One way or the other, he didn’t care. Within hours he would be riding the cars back to New York, where enough trouble already awaited him. “You talk mighty free,” Drako said.
“Mister, I have work to do. If you’ve come here hunting trouble, step right in and get started. If you aren’t hunting trouble, I’d suggest you get on down the street while you’re all in one piece.”
Shanaghy had a light hammer in his hand and he knew what he could do with it. Long ago he had learned how to throw a hatchet or a hammer with perfect accuracy. He knew that before Drako could put a hand on his gun, he could have that hammer on its way. And once thrown, Shanaghy would follow it in. It was a chancy thing to do, but he had been taking such chances all his life. Drako hesitated, then reined his horse around. “I’ll see you again!” he blustered, then rode off.
“You do that,” Shanaghy called out. “Any time, any place.” The smith heaved a sigh when Drako was gone. “Figured he was goin’ to shoot you,” he said.
“And me with this hammer? I’d have put it right between his eyes.” “Just as well you’re leavin’ town,” the smith said, “although I surely wish you weren’t. You’re the best I’ve seen in awhile. You must have you a girl back there to want to go so bad.”
“A girl? No, I’ve no girl.” Yet the thought reminded him of the girl in the gray traveling outfit.
“Speaking of girls … “ Shanaghy began, then went on to describe her. “Do you have any idea who she is?”
“I surely don’t, but I know she didn’t come in on the train, like you’d expect. She rode in a-horseback … side-saddle. She rode in early so I doubt she came far.”
The smith paused. “She’s a handsome young woman. You interested in her?” “Not that way. Kind of curious, though, about who she is and where she found that man she was talkin’ to.”
They returned to work. At noon, Shanaghy hung up the leather apron and washed his hands in the tub. As he dried them, he thought about the girl, Drako, and Barrett.
“Smithy,” he asked, “this man Barrett, who has been sent for? What if he doesn’t show?”
“There’ll be hell to pay. Vince Patterson is a hard, hard man, and from all we hear he’s coming up the trail loaded for bear. Short of a shooting war there’s no way we can stop him. He knows how many men we’ve got and he will have more.” “And Rig Barrett could stop him?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? He could if anybody could. Rig’s been there before, and they know it. He’s a strong man, and they know if shooting starts somebody will die. Somebody may die anyhow, but with Rig shooting it’s no longer a gambling matter.
“What we hope for is that he’ll be here, and that his mere presence will stop them. He’s a known man.”
Later, when Shanaghy walked to the door to cool off in the light breeze, he looked down the street at the town and shook his head, wonderingly. It was nothing. A collection of ramshackle shacks and frame buildings stuck up in the middle of nowhere, and yet men were willing to fight for it. He took out his heavy silver watch and looked at it. There were hours yet before the train was due.
The smith came out and stood beside him.
“It ain’t much,” Shanaghy said.
“It’s all we’ve got,” the smith replied. “And it’s home.” Home … how long since he had a real home? Shanaghy wondered. His thoughts went back to the stone cottage on the edge of moors in Ireland. He remembered the morning walks through the mist when he went to the uplands to bring the horses down. How long ago it seemed! He turned away from the dusty street and walked back to the forge.
Yet the thoughts of home had altered his mood. He finished a lap weld in a wagon tire, and returned to making hinges, but suddenly he was feeling lost and lonely, remembering the green hills of Ireland and the long talks with his father beside the forge. His father, he realized now, had been a strange man, half a poet, half a mystic.
“A man,” his father said once, “should be like iron, not steel. If steel is heated too much it becomes brittle and it will break, while iron has great strength, boy. Yet it can be shaped and changed by the proper hammering and the right amount of heat. A good man is like that.” What had Rig Barrett been like?
Shanaghy took a punch and made holes in a hinge, thinking about Barrett. The smith stopped, straightening up and putting a hand across the small of his back. “This man Barrett,” Shanaghy said. “Tell me about him.” The smith hesitated, thinking about it. “A small man,” he said. “He rode with the Texas Rangers during the war with Mexico. Fought Comanches, drove a team over the Santa Fe Trail. As a boy, they tell me, he drove turkeys or pigs to market back east-drives that would go for more’n a hundred miles. “He’s been over the trail a time or two and folks know him. They know he’s an honest man who will stand for no nonsense. We figured if anybody could make Vince Patterson see the light, why, he was it.” The smith glanced at him. “You’re a good hand. Why don’t you stay? What’s back in New York that makes it so important?”
“New York? Hell, man, that’s my town! I … “ Shanaghy’s voice trailed off. Who was he fooling? New York was not his town. Chances were, by now they’d forgotten all about him. In a country town like this if a man turned up missing, like Rig Barrett, for example, he left quite a hole. Back in New York, if one Irish slugger stepped out of line or got lost, somebody else stepped right into his place and nobody even remembered. McCarthy might remember. Morrissey might even give him a thought.
“See here,” the smith said suddenly. “You’re a good man. If you didn’t want to work for me, I could sell you a half-interest.” Shanaghy smiled. “I think not, I’d not make light of your town, Smith, but I am a city man. I like the lights and the bustle. Besides, if this Vince Patterson is all you say he is, your town may not be here much longer. That man who was talking to that young woman … I heard part of something this morning … I got the impression he didn’t expect Rig to ever get here.” The smith had turned back to the forge, but now he turned sharply around.
“What’s that mean?”
“Well,” Shanaghy replied lamely, “I can’t really say. Maybe they were talking about somebody else, but I got the idea they were talking about Rig. I also got the idea that steps had been taken to see that he never got here.” The smith took off his apron. “You stay right here, Shanaghy. I’ve got to see a man.”
The smith left, almost running.
“Now what the hell have you done?” Shanaghy asked himself. “You and your big mouth. You don’t know anything, you’re just surmising. And why should they care, anyway?”
The fact remained that they did care. Whatever that girl had in mind she cared a lot, and so had the man with her. They had not wanted Rig Barrett to be around when Vince Patterson reached town. Shanaghy took out his big silver watch. It was still hours until train time.
Well, this was the town’s problem, if it could be called a town. He took up another set of hinges and placed them on the pile, then started all over again. He liked the feel of the hammer in his hand, checking the heat of the iron on which he worked by the color.
He walked to the door and looked up and down the street. There were two buggies and a wagon standing at the hitching-rails. Several horses, saddled, were tied along the street, usual, he supposed, for this time of day. Suddenly the man called George appeared on the street. He glanced up and down, then strolled slowly along, lingering here and there as if to see into the various stores. When he reached the blacksmith shop he paused and taking a thin cigar from his pocket, he lighted it, glancing at Shanaghy. “Where’s the smith?” he asked.
“Around.”
“Back soon?”
“Soon. Can I do something for you?”
George smiled. His teeth were white, his smile pleasant. Yet only the lips smiled. The eyes were cool, calculating. “I didn’t know the smith had a helper.” “Occasionally.”
“You from around here?”
Shanaghy shrugged. “Who is? This is a new town, mister. Everybody here is from somewhere else. Like you … Where do you come from?” George threw him a sharp, hard look. “I thought that was a question that wasn’t asked out here.”