The waiter took his pot and moved away and Shanaghy relaxed slowly. It felt good just to sit. For days now … weeks, actually, he’d been on the go. Now he had nothing to do until this time tomorrow night. He’d better buy that ticket right away. If anything happened he would at least have his ticket, and once in New York again he’d be all right.
What could happen? He shrugged a shoulder in reply to his own question and looked up to see the waiter returning with a steaming plate. “If you want more, sing out,” the waiter said. “We’re used to hungry men.” Shanaghy was halfway through his meal when the door from the street opened and a man came in, spurs jingling. He crossed to a table where two other men sat eating. Pulling back a chair he dropped into it. “Ain’t no sign of him,” the newcomer said. “He’s three days overdue. That ain’t like Rig.” Shanaghy was cutting a piece from his steak, and at the name he almost stopped.
Rig? Rig Barrett?
“Last word we had he was in Kansas City. That was last week.”
“He may be here, scoutin’ around. You know how he is, never makes any fuss.” “I’m worried, Judge. You know what Vince Patterson said, and Vince ain’t a man who blows off a lot of hot air. Last I heard he was hirin’ hands down around Uvalde and Eagle Pass, tough hands. Joel Strong rode in a few days ago and he said Vince had hired twenty-five men … Now you know he doesn’t need more than half that many to bring twenty-five hundred head over the trail. So why’s he hirin’ so many men?”
“Maybe worried about Indians.”
“Him? Vince would tackle hell with a bucket of water. No, this time he figures to get even. When his brother was killed, Vince promised us he’d be back.” “He can’t blame the whole town for that.”
“He does, though. Vince is a tough man and he doesn’t fool around. Rig Barrett could make him see the light, but you know and I know that Vince won’t back down for no man.”
The judge sipped his coffee, then lit a cigar. “I know Vince. He’s a hard man, all right. It takes hard men to do what he did. He came out from Kentucky and started roping and branding cattle. He made friends with some Indians, fought those who wanted to fight, and he built a ranch. He worked all by himself, the first two years. Then his brother came out and worked and fought right beside him. That was the brother Drako killed.”
Drako?
Tom Shanaghy heard only snatches of the conversation from there on, no matter how he strained his ears. He was curious, naturally. Rig Barrett had evidently planned on riding that freight west and somehow had gotten off again and left his gear behind … But why should such a man ride a freight? To come into town unseen? Maybe, but Rig didn’t seem like a man who would care. He might even want the townspeople to see him arrive.
So what had become of him? Shanaghy wished there was a train that night. Right away. He began to feel hemmed in. His old friend of the shooting galleries had told him much about the West. If you shot a man in a fair fight there was no argument. If you shot a man in the back, or murdered him otherwise, you could get hung. You had a choice … run or be hung.
If Shanaghy was found with the shotgun and blanket-roll that belonged to Rig, he would be presumed guilty.
He finished his coffee and got up, then paid for his meal and left. Two-bits …
Well, that wasn’t too bad. And the food was good. The air was fresh and cool in the street and there were few people about. The sound of the blacksmith’s hammer drew him forward and he strolled down the street.
The wide doors of the shop were pushed back. The fire on the forge glowed a dull red, and there were several lanterns hung about to give light. The smith glanced up as Shanaghy stepped into the door.
“Workin’ late,” Shanaghy commented. “Buy you a drink?”
“Don’t drink.”
“Well, neither do I. Have one now and again.” He glanced at the work the smith was doing. “Makin” a landside? I haven’t made one of those in years. Seen my pa do it many’s the time.”
“Are you a smith?”
“Now and again. My pa was a good one.”
“Want a job?”
Shanaghy hesitated. “I’m leavin’ town tomorrow night, but if you’re crowded with work I could work nine, ten hours tomorrow. What is it, mostly?” “Shoeing horses, a couple of wagons to fit with new tires, some welding.” “I can do that. I’m not experienced with plows or plowshares. I’ve been living in New York City and it has been mostly shoeing, driving or riding horses … putting tires on a few wagons and buggies.”
“You come in at six o’clock, you’ve got a day’s work. Wish you could stay. I’ve got enough work for three men, and everybody wants his work done right now.” The smith mopped his brow. “Here,” he pulled an old kitchen chair around. “Time I took a rest. You set for a while. New York, eh? I’ve never been there.” “You got you a tire-bender?”
“Heard of them. Are they any good?”
“Some of them. I never saw one until last year, but a mighty good smith I worked with in New York, name of McCarthy, he used one. Liked it.” “Maybe I should get one. Might save some time.”
“Been smithing here long?”
“Long? Hell, I started this town! Man down the road a piece saw my gear when I was passin’ along the trail, and he asked me if I could bend a tire. Well, I did four wagons for him, and meanwhile several people brought horses to be shod. “Out here folks do most of their own shoeing, but it leaves a lot to be said for it. Most of them do a pretty slam-bang job of it. “Well, I worked there for about two weeks and then I moved back under that big cottonwood, and between times I put up a shed. Then old Greenwood came along with a wagon loaded with whiskey, and he pulled in and began peddling drinks off the tailgate of his wagon.
“I’d taken the trouble to claim a quarter section, so he was on my land. I told him so and he made me no argument but started paying rent. Then Holstrum came in, and he found where my quarter ended and filed on the quarter section right alongside. He put in his store and we had a town. “Today we’ve got the stockyards and the railroad, so there’s eighty-odd people livin’ here now.”
“Much trouble?”
“Some … Them Drakos are trouble. They settled down over west of here. There’s the old man and three, four boys. Unruly. That’s what they are, unruly. Greenwood, Holstrum an’ me, why we want this here to be a town. We got it in mind to build a church and a school … maybe both in one building until we can manage more.
“We made a mistake there at the beginning. We chose Bert Drako for marshal and he straightened out a few bad ones who drifted in … killed one man. “Then it kind of went to his head. That killing done it, I guess. He’s got to thinking he’s the whole cheese hereabouts. Him and those boys of his. They’ve begun to act like they owned the town, and we don’t need that. Don’t need it a-tall! This here’s a good little town.
“Four or five of us got together and formed ourselves a committee. We’ve transplanted several small trees to start a park, and we’re diggin’ a well in our spare time … a town well, and then one for the park, too.” He got up. “Well, back to work. If you’re still of a mind to do some smithing, you come around. I’ll be in here shortly after sunup.” Tom Shanaghy walked back uptown and stopped in front of the hotel. For a moment he stood there, looking up and down the dim street, lighted only here and there by windows along the way.
He shook his head in disbelief. This was a town? It was nothing, just a huddle of ramshackle frame buildings built along a railroad track, with nothing anywhere around but bald prairie. Yet the smith had sounded proud, and he seemed to genuinely love the place. How, Shanaghy wondered, could anybody? As for himself, he couldn’t get out of it fast enough. He would help the smith tomorrow, as it would serve to pass the time. Besides, he liked the feel of a good hammer in his hand, the red-glow from the forge and the pleasure of shaping something, making something. Maybe that was why these people liked their town, because they had built it themselves, with their own hands and minds. He went upstaiife, turned in and slept well, with a light spatter of rain to aid his slumber and cool things off. Awakening in the morning he thought of the letters and papers in the blanket-roll. He should look at them, as there might be some clue in them as to Rig Barrett and what had happened to him. The sun was not yet up, although it was vaguely gray outside. He lay still for a while, gathering his wits and somewhat uncomfortable. The bed was good enough, and the fresh prairie air through the window was cool and pleasant. The discomfort, he realized, was only within himself, yet he could find no reason for it.