Oddly, New York, to which he would be returning, seemed far away and he had a hard time placing it all in his mind. Every time he tried to bring the city within focus, it faded out, and the feeling irritated him. He bathed, dressed, prepared his things for a quick departure, and then went down to breakfast. The citizens of the town ate at home, and only transients such as himself ate at the hotel. On this morning there was only one other person in the dining room … a young woman wearing a gray traveling outfit, a very cool and composed young woman who took him in at a glance and then ignored him.
She was quite pretty, an ash-blonde with very regular features. Obviously awaiting someone, she was impatient now, and she glanced often at a tiny watch she carried in her purse. Curious, Shanaghy took his time, wondering whom she was to meet and what such a girl was doing in this place. He knew little of women. Most of those he knew had been the girls off the Line or those who walked the streets on the Bowery, and he knew them only by sight or the casual contacts made in dance halls where he went often to collect for Morrissey, who owned several.
It was early for such a woman to be around. Had she come in from the country? That was unlikely. Had she got off a train? The first of the day had not arrived yet.
A new man entered. He was slim and dark, wearing a Prince Albert coat and a planter’s hat. He was neat, his gray vest spotless, the striped gray pants hanging down over highly polished boots.
Shanaghy glanced at him. Though he had never seen the man before, he knew the type, a con man and a four-flusher. He was smooth and handsome, with a face that seemed to have all the right lines but somehow missed something. The girl started up, then sank back. “George! Of all people!” She acted surprised, but Shanaghy was sure this was the person she had waited for. Why the act then?
Shanaghy refilled his cup. The smith could wait just a little longer.
FIVE
Whatever was happening here was none of his business, but Shanaghy knew breeding when he saw it, and the girl had it. The man did not. He was simply a flashy tough who had put on the outward manners of a gentleman, and Shanaghy knew that something was in the wind.
Seeming to be unaware of them, he accepted a plate of steak and eggs from last night’s waiter. Scarcely had the waiter gone when Shanaghy heard George say, “Don’t worry, ma’am. I promised you he’d never get here and he will not.” “But what if they get someone else?”
The man shrugged. “There’s nobody else. Barrett had the reputation, and he knew how to handle such situations. With him out of the picture it will happen just as we want it to.”
After that there was only an overheard word here and there, but Shanaghy understood nothing. Barrett must be Rig Barrett, but how could George be sure Rig would not show up?
The couple turned suddenly to look at him, but he was seemingly oblivious to their conversation and they could not know they had spoken loud enough to be overheard. Anyway, from Shanaghy’s dress he was obviously not native to the town, but a stranger.
Despite himself, he was puzzled. Who were these people? Why was it important to them that Rig Barrett not be present? And how could George be so sure Rig would not show up … unless he had made sure he would not? Murder? Why not, if the stakes were great enough? But what stakes could be, in such a place as this? Yet … Shanaghy didn’t know. This country was new to him and he did not know where the money was.
Cattle, someone had said. Grazing land. There was a shortage of beef in the eastern states. He had heard talk of that. Yet if it was cattle, where were they? And why was it necessary for Barrett to be out of the picture? Tom Shanaghy was a cynic and a skeptic. The world in which he had lived in New York was a world where only the dollar counted. If people were after something, it had to be money or a commodity that could be turned into money. Such a girl as this was not meeting such a man unless there was money in it. No doubt she thought she was using him, and probably he believed he was using her. Cattle came from Texas. Vince Patterson was coming up from Texas with cattle. He was coming to revenge himself upon the town where Drako had been marshal. Hence it was possible that this girl was somehow connected with Patterson, or hoped somehow to profit from his arrival in town. Too bad he was leaving for New York. He would like to see what happened.
He got up, paid for his meal and walked down the street to the blacksmith shop. The smith was using the bellows on his fire. “Couple of wheels to be fitted with tires,” he commented. “Hank Drako’s wagon. He brought it in last week and was mad when I wouldn’t fit the tires right off. Now I know Hank. He fords three little streams coming in here, and in one of them he always pulls up in midstream to let his horses drink. So while he’s settin’ there those tires and wheels are soaking up water. You can’t fit a tire unless the wheel is all dried out and I told him he’d have to leave it. He was mighty put out about it.” He pointed with his hammer. “There’s the wheels. I made the tires. You go ahead and fit them.”
Shanaghy took off his coat and shirt and hung them on nails inside the smithy. Then he built a circular fire outside in the yard at a place where such fires had been built before. When he had a small fire going, he laid the tire in it and put some of the burning sticks on top to get a more uniform heat. After a few minutes he tried the iron with a small stick and, after a few more minutes, tried it again. This time the stick slipped easily along the tire as if oiled, and a thin wisp of smoke arose from it.
In the meantime he had placed the wheel to be fitted on a millstone, fitting the hub into the center hole. Putting the tire in position, Shanaghy pried it over the wheel with a tiredog, aided with a few hefty blows from a six-pound sledge. The tire went into place, the wood smoking from the heat of the iron tire, the wood of the wheel cracking and groaning as the tire contracted. The smith had a rack with a trough in which the wheel could be turned until the tire could be contracted to a tight fit. The cool water in the trough sloshed as he turned. Shanaghy was busy with the second wheel when he heard a horseman ride up. He worked on, conscious of scrutiny, and when he finished driving the tire into place he added a few taps for good measure and then turned. A thin, stoop-shouldered man with a drooping mustache sat on a buckskin horse, watching him. The man wore an old blue shirt, homespun pants tucked into boots, and a six-shooter. He also carried a rifle in his hands. His hat was narrow-brimmed and battered.
“Ain’t seen you before,” he said.
“Good reason for it.”
“What’s that?” The man sat up a little, not liking Shanaghy’s tone.
“I haven’t been here before.”
The man stared at him and Shanaghy went on about his work. He had some strap-hinges to make, and he went about it.
“You the pilgrim had the run-in with my son?”
Shanaghy looked up. He was aware that the smith was watching. So were a couple of men on the boardwalk across the street.
“If that was your son,” Shanaghy suggested, “you’d better advise him not to try to take in too much territory. I was minding my own affairs.” “My son’s my deputy. So was the man you shot.”
“Deputy? You need deputies to handle a town this size?” Shanaghy straightened up from the anvil. “A man who couldn’t handle a town this size by himself must be pretty small potatoes.”
“What’s that?” Drako reined his horse around threateningly. “You sayin’ I don’t amount to much?”
“Mister,” Shanaghy said, “if I couldn’t handle a town this size without deputies, I’d quit. Also, if I were you I’d advise your son that hanging a man without a trial is murder, no matter who does it.” Shanaghy thought he had Drako pegged, yet he knew he was taking a chance. For that he was prepared. Since childhood he had been facing boys and men, some of whom were tough, some who just believed they were. He did not like this Drako any more than he had liked his arrogant son, but it had never been his way to dodge a fight. He had discovered long since that such men accept dodging as cowardice and it only invited trouble.