Bunty the bounty hunter, p.3
Bunty the Bounty Hunter, page 3
“It does sound simple, doesn’t it? So you don’t mind us competing in a game that nobody has ever played before?”
“Of course I don’t. We men from the old town can beat you new folk no matter what the contest is.”
“Then I’ll look forward to our game of cricket.”
The two men faced each other as they both searched for a withering final word before they parted. Wisely, Preston didn’t join in their conversation and with his head down he slipped by them to return to Kelvin’s office.
Preston was the key to Kelvin’s plan to defeat Spurgeon. Two months ago, Preston had joined the bank from Lone Pine and when he’d heard about their annual competition, he’d jokingly suggested that they should try a game he’d played as a young man in England.
Everyone had laughed, but in the weeks that followed, a thought had formed in Kelvin’s mind. As nobody could suggest a game that they were sure they could win, they might do better if they played a game that nobody knew how to play, other than one man who was on their side.
Kelvin didn’t want Spurgeon to find out about his subterfuge until the contest was underway, so he said no more, and with Spurgeon offering nothing else, they moved to leave the vault. They had reached the doorway when a gunshot ripped out and a window at the front of the bank shattered, making people cry out in alarm.
“It’s a raid!” Spurgeon said.
Kelvin turned to the window and outside riders were massing. The men had all aimed guns at the bank so he ushered Spurgeon to return to the vault before joining him in retreating.
When another burst of gunfire ripped out from outside shattering another one of the windows, Kelvin carried out the procedure he had devised for just such an occurrence, and which he’d never used before. He dragged the vault door closed, locking the door. Then he swung a bar in place, trapping them inside.
“We’ll be safe,” he said. “The vault walls are so thick, to get in here the raiders would have to use enough dynamite to flatten the bank.”
“That’ll just get us killed.”
“Maybe it will, but your money will still be safe.”
Kelvin winked, but then the muffled rattle of gunfire sounded. This time the sounds came from inside the bank. Then a more sustained burst of shooting started up. Spurgeon pressed himself to the vault wall.
“My money won’t be safe if the raiders do have enough dynamite.”
“Even then they won’t get their hands on it. My safety precautions will give Sheriff Merryweather enough time to arrive and fight them off.” Kelvin raised an ear and when whoops of delight sounded from within the bank, he shook a fist in triumph. “And it sounds as if Merryweather’s already taken control of the situation.”
Kelvin headed to the safe and patted it. For a few moments Spurgeon listened to the delighted sounds outside the vault and then joined him in patting the solid iron side.
“Paradise’s bank would appear to be safe, after all,” he declared through gritted teeth before he regained his usual surly demeanor. “On the other hand, it’d never have survived a raid in the old days. The bank raiders we had back then sure knew how to break into a bank.”
Kelvin let that jibe pass and faced the vault door. He waited until someone knocked on the door with the three short raps followed by two heavy thumps that identified the knocker as being a bank employee. Then Kelvin opened the door to find that Sheriff Merryweather was, in fact, in control of the situation.
“The outlaw Tex Porter attacked your bank,” Merryweather called to Kelvin. “He shot out the windows and some of your people got hurt, but when I arrived, he and his raiders left in a hurry. I’ll make sure they don’t get far.”
With that, Merryweather headed outside, leaving Spurgeon and Kelvin to slip out of the vault. Kelvin checked on everyone and there had been one casualty. Denver Mortimer had been shot in the chest and the worried expressions on the faces of the men who had gathered around him confirmed the worst.
As Spurgeon was now looking confident about the safety of the stake money, Kelvin didn’t mention that Denver was the second man who knew the code to the safe. Instead, he walked Spurgeon to the door.
“So we’ll meet again on Friday,” Kelvin said. “This year, may the best men win.”
“We will,” Spurgeon said. Then, seemingly deciding that this comment was good enough for his final words, he headed off.
Kelvin went back into the bank where he set about ensuring that everyone else was accounted for, and that revealed another concern. Nobody had seen Preston since Tex’s raid had started.
As everyone started speaking at once as they tried to work out who had seen him last, with a worried gulp Kelvin slipped into his office. When he opened the door, he noted that a gunshot had broken the window.
The bullet had hit the center of the window at a point behind the desk where Preston would probably have been sitting. The chair behind the desk had toppled over. With mounting apprehension Kelvin walked across the office and edged around the desk. He winced.
“Ah,” he said.
When the excitement of the attempted bank raid had died down and the town was returning to its previous calm state, Randolph headed to the back of the stable to rejoin Fergal, who had been hiding while the shooting had been going on.
“Tex Porter tried to raid the bank,” Randolph reported. “But he hightailed it out of town with Sheriff Merryweather on his heels, so it’s safe for you come out now.”
“We’ve come across that gunslinger before,” Fergal said. “So hopefully Merryweather will be too busy dealing with Tex to trouble us, and that’ll let us concentrate on more important things, like the fact that last night we earned enough to eat.”
Randolph nodded and the thought of decent food made his stomach growl as they headed back to the main drag.
“We didn’t earn nothing. You just took money off people who were vulnerable.”
Fergal shrugged. “How is that different to what we’ve always done?”
Randolph sighed, accepting that Fergal wouldn’t agree with him, but still feeling a need to say it.
“There used to be a chance that your universal remedy would help your customers, but last night you were selling a bottle of air to people who weren’t thinking straight.”
Fergal said nothing until they reached the store where he stopped and waggled a warning finger at Randolph.
“I thought going hungry for a week would have made you accept that we’re more vulnerable than they are.”
Randolph shook his head. “A hungry week made me appreciate what being vulnerable feels like, so I just don’t like you telling people that an empty bottle can make their dead relatives feel better.”
“It made the men who gave me money feel good and having money is making me feel good. So everybody gains.” Fergal turned to the store with a sly smile on his face. “I assume that means you don’t want to eat the food I’m going to buy with this money, then?”
Randolph bit his bottom lip as he weighed up the relative merits of having principles against the thought of again having to eat food that had gone blue. His rumbling stomach won the debate.
“Somebody always loses.” Randolph sighed. “But I’ll admit I’m pleased we’re not losing, and I’m even more pleased we might have enough money to buy beans to make the universal remedy again.”
Fergal shrugged and headed into the store. Both men were even more pleased when ten minutes later they settled down at their base behind the stable with a feast of bread and cheese along with salted beef.
Randolph located the newspaper he’d found yesterday and while they tucked in, on a blank area on the back he used a piece of burned wood to make a list of the items they would need to brew up a batch of Fergal’s tonic. Although the recipe was simple, they still needed cooking implements and as the list grew, Randolph reckoned the chances of them being able to afford everything today receded.
With a frown, Randolph held out the paper to Fergal, who took it off him. Then he ran his finger down the list before he joined Randolph in frowning.
“We don’t have enough money,” Fergal said. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ve had too many setbacks while trying to heal people and I don’t want to make the tonic again.”
“But selling the universal remedy to cure all ills is what you do.”
“Except you still think it’s snake-oil, and after all my years of selling it, all I got for my trouble was feeling excited about eating a moldy potato.” Fergal threw the list away. “I will never get into that state again.”
“I agree, and you’ll feel better when we have enough money to make the tonic again and we’re selling it to your grateful customers.”
“Who’ll get bellyache and chase us out of town. I don’t want that.” Fergal thrust his arms wide apart and his eyes brightened. “I want something bigger, something that’ll make sure we never have to go hungry again.”
“And that’s selling air to unhappy people, is it?”
Fergal lowered his arms. “No. That just lets us eat until that big idea comes to me.”
Randolph sighed and as he couldn’t think of a way to talk Fergal around, he retrieved the list. Then he stood up.
“Then I suggest we go in search of that big idea,” he said.
Fergal patted him on the back. Then they headed into town. They started at the Buckfast saloon and then walked past the bank, where the windows were already being repaired. Then Fergal used his ability to seek out opportunities by talking with passersby.
Most people were eager to chat and they all wanted to discuss the cricket match that would be held in two days, and about the rivalry between the older residents of the town and the newcomers that would come to a head in this annual event. Most people supported the new town as the older part of town wasn’t as prosperous.
Despite everyone’s comments, the Buckfast saloon was in the old part of town and as that was only place to welcome them they were inclined to sympathize with that area. When Fergal and Randolph had completed a tour of the town and they were again standing outside the Buckfast saloon, Fergal rubbed his hands with glee.
“In two days everyone will be watching this contest,” he said. “And lots of excited people mean lots of chances for that big idea.”
“It does.” Randolph shrugged. “But in case that big idea doesn’t come, it’ll be useful to have some tonic available to sell to them.”
Fergal raised a finger, but then seemed to think better of continuing their disagreement and lowered it.
“Actually, what would be most useful is knowing what cricket is.”
“You’ve spoken to dozens of people. One of them must have mentioned what it is.”
Fergal shook his head. “They didn’t, and I didn’t like to ask.”
When Randolph smiled, Fergal beckoned him to head into the saloon. They went in and Bunty again had glazed eyes that suggested she wasn’t even aware they’d entered. Spurgeon was still clutching the plank he’d been holding the previous night, although he now had a small red ball which he was bouncing on the plank.
A tongue clamped between his lips showed he was concentrating on mastering the skill of bouncing the ball as many times as possible. He managed two bounces before the plank missed the ball and he had to drop to the floor to rescue it.
Then he resumed his studious exercise. With Spurgeon ignoring them they waited until Bunty registered their presence.
“I’m sorry,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “It looks as if he’ll be spending all day bouncing that ball and ignoring customers.”
She’d spoken loudly, but Spurgeon didn’t acknowledge her gentle chiding.
“I can see that, but I’m not a customer,” Fergal said. “I’d like to speak to Marguerite.”
Randolph sighed. He noticed a newspaper a customer had left on the bar and to show his disapproval he picked it up and started reading.
“Marguerite spends her days in quiet contemplation of the mysteries of life and death,” Bunty said. “She doesn’t take kindly to being disturbed and she only provides audiences in public, but she’ll be back here tonight.”
“In that case, I can wait until tonight,” Fergal said with a disarming smile.
Bunty moved aside so Fergal turned to the door with a sly smile that said they would now go and disturb Marguerite. Randolph nodded and folded the newspaper over, but then another worrying headline caught his attention.
Randolph drew Fergal to the end of the bar. Then, acting nonchalantly so as not to draw attention to what had concerned him, he leaned over the bar. Fergal matched his action as he picked up on Randolph’s cautious behavior.
Fergal leaned closer to the newspaper and then flinched. He gathered his composure with a shrug of his jacket before paying greater attention to the article that had concerned Randolph.
It was longer than the previous article Randolph had found and it again reported on the criminal exploits of a tonic seller. This time the tonic seller had a name.
“Stagecoach stolen by the outlaw snake-oil seller Fergal O’Brien,” Fergal said, reading the headline. “Just when we’re getting our lives sorted out, I get accused of doing things I didn’t do.”
“Unless you’ve been stealing things in your sleep,” Randolph said, trying to keep the conversation light so they’d appear unconcerned.
“You shouldn’t take this so calmly. You’re named in the article, too.”
Now it was Randolph’s turn to flinch and when he read the full article, he confirmed that he had been implicated in the incident. Two men who had identified themselves as being Fergal O’Brien and Randolph McDougal had raided a store before moving on to raiding a stagecoach. They had divested the passengers of their valuables and made off with the stage, leaving everyone stranded.
“Have you given anyone your name since we arrived in Paradise?” Randolph asked.
Fergal frowned as he thought back and then shook his head.
“I haven’t, but even so, we need to act quickly.”
Randolph made a fist. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. We need to track these men down and make them pay for using our names.”
Fergal gave Randolph a horrified look and then headed to the door. He didn’t speak again until they were standing on the boardwalk.
“You know the way we work.” Fergal slapped Randolph’s arm. “If dangerous men are out there causing trouble, we’re staying in town.”
Chapter Four
“You’re the finest bounty hunter I’ve ever met, Bunty Shelby,” Sheriff Merryweather said with wide-eyed awe. “You dealt with the gunslinger Tex Porter and five ruthless gunmen.”
Bunty tipped her hat. “I just did what any woman would do to make sure the decent menfolk of our fine town can live their lives in peace.”
“Having a woman like you around makes my life a whole lot easier.” Merryweather came out from behind his desk and smiled. “And maybe now that you’ve cleaned up Paradise, you might have a few moments free to let me buy you a meal. Then we could enjoy a little dancing afterward.”
Bunty raised her chin. “Your kind offer is most tempting, Sheriff, but I’m afraid that the work of a bounty hunter is never done.”
Merryweather frowned, but then leaned closer to her.
“You can call me Stewart, and a woman as beautiful and as intriguing as you are must surely find the time to relax sometimes.”
Bunty considered whether she wanted her fantasy to go in this direction, and then shook her head and returned to the usual dream.
“Nope. While there are still Wanted posters on your wall, I’ll call you Sheriff Merryweather.”
When Merryweather looked crestfallen, she winked, offering him a hint that maybe that wouldn’t always be the case. Merryweather nodded and then pointed at the posters.
“Which outlaw do you fancy bringing to justice next?”
“You know me,” Bunty said. “I go where the bounty is highest.”
She turned to the wall and pondered, but no ideas came to her as to who Bunty the bounty hunter could track down in her next adventure. With a sigh, she focused on the saloon room, seeking inspiration.
All the men she defeated in her dreams had once been real customers who had been rude to her, and she repaid them by incorporating them into her bounty hunter fantasy. Since Tex Porter had been seen in the area on the same night that an annoying customer had made unwelcome overtures to her, she’d merged the two people into her dream opponent.
Then she’d enjoyed defeating Tex in several inventive ways, but now she’d tired of bringing him to justice and she needed a new opponent. Unfortunately, nobody had annoyed her recently and today’s customers were behaving themselves.
The only new faces to come into the saloon recently were two men who had read a newspaper that they’d left on the bar so seeking inspiration she picked up the paper. One headline stood out involving a stolen stagecoach. As recovering a missing stage sounded like an intriguing mission for Bunty the bounty hunter, she let Merryweather direct her to the Wanted poster with the largest bounty.
“This one should interest you,” he said. “The nefarious tonic seller Fergal O’Brien and his partner stole a stagecoach. Every day their crimes escalate and I’m at a loss to work out how to stop them.”
“Never fear, that stage will be the last thing those men will ever steal,” Bunty said.
“I’ll sleep easier knowing you’re on their trail, Bunty. Make sure they regret moving on from selling their foul tonic to stealing. . . .”
Bunty stood upright as an alarming thought hit her making her dismiss the fantasy from her mind and read the newspaper again. The two men who had been in the saloon earlier had been concerned about something they’d read and then they’d left in a hurry.
The article only described the outlaws as being a thin man and a larger man, and that described these men. The previous night they had been taking money from Marguerite’s clients with a scheme in which one man pretended he could make the dead rest easier, although, as she was used to Marguerite’s show, she had ignored their dubious attempt to raise money.
