SADDLEBAG DISPATCHES
155
GARY RODGERS
JUSTICE FINDS WHALEY A SHORT STORY
T
he last thing a man wants to hear when a barber has a razor to his throat is gunshots. Fortunately, Henry doesn’t carry a guilty conscience like mine. The razor nicks my neck as I jerk at the sound of gunfire. I can’t blame his unsteady hands. “Sounds like it came from the saloon, Marshal. You want me to look?” Henry asks. “No. Give it a minute. I saw riders from the Lazy B headed over there before I came in. They get rowdy early on a Saturday. You don’t need to catch a stray bullet from one of those fools before you finish my shave.” I smile. I focus one eye on the window, with my hand on my pistol, as Henry returns to shaving my week-old beard. Yells erupt in the street. A rider races out of town, leading several saddled horses behind him. Boots pound the boardwalk louder than the horses racing away. Henry stops his razor mid-stroke. “Someone’s coming.” I slide my pistol from the holster under the barber’s cloth. Manny Howell bursts through the door. “Marshal, you gotta come now. Jess Hayes killed one of the Lazy B riders over a card game. The vaquero with Jess held the Lazy B hands at gunpoint while Jess took their horses and rode out of town. Then he high-tailed it out of there. They mean to kill Jess. Luther is keeping them calm with his shotgun.” “Henry, it looks like you’ll have to finish my shave later. Manny, run tell Charlie to meet me at Luther’s.” I don’t need this today. “Henry, I need to borrow your scattergun. It might help calm them boys down.”
“It’s loaded, and here’s a box of shells for it,” Henry says, as he hands me the shortened ten-gauge double-barrel. Half-shaved, I leave, not knowing how many men are at Luther’s. But I know I need to talk them down. An all-out war between the Lazy B and Hayes ranches will only increase the population at the cemetery. Curly Hayes won’t be friendly to anyone hunting his son. His ranch is bigger than the Lazy B, and he keeps a tight rein on his hands. I haven’t met the owner of the Lazy B, but if a war breaks out, Curly’s hands, a mix of former soldiers and vaqueros, are experienced fighters. The soldiers came with Curly to the area after the war. I was one of them. But I’m not cut out for punching cows. I agreed to be the town marshal of Whaley instead. The townsfolk of Whaley like having a peacekeeper when ranch hands come to town for a drink. The make-shift jail lets me hold one or two men till they sober up, but it won’t hold all the riders I saw come into town earlier. As I step off the boardwalk, a rider races out of town. One of the Lazy B hands. I can expect the mysterious owner of the Lazy B in a few hours with more of his hands. Inside the saloon, I find the Lazy B riders sitting against a wall. Luther leans against the bar with his shotgun. Their holsters and guns are on a table. “Marshal,” Luther says as I enter, not taking his eyes off the riders. “Luther, it looks like you might lose some customers. These boys don’t look none too happy to
