Bunty the bounty hunter, p.2
Bunty the Bounty Hunter, page 2
“In that case I reckon we should do this outside,” Bunty said with a roll of her shoulders. “Then Sheriff Merryweather won’t have far to go when he takes you to Boot Hill.”
Tex gulped, a flicker in his eyes betraying his waning confidence, and that was when Bunty went for her gun.
Chapter Two
Randolph McDougal and Fergal O’Brien shuffled along with their backs stooped and their gaits faltering. When they reached the crest of the hill, a town lay before them. It was still an hour before sundown so tonight they would be able to sleep in the warmth of a settlement, but the welcome sight didn’t stop the men from dropping to their knees.
They had seen hard times recently. For several years they had run a traveling show that displayed their exhibition of authentic historical memorabilia, which they’d made themselves, along with selling Fergal’s universal remedy to cure all ills, which rarely helped anybody.
But their wagon, along with everything they owned, had fallen into a river and sank, leaving them destitute. Since then they had been afoot for a week, without money, food, or much hope for the future.
In that time they’d eaten only a few scavenged berries and an animal of indeterminate species and even more indeterminate health that Randolph had found dying quietly in a puddle.
“If I remember it right,” Randolph said with a weary sigh, “just after we’d lost everything, you told me that to start afresh in our fine country, an empty bottle is all a man needs.”
“I know,” Fergal O’Brien said. He spread his arms to display his green vest, which billowed out more than usual on his thin frame. “I guess now we’ll find out if I was right.”
Fergal withdrew the empty bottle from his pocket – the only item left from their former lives – and held it up to the sunlight. The bottle shone with a tint of amber from the few dregs of his tonic that remained, making Fergal frown, but it gave Randolph some heart.
“If we’re going to make a fresh batch of your universal remedy we’ll need beans, and plenty of them.”
Fergal sighed. “I guess that’s probably the only thing we can do to earn some money, but to buy supplies in the first place we need money.”
Fergal’s eyes twinkled, presumably from thinking about the challenge ahead so after their rest they got to their feet and headed down the hill. When they reached the town sign, they discovered that they were about to enter the town of Paradise.
“That’s a promising sounding town,” Randolph said.
“And it sure does look large and bustling,” Fergal said.
Beside the town sign two more signs had been erected. One proclaimed that the safest bank in the state was located here while the other promised that in three days the town would be enjoying something called a cricket match.
Randolph had no idea what cricket was and Fergal shrugged, too. Then they headed on, and they soon mingled in with the townsfolk. With its numerous businesses and a station, it was clear that Paradise was ripe with opportunities, but only for people with money.
A week spent trudging along to get here had battered any pride out of them so they visited each saloon and eatery, although only on the outside. At the third saloon they got lucky when they found a heap of food that had just been thrown outside.
They batted away the flies and piled up the least moldy scraps they could find on to discarded newspapers. Then, with their bundles tucked under their arms, they retreated to a deserted spot behind a stable to enjoy their feast.
For the next five minutes they tucked in, hands whirling as they shoved food into their eager mouths, their speed ensuring they didn’t have to look at what they were eating. When Randolph had assuaged some of his hunger, he paused for breath and found that Fergal was eyeing a desiccated potato with relish. Fergal rubbed a layer of white mold off the potato and moved to take a bite.
“Have we really fallen this far?” Randolph asked.
Fergal shrugged and then cringed, as if he’d only just noticed the potato’s putrid state. He dropped it.
“These are the bad times, Randolph,” he said while wiping his hand on the ground. “But suffering them will just mean that we’ll enjoy the good times even more.”
“Whenever they come.”
“It’ll be soon. We’ve faced tough situations before and bounced back.” Fergal removed the empty bottle from his pocket. “I just need to have a big idea.”
“But not a dishonest one.” Randolph smiled when Fergal directed an astonished look at him. “Well, not one that’s too dishonest.”
“There are times when you can afford to have a conscience, and the day when you’re excited about eating a moldy potato isn’t one of them.”
Randolph couldn’t think of an answer to that so he sorted through his remaining food. Most of it was turning into mush and in disgust he tossed the festering heap aside. Randolph still didn’t want to accept they were justified in going to any lengths to get their hands on some money, so he read the newsprint that the rancid food hadn’t drenched. One item caught his eye so he got Fergal’s attention.
“You may need to rein in whatever you’re planning to do,” he said. “It sounds as if someone has already gone as low as a tonic seller can go.”
He handed the newspaper to Fergal, who took it and then frowned.
“Snake-oil sellers raid store in Lone Pine,” he said, reading the headline. “That doesn’t apply to me. I don’t sell snake-oil. The universal remedy is a genuine product.”
“Except anyone who has read that item will be suspicious of a snake-oil . . . of a seller of genuine tonic, so we need to be careful.”
Fergal nodded and then stood up, his furrowed brow showing he was taking Randolph’s suggestion seriously. They set off, but they had yet to reach the main drag when both men came to a halt. A lawman was leaning against the corner of the stable.
“I’m Sheriff Merryweather,” he declared. “I make sure Paradise is a clean town. You men are dirty.”
Fergal spread his arms wide apart and gave his most disarming smile.
“We’re not looking at our best right now,” he said. “Then again, we’ve walked far to reach your fine town.”
“If you don’t want to start walking to another town, remember that I have only one rule in Paradise, and that’s no troublemakers. If anyone breaks that rule, they don’t ever trouble anyone again.”
Merryweather tipped his hat to them before he pushed away from the wall and headed off. Fergal and Randolph waited for a few moments in reflective silence and then moved on. When they reached the main drag, the sheriff was walking to the law office so they headed to the saloon that had provided them with their repast.
Fergal shrugged his thin shoulders within his jacket and headed inside with Randolph a pace behind. Even though it was early in the evening, the main room of the Buckfast saloon was quiet and dark with only a single light illuminating a table in the corner.
A woman was sitting opposite a man while a group of customers stood around them and leaned forward in rapt attention. Randolph couldn’t work out what was interesting everyone, but a customer frowned at them, so they made their way to the bar quietly.
A burly bartender was waving a short plank of wood in a menacing manner so Fergal stood before the female bartender, who was so small she could barely see over the bar. For several seconds she ignored him before, with a shake, she registered that a customer had arrived. She mustered a smile and informed them she was Bunty Shelby.
“I’ve never seen you before so welcome to the Buckfast saloon in the friendly town of Paradise,” she said with the bored tone of someone who said this often.
“We’re pleased to be here and this town looks promising,” Fergal said.
“It’s not always been that way. Paradise was once a lawless hell-hole.” Her eyes alighted for the first time, as if recalling the old days had cheered her. “Then Sheriff Merryweather cleaned up the town and we’ve prospered.”
“We’ve already had the pleasure of talking with Merryweather.”
“Then you’ll have seen that he’s everything a man should be.” She sighed and put a hand to her chest to compose herself before she gestured at Fergal. “And what can I get for you?”
“Water,” Fergal said.
“Free water,” Randolph added.
“The owner, Spurgeon, won’t approve.” Bunty pointed at the other bartender, identifying him as being Spurgeon, but he was busy tossing his plank in the air and catching it. So she appraised their haggard and trail-dirty states. With a wink and exaggerated stealthy movements she fetched a pitcher. “Enjoy your drinks.”
“We’re obliged,” Randolph said.
Bunty gestured to the back of the saloon. “If you’re hungry, I threw out some scraps of food earlier.”
“Seen them, eaten them,” Fergal said.
“And might see them again later,” Randolph said when his stomach gave a worrying rumble.
She laughed. None of the customers reacted, but Spurgeon gestured at her with the plank urging her to be quiet.
“Then rest up and enjoy Marguerite Devereaux’s show,” she whispered.
“What does she do?”
“Marguerite talks with the dead.”
Bunty then put a finger to her lips and when both men returned grateful nods, she headed to the end of the bar to watch proceedings with studied boredom. While gulping down water, they turned to the corner where on either side of a circular table Marguerite and a man faced each other. The man sported a concerned frown and Marguerite sat quietly with her hands on her lap and her eyes closed.
“What is your name?” Marguerite said after a while.
“I’m Bruno Dale,” the man said.
Marguerite tensed and then gasped. “The fog clears and the boundary between this world and the great beyond grows thin. I see a field of corn.”
“That’s strange,” Bruno said, leaning forward. “I’ve never been in no corn field.”
She gripped the edge of the table. “Then it could be barley.”
“I’ve never been in no barley field either.”
“The field is not important as behind the field I see a house.” Marguerite opened her eyes and when Bruno gave an encouraging nod she closed them again. “It’s a large house.”
“I’ve never lived in no large house.”
Marguerite rocked her head from side to side. “The house isn’t yours. I’m now seeing that beyond the large house there’s a smaller house and someone is coming through the door.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s too far away to recognize yet.”
“Why would you see a man?”
“I’m not sure. No, wait, the figure has moved closer and it’s a woman, perhaps a young woman.” Marguerite opened an eye, but Bruno furrowed his brow. “Or maybe an older woman, about your age.”
“That’s Annie.”
“She’s telling me that her name is Annie and she wants to tell you something.”
Everyone around the table sighed, but Bruno shook his head.
“But my wife was mute all her life.”
Marguerite smiled thinly. “In the great beyond, everyone can speak.”
“Then what does she want to say to me?”
Marguerite put a hand to her brow as if thinking hard. Then she laughed.
“Forgive me, but she’s laughing. She says you’ll know why she’s amused.”
“I don’t. There’s nothing funny about her dying in agony.”
“She says that she’s no longer suffering, so she doesn’t want you to remember her sad ending, but instead you should think about the good times when you were happy.”
“I’ll do that, but there were so many. I’d like to hear about the one that’s making her laugh.”
Marguerite winced and then flinched back in her chair.
“The fog grows denser. I’m losing her. She’s getting distant, and yet more distant.”
“Then get her back.”
“And the barrier closes. She’s gone.” Marguerite leaned back in her chair and wiped her brow as if she was exhausted. “It’s tiring for her to reach out to me and that’s all she could manage tonight, but maybe next time I can try to talk to her again.”
Bruno nodded, seemingly pleased with his audience, and then fished in his pocket for a handful of coins. He counted them on to the table and stood up letting another man sit down opposite Marguerite.
With a deft movement she pocketed the coins. Then she resorted to her previous posture of sitting with her eyes closed and her hands clasped on her lap.
“What’s going on here?” Randolph asked, leaning toward Fergal.
“Marguerite is a spiritualist,” Fergal said. “She talks to the dead and passes on their messages to the living.”
“Then she’s not very good at it. She got all the details about that poor man’s wife wrong, and anything that she did get right was just something he told her.”
Fergal winked. “On the contrary, she’s a very good one. None of her guesses were right and she still got paid.”
Randolph noted Fergal’s alert posture confirming that what he’d seen had impressed him, but he still shook his head.
“Or it could just be that she took money from a man who wasn’t thinking straight.”
Fergal nodded eagerly and then drew Randolph’s attention to Bruno. Now that Marguerite was dealing with another client, he was heading to the bar, his expression thoughtful. He ordered a whiskey and, as had happened when they had arrived, Bunty didn’t notice him, so Bruno poured himself a drink and then turned to Fergal.
“Hearing that message must have been a comfort,” Fergal said using a low and sympathetic tone.
When Bruno nodded, Fergal rubbed his hands and edged a pace toward him, making Randolph groan as he accepted that his contemptuous opinion of Marguerite’s performance had only encouraged Fergal to try to emulate her success.
“It was, although I had hoped for more,” Bruno said.
Fergal raised a finger, ensuring that he had Bruno’s attention and then withdrew the empty tonic bottle from his pocket. He placed it on the bar and pushed it closer to Bruno.
“Perhaps this might help.”
Bruno examined the bottle from several angles and then frowned.
“It’s an empty bottle,” he said. “How can that help me?”
“Sometimes an empty bottle is all a man needs. I’m a healer and usually my tonic helps the living, but sometimes, on special nights like this one and when the need is great, it can help the dead, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
Fergal offered Bruno a comforting smile and then pointed at the bottle.
“See how the bottle shines with a hint of gold. That glow is not from this place, but from that special place only Marguerite can visit. My tonic can ease your wife’s suffering in the great beyond.”
Bruno held the bottle up to the light and nodded.
“Whatever is in here does glow in a strange way.” He put the bottle down. “But Marguerite said Annie isn’t suffering.”
Fergal inclined his head and then with his bottom lip pouting in disappointment he drew the bottle away from Bruno.
“As you wish,” he said.
Bruno sighed. “How much?”
Fergal raised his hand from the bottle. “To ease the suffering of the dead, I charge one dollar.”
Bruno fished in his pocket for money making Fergal smile and Randolph mutter to himself. In disgust Randolph turned away and faced Bunty, who chuckled for no apparent reason.
“It’s safe for you to come out now, Sheriff Merryweather,” she said. “You can take Tex to Boot Hill.”
Chapter Three
“So this is the safest bank in the state, is it?” Spurgeon Buckfast said. He stood before the iron safe at the end of the vault. “I thought the safe would be larger.”
“When Paradise expands I reckon I’ll have to get a bigger one,” Kelvin Moylan said.
“You’d never get a bigger safe through the door,” Spurgeon said with bad grace. Then he withdrew his part of the stake money from his pocket. “For now I only care about whether your bank is secure enough to look after my money.”
Usually when they were trading insults about the forthcoming contest, Spurgeon’s comments were more cutting than he’d managed so far. That meant he was impressed with what he’d seen and to press home his advantage, Kelvin launched into the pitch he’d uttered hundreds of times before.
“A bank is only as safe as its weakest point and we’ve covered all the possibilities. I have the only key to the vault, but I don’t know the code that opens the safe, which is known only by two trusted employees.”
“Employees can be bribed or taken hostage.”
“Having two employees with the code ensures that won’t happen. If one man is compromised, the other man changes the code, and that still leaves the matter of getting into the vault.”
Kelvin folded his arms, defying Spurgeon to pick fault with his security precautions. To his relief Spurgeon gave an approving nod, so Kelvin beckoned to Preston, the first of the two employees who knew the code, to open the safe.
With an appropriately stern demeanor for this serious duty, Preston took five hundred dollars from both men. Then he signified that they should turn around before he twirled the combination lock.
Dials whirled and metal crunched as the safe door opened, and then shuffling sounded as Preston deposited the money inside. When Preston clanged the door shut, Spurgeon turned to Kelvin.
“Until Friday,” he said.
“Until Friday,” Kelvin said. He knew he shouldn’t gloat as that risked revealing his hand, but as this was the first year in which he was confident of success, he couldn’t stop himself from making a comment. “Have you learned the rules for our contest yet?”
“We’ve read the rules and examined the equipment you gave us,” Spurgeon said. “Cricket sounds like a simple game.”
The rules were several pages long and contained numerous terms that meant nothing to Kelvin. So despite reading them at least ten times, he still understood nothing beyond the fact that cricket was a game played by two teams, but he smiled.
