouldn’t do you no good anyhow; you shoot me and Bertha here goes off and cuts you in two. And we’d both be sorrier for the experience! This here sawed-off’s got the triggers tied back and only my thumb is keeping the hammer from fallin’! Why, if I was just to twitch a little she’s bound to go off! Be too bad if you happened to be standing in front of her when she did,” the old man grinned. “Now about that corn, do you want ‘em to have some or not?”
“Sorry, old-timer. “I’m just a little tired and edgy. Had me some trouble back up the trail a ways.” Madigan dropped the Colt back into the holster. “Meant you no harm.”
The old man took a long look, then spoke. “What kind of trouble you talking about? Now be sure of what you say, stranger. The information’s for me and me alone.”
Madigan wasn’t in the habit of telling others his business or, for that matter, his problems. But there’s something about looking down the twin barrels of a sawed-off twelve-gauge that loosens a man’s tongue a mite, especially when the man holding that twelve-gauge looks to mean business.
So Madigan told him about the men chasing him after he was forced to kill one of them in self-defense and of having to knock another man out to keep him from bushwhacking two other men. All the while the old man kept the shotgun leveled at Madigan’s midsection.
After Madigan was through, the old man shifted his weight to the other foot and said, “You say you shot a couple out of their saddles at near half a mile? Only one man I heard tell that could shoot like that, but never heard much about him being quick with a short gun. From what I just saw, you’re one of the fastest men I’ve ever seen with a Colt and I’ve seen plenty in my time.” The old man hesitated while he spit out a wad of chew, never taking his eyes off Madigan or letting the shotgun waver. “Ain’t always owned this stable, you know. Used to be marshal up to the rim country of Montana and parts east.”
Madigan took a long, slow breath. He had guessed right about this old man. He was more than capable of letting the hammer drop. Something Madigan had seen in the old man’s eyes had warned him that even though the man was old, he was still somebody to be reckoned with. Madigan hoped he could keep the man on his side.
“Used to be fast with a side gun myself, but gotten too old now,” the old man said. “Cant’ see worth a darn. Never figured to live this long, so now I’ve got to use this.” He shook the shotgun just enough to make his point, but not enough to take it out of Madigan’s belly.
Suddenly Madigan felt tired. “Old man, you going to shoot me or what? I’ve been in the saddle all day and I’d like to find an outhouse before I mess my jeans!” The old man laughed a little but never relaxed the shotgun.
“I might shoot you yet, depends on who you say you are.” There was a question in what the man had just said and Madigan took no time in answering.
“I’m Sam Madigan,” he replied. The old man stood firm.
“You can prove that?” he asked.
“I can. I’ve got my army papers in my pack.”
“Never mind the pack. You could have a gun hid there. Show me your rifle, the one you did the long-range shooting with!”
“It’s in my pack also, right at the top, covered with a leather sheath.”
“Get it with your left hand, real slow. Remember this here’s got a tied back trigger. It’s a wonder she hasn’t gone off before now with all the bull we’ve been spreading.”
Madigan carefully untied the corner of the pack and lifted it with his left hand, going slowly as not to upset the old man. “It’s right here in this cover,” Madigan said as he slid the.50–90 from its hiding place.
“That’s enough!” the old man said. “Only one man I heard of carries a Sharps with a black walnut stock and a silver butt plate.” He lowered his shotgun, letting the hammers down slowly, then held out his hand to Madigan. “Welcome to town, Mr. Madigan.”
“Call me Sam. What do I call you?”
“Most folks only call me to supper any more,” the old man laughed. “My name’s Talley, Roy Talley. Late of this place, but in my younger days I ramrodded some pretty tough towns along the way as town marshal. Then old age came creepin’ at my door, and well, you know how people are. They think when you get a little older you can’t hold your own any more.” Talley looked down at the shotgun in his hands.
“Sometimes they just get smarter. I did up till a few years ago, then I started to forget things. Little things at first, things that didn’t matter much, then bigger things that could get me or someone killed. So I came here, bought myself the livery and settled in.”