Derringer, p.8
Derringer, page 8
“Well, Mayor, let me say this. I think a vigilance committee is a damn good idea in your situation.” The two deputy sheriffs had already mentioned the talks the mayor and the town people were having about that solution to their problem. “I have to point out that I’m not going to stay in Cheyenne very long. I work for the Union Pacific and I’m keepin’ a base here for three months only until the railroad can move on to the west. And I won’t be here all the time during those three months because it’s my job to scout out the route ahead of the tracks, so as to avoid any construction problems. I just came from the stable to make sure my horses are ready for a scout that’ll take me about a week, I expect. But when I’m in town, you can count on me to help if you call the vigilance committee out.”
“I know you work directly under General Dodge,” the mayor said. “But have you ever considered taking the job of sheriff?”
“No, sir,” Derringer answered emphatically. “I ain’t never hankered to be a lawman. I’m afraid I’m just not that much straight-up honest. I’d break the rules somewhere, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I can understand how you feel, I expect,” the mayor said, obviously disappointed. “But you’ll be the first one we’ll call on in the event of a need for the committee to move on someone, and thank you again for backing up Deputy Crenshaw.”
“Glad I could help,” Derringer replied. The mayor finished his dinner quickly then and got up to leave. He said he would pay for Jesse’s dinner, but Jesse thanked him anyway and said, “The Union Pacific’s pickin’ up the bill.”
Derringer took his time finishing his coffee before he got up to leave. He thanked Rachael for her attention and told Cecil he’d see him at suppertime. He started to open the door when someone opened it from the outside, so he stepped back and waited. A man of middle age or more walked into the dining room. He wore a heavy mustache and a black suitcoat to match. He also wore a sheriff’s badge on his lapel. Derringer would not have guessed he was Sheriff Tom Warton had he not seen the badge. “Sheriff,” he acknowledged as a courtesy.
Warton, on the other hand, had no trouble guessing the stranger’s identity. “You must be Jesse Derringer, right?”
“Guilty,” Derringer replied, “but only for being Jesse Derringer.”
Warton chuckled in response. “I bumped into the mayor outside,” he said. “He told me you and him had a talk about a vigilance committee.”
“We did,” Derringer replied.
“Good,” Warton remarked. “He told me you said you would help out.”
“I did,” Derringer replied.
“Good,” Warton repeated. “And I want to give you my thanks for the assistance you gave Deputy Crenshaw in the arrest of the Crowe brothers. He said he was in a bad situation when you stepped in.”
“He was,” Derringer agreed.
“Well, I’m glad to finally meet you and have this conversation,” the sheriff declared.
“Me too,” Derringer said. They shook hands and he went out the door. I wonder if the mayor told him he offered me a job, he thought, as he closed the door behind him.
Inside the dining room, Sheriff Warton said howdy to Cecil Humphrey and commented, “I’m glad I finally got to meet that fellow. He’s well-spoken for an army Indian scout.”
* * *
Alvin Crowe walked into the sheriff’s office later that afternoon. Sheriff Warton took a quick look at him and asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I wanna see my boys,” Alvin declared. “You got my sons in jail and I wanna see ’em.”
“What is your name?” the sheriff asked. “There’s quite a few prisoners in the jail right now.”
“Crowe,” he answered curtly, “the same as my sons. What you holdin’ ’em for?”
“Well, Mr. Crowe, they were arrested for murder. I’m holding them for a court date and that might take some time before a circuit judge can get here.” It occurred to him then. “Although it ought not take as long as it used to, now that we’ve got train service to Cheyenne.”
“Who’d they murder?” Crowe asked.
“They shot a man and his son after an argument about where the man parked his wagon,” Warton told him. Neither the victim or his son was armed and your sons shot both of them.”
Crowe found that hard to believe. Neither Arthur nor Caleb was very bright, but they had more sense than that, he thought. “That don’t sound like somethin’ my sons would do.” Leastways not when anybody was looking, he thought. “Can I go in the jail to talk to ’em?”
“Sure,” the sheriff said. “You can go see ’em for about fifteen minutes, but you’ll have to leave that gun out here with me. You carryin’ anything else? Take your coat off. How ’bout in those inside pockets?” Crowe unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the sheriff’s desk. Then he opened his coat up and held it wide for the sheriff to see he had nothing more. “You got a knife?”
“It’s on my gun belt,” Crowe said, and pointed to it.
“All right, you can go talk to them for fifteen minutes,” the sheriff said, picked up a ring of keys, and walked over to unlock the cell room door. “Fifteen minutes,” he reminded him as he walked into the cell room.
Inside, there were three cells; there were several prisoners in the first two cells but only the two Crowe brothers in the third. Alvin looked at the somewhat crowded occupants of cells one and two, his gaze met by expressions of boredom before he heard Caleb call out, “Pa?” He went on past to the third cell then.
“How come them other two cells are crowded and there ain’t nobody but you and Arthur in this’un?” Alvin asked.
“ ’Cause me and Arthur are under arrest for murder, so we get special treatment,” Caleb told him rather proudly. “Them other two cells are full of drunks and disorderly conduct turkeys. Ain’t that right, Arthur?”
“That’s right, Pa. They’re holdin’ us for a circuit judge to come take us to trial.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you two birdbrains?” their father reacted. “You talk like you’ve done somethin’ to brag about. That sheriff out there told me you’re in here because you shot a man and his son and they didn’t even have a gun between ’em. I know ain’t neither one of you got a lick of sense on account you took after your mama’s side of the family. But I swear, I woulda thought even you would know better than to shoot unarmed folks when there’s witnesses to see you do it.”
“That sheriff didn’t tell you like it really was,” Caleb protested. “That man and his son had whips they used to drive them oxen pullin’ their wagon. They like to run us over with them damn oxen, till we put a couple of shots under the feet of their lead oxen. So that’s when they commenced to poppin’ me and Caleb with them damn big whips they use. And those things sting like fire. So we showed ’em how to put that fire out. Ain’t that right, Arthur?”
“We sure did,” Arthur answered. “The only thing we did wrong was hang around too long. We shoulda took off as soon as we shot them two, but we didn’t know somebody had already gone to get the sheriff. We’da still got away with it ’cause nobody but one deputy sheriff showed up and tried to arrest us. We had him buffaloed until that son of a gun snuck up behind us and stuck a gun on the back of my head. He’s the reason we’re in jail. There woulda been one less deputy in this town and we’da been gone if he hadn’t stuck his nose in it.”
“Who was it, the other deputy?” their father asked.
“His name’s Jesse Derringer. He ain’t even a lawman. They said he works for the railroad.”
“Derringer? Like the pocket pistol?” Alvin asked.
“I reckon,” Arthur said. “That’s what it sounded like to me.”
“Wouldn’t nobody but a gunslinger have a name like that,” Alvin speculated. “Most likely that ain’t his real name.”
“He’s a rough-lookin’ critter,” Caleb said. “He don’t look slick like some of those fast guns. I don’t know what he does for the railroad. But he’s the only reason we’re in jail right now, so I say damn him.”
“You reckon there’s any way we can get outta here, Pa?” Arthur asked then.
“Well, right now I don’t know of any. If you’re thinkin’ about me breakin’ you out, I can’t hardly do that by myself. Maybe I can sneak you a weapon in that little window up there near the ceilin’. I’ll have to get a look at it from the outside. I just don’t know yet.” There wasn’t any time left to discuss it because Sheriff Warton opened the cell room door and told him the time was up. “I’ll come see you again,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll do what I can do.” When he walked back into the office, he said, “I ’preciate it, Sheriff. Can I come back again to see ’em?”
“Yes, you can come visit them as long as it’s between dinnertime and suppertime,” Warton told him.
Crowe got on his horse and rode off up the street for a couple of blocks before turning the horse into an alley and riding back down the street behind the buildings until he came to the back of the jail. He spotted the small window he had seen from inside the cell room and he was sure he could reach it if he stood on his saddle. He pulled his horse to a stop under the window and got up to stand in the saddle only to find there was a permanent grillwork in the window that was too small to pass even a large knife through. Disappointed, he dropped back down into the saddle and rode away. I might not be able to get them out of there, he thought, since he was just one man alone in the endeavor. Then another thought entered his mind. But maybe I can settle up with the S.O.B. who caused them to get caught. “Jesse Derringer,” he spat. “He ought not be so hard to find, even in this town full of people.”
CHAPTER 8
“How come we don’t go back to The Crossin’ Saloon no more?” Tiny Thomas asked. “That woman that runs Vera’s next door cooks up some pretty good grub.”
“We don’t go back there ’cause that’s where I killed that jasper in the poker game,” Jeb Massey answered him. “Over here, we ain’t got no reputation. We’re just five more of the strangers fillin’ up this town.”
“Tiny’s right,” Sly said. “That Vera woman set a pretty good table.”
“It weren’t all that good,” Massey said. “Course, I had my mind on the food and not the half-neckid women that was—”
“Lookee yonder, comin’ in the door!” Lester interrupted. “Alvin Crowe! I reckon he’s come lookin’ for Arthur and Caleb. But he ain’t gonna find ’em in here.”
“Don’t let on that we was in here when they got arrested,” Massey warned them. “He might wanna know why we didn’t back ’em up.”
“Hell, we don’t owe them nothin’,” Sly remarked.
“Just don’t let on we was here,” Massey said again. Then, since they were sitting around a table closer to the front door, and likely to be seen, he called out to him. “Alvin Crowe!” Crowe jumped and dropped his hand down to rest on his six-gun, thinking it a lawman. “We figured you might show up here. You lookin’ for your boys?”
“Jeb Massey!” Crowe responded. “No, I found ’em already. They’re in the jailhouse. I just come from there.”
“Was that your two boys that shot a feller and his son?” Massey asked him. “We heard about it, but we didn’t know their names. Arthur and Caleb, I’ll swear, that’s bad news. Set down and we’ll buy you a drink. Tiny, borrow a chair from that table for Alvin. Sly, ask the bartender for another glass.” Back to Crowe then, he asked, “They gonna let ’em outta jail anytime soon?”
“Hell, no,” Crowe replied. “They’ve got ’em in there on a charge of murder and they’re holdin’ ’em to go to trial. They’ll hang for sure. The sheriff said the man and boy they shot didn’t even have a gun.” He sat down when Tiny brought the chair, and immediately tossed the drink Lester poured for him.
“I swear, that’s sorry news, Alvin,” Massey said, and motioned for Lester to pour him another drink out of their bottle.
“I ’preciate it, fellers,” Crowe said. He looked at Massey and shook his head. “Young boys, you’d think they’d have enough sense to wait till there weren’t no witnesses around, if they was of a mind to shoot somebody. And they was took by one deputy that came to arrest ’em. They said they almost got away from him, but some hotshot joker stepped in to help him. He’s the one I’d like to find to give him a little lesson in mindin’ his own business.”
“You know who he is?” Massey asked when it occurred to him that it would be handy if Crowe was able to eliminate Jesse Derringer. He was afraid Derringer was going to be a source of trouble somewhere down the line.
“I know his name,” Crowe answered. “Jesse Derringer is his name.”
“Jesse Derringer,” Massey repeated. “We know that name. We ran into him the first day we rode into town. He works for the Union Pacific. I’d advise you to be mighty careful when you go to stalkin’ him. A dark night in a black alley is the best place to settle his bacon.”
“I don’t even know what he looks like,” Crowe said. “I’m hopin’ to get a look at him, but there are so damn many people in this town, I mighta seen him on my way over here and not even know it.”
“That’s sure ’nough a fact,” Lester commented. “This town can’t hold many more folks.”
“It’s a doggone good thing they got the railroad this far,” Sly said, “else we’d all starve to death.”
“That train that just left here wasn’t carryin’ anything but railroad ties, lumber, and iron rails to build the tracks when it came from Council Bluffs,” Ace said. “I can’t eat any of that stuff.”
“The first passenger train will come to Cheyenne pretty soon,” Massey said. “That’ll have a mail car, too, and probably some freight for the stores.” He didn’t say it, but he was more interested in the train’s return trip to Council Bluffs when that mail car might be holding the money to pay for that freight. He started to change the conversation in case the same thought might occur to Crowe, but paused when the door opened. “Well, Alvin, it’s a good thing you decided to come in here, ’cause the man you’re lookin’ for just walked in.”
Crowe froze. His hand dropped to grasp the handle of the Colt .45 he wore as he stared at the formidable figure of a man. “Derringer?” he whispered, barely audible.
“That’s him,” Massey answered softly, “Jesse Derringer. That’s the man who sent your two sons to the gallows.” Like him, the other four men in his gang were locked in on Alvin Crowe, silently urging him to take the shot.
Derringer walked over to the bar, his back to the table and the six men seated there in the midst of the crowded saloon. Crowe’s hand tightened around the handle of his Colt, his eyes piercing the broad back of the man talking to the bartender as he slowly lifted the weapon from his holster. His concentration was broken for an instant by a boisterous laugh from another table and he became aware of the crowded saloon. Remembering then how stupid he had told his sons they were for murdering someone when there were witnesses to send them to the gallows, he reconsidered. He dropped the Colt back in the holster to the disappointment of Jeb Massey. Crowe turned back toward the table then and confessed, “I almost made the same dumb mistake my sons made.”
“Yeah, you had us worried there for a minute,” Massey said. “That woulda been a mistake. There oughta be better opportunities for you. I know he stays at the hotel and I reckon that’s where he eats. Looks like he favors this saloon. Maybe he’ll come back here after supper to have a drink before he turns in. You just have to wait for a chance, I reckon.”
At the bar, Derringer was unsuccessful in his efforts to pay Sam for the bottle of whiskey he had donated in appreciation for saving Deputy Sheriff Crenshaw. “I got to thinking about that this mornin’,” he said. It was a helluva nice thing you did and then I ended up giving it away to a couple of fellows I didn’t even know. I felt like I ought to come back and pay you for it.”
Sam chuckled outright. “No such a thing, Jesse. I never gave it a thought. Forget about it. You deserved something for acting when nobody else did.”
“Well, I appreciate it, Sam, and I reckon I’ll most likely see you after supper for a drink tonight.” He turned away from the bar and went out the front door, noticing but ignoring the table of six men watching his every move. Without another word to Massey, Crowe got up and followed him out the door.
Once he was outside, Crowe looked up and down the busy street in an effort to see which way Derringer had gone. Finally, he spotted him, walking rapidly toward the hardware store, so he set in behind him, keeping pace but not closing in too close. He stopped in front of the barbershop when Derringer went into the hardware store. He waited there until Derringer came back out, carrying a box of .44 cartridges. When he saw him coming back toward him, Crowe panicked for a moment before hurrying into the alley between the barbershop and the bridle shop, where he waited until he saw Derringer pass by the alley. Then he hurried back to the street, searching cautiously until he caught sight of him again. Keeping the same distance as he had before, he followed him past the saloon and on up the street toward the stable. Thinking there might be a chance to catch him away from witnesses if he went into the stable, he increased his pace a little to close the distance between them. What about the man who owns the stable, he wondered then. He didn’t know his name. He might have to kill him, too, to keep him from talking. Then, when they got closer to the stable, he saw Leon Draper out in the corral on the far side of the barn and stable. He was working to repair some of the rails around the corral. Crowe looked back at Derringer in time to see him walk into the back door to the stables before he got to the man working in the corral. “He never saw him,” Crowe whispered to himself. “He don’t even know there’s somebody in his stables.”
Crowe hurried to the back door, then stopped to make sure Draper was still unaware of his visitors. He considered his escape route. One shot, then out this door, then down through the grove of trees beside the stream. He would be gone before the owner got out of the corral. He eased the door open a few inches, just far enough to permit him to see the stalls along one side of the stable and the alley between them. There was no one in the alley, so he must be in one of the stalls, he thought. The trick was to sneak down the alley until he found the stall. So he drew his .45 and cocked it. Then he opened the door just wide enough to permit himself to slip inside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior when the door slammed shut behind him and the gun was knocked out of his hand to land on the floor. Locked helpless by one powerful arm around his arms, he felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against his head.
