Chapter 7

I hauled Slim Dalton's corpse to Wills Junction to get my receipt from the marshal. By this time, my left leg had started to hurt a little, so I decided to take a break from all of that riding and prop it up to rest. I stopped at a saloon and picked up a Mexican beer before finding an empty table that I could use. That really was not much of a problem because the saloon was virtually empty. The place was so quiet that one of the saloon whores came over to sit with me and to talk about things in general.

She got up whenever a new customer came in, but she rejoined me if the customer were not interested in her services. She also acted as my waitress and saved me the effort of going back to the bar for another beer. At one point, I bought her a beer, and she was pleasant company for a few hours. I had told her about the pain in my knee, so she was not upset that I did not avail myself of her services. I did tip her two-bits when I left for supper. That two-bits was what she would have taken in for performing a trick, so she came out ahead on the deal.

I ate supper at a Mexican restaurant and went to a different saloon for a couple of hours. Most of that time was spent playing penny-ante poker, and I actually came out 37¢ ahead. Considering the quality of poker that I played, I had to figure that as a successful time at the table. I went to bed with the intent of traveling south the next day to look for outlaws.

The road south was considered safe by the people of Wills Junction, so I did not expect to find any business there, but I would have worried over the omission if I had not given it a try. I stopped at one of those isolated hotel-tavern-restaurant businesses that dotted the landscape for lunch. I had not seen anything of business interest to me that morning so I was pretty bored.

I had eaten lunch and had dropped in to the saloon to ask the bartender if he knew of anything that I would find interesting. As I was approaching the bar, a customer drew his gun and pointed it at the bartender. "I do not give a shit what you think about how much whiskey I have drunk. If you do not serve me another shot of your best stuff, I will blow your fucking head off!"

Well, I could not ignore that kind of threat because it could easily lead to shooting anyone else within sight and range, and I certainly was one of those possible targets. I leaned against the bar with my right elbow supporting me. Normally, that would have rendered a right-handed person helpless in a gunfight. The drunk glanced at me and turned back to the bartender.

"But listen, Mister. If I keep serving you whiskey, you are liable to become a victim of that road agent between here and Paddock (a town a few miles south of there)."

"That is my problem, not yours, dammit. Now, give me that whiskey like I want." With that, he started to cock his revolver.

That was when I said, "Mister, you ought to listen to the bartender's advice. Not getting more whiskey is a hell of a lot better than collecting a bullet." I know, I should have kept my mouth shut, but I am just not built that way.

My comment caused the drunk to turn toward me. His hammer had not reached full cock when the bartender reached across the bar and thumped the drunk on the head with a small cudgel. The drunk collapsed to the floor, and the bartender came around the bar to pull the drunk to a chair where he could sleep off at least some of his drunk. When he finished that chore, the bartender returned to his place and turned to me.

"Thanks, Mister, for distracting that drunk until I could take care of the problem. What can I get you? It is on the house."

I thanked the bartender and selected a Mexican beer. I did not want anything stronger if I were to face a bandit later that afternoon. Upon request, the bartender told me what he knew about the bandit south of here.

"The road agent just showed up a few days ago, and he has been a real problem for traffic south of here. I warn everyone who comes through and stops, but some people just do not listen to good advice. That drunk sure is a good example.

"As far as I know, the bandit works out of a grove of trees about a mile or so south of here. So far, he has killed three men, and I guess that somebody will have to kill him to stop his thievery. I ain't the man for that job, but I sure wish somebody who is would come along."

I said, "Well, I am a bounty hunter, so I guess that it fits my job to be the one who gets rid of him for you. Can you tell me any more about the yahoo?"

"Not really. He has not been here very long, but that does not mean much. I do not have a description of him or anything else. I will tell you this, though, if he stops traffic on the road, I will be out of business pretty damned quick. I tell you what: if you get rid of him, I will pay you $10 for your effort."

That was not a hell of a lot of money, but it was nearly seven weeks' wages for the average working man, so it was not to be ignored. I nodded my head and said that I would take on the chore. I finished my free beer and left the tavern to go hunting.

I did not have far to go before I spotted the grove of cottonwoods that the bartender had mentioned. A stream ran beside the road, and that must have been the reason for the trees. There was not a water shortage in this part of Texas, but the trees took advantage of every bit of relief that Nature offered.

Okay, now that I had spotted the trees, what was I going to do? I stood a good chance of being shot if I rode past the trees as if I were oblivious to the danger, but it was going to be hard to sneak up on the bandit with the scarcity of trees or brush. The one concession to my convenience and continued good health was a gully that I spotted just a few yards ahead. The road dipped into the gully and rose on the other side, so I had an excuse for entering the gully. It looked about 8 feet deep, so I could easily walk upright down it. The depth of the gully would also hide my horse, so I was going to have to give that a try.

I rode into the gully and dismounted. I hobbled my horse, though I did not expect him to wander far because there was plenty of grass down in the gully, plus there was a little stream of water. I took my sawed-off shotgun and walked down the gully in the general direction of the stream feeding the trees. It looked to me like I could reach the trees without being seen from where the bandit was likely hiding. I did use my cane to help me walk, so I could make reasonably good time.

Eventually, I reached the stream and the trees, and I had not drawn any fire, so I figured that I had not been seen. I had finally gotten smart and fashioned a way that I could carry my cane at my belt so that both hands could be free if I needed them. With my shotgun slung over my back, I could move fairly easily from tree to tree and hopefully keep out of sight of the bandit.

I started down the line of trees that were mostly about 10 feet apart. That was a little far for my comfort, but I was able to handle it. Unfortunately, I was not as stealthy as I had hoped because there was a bullet that clipped the tree about head high, and the sound of a rifle shot along with it. I moved behind the tree as quickly as possible and unlimbered my shotgun. It was loaded with the shells modified to fire the pseudo slug, so I had a range comparable to the rifle and a hell of a lot more potent slug.

I carefully peeked around the tree and saw where the powder smoke was collected, but that was no guarantee that the shooter was still there. I kept watching and finally saw some movement among the trees. The shooter was moving from one tree to another as he tried to get closer to me. He could not go far right or left because of the thin line of the trees, so I did not have to worry about him getting behind me unless he was willing to vacate the safety of the trees.