Town Tamers Page 3

  “Who do you think you are, shoving a gun in people’s faces? I have half a mind to report you to the marshal when we get to Ludlow.”

  “There isn’t one,” Madeline said.

  “Well, I still resent it.” Anger had smothered Finch’s fear. “You saw what he did,” he said to Madeline. “And all I did was touch you. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “I didn’t ask to be touched,” Madeline said.

  Finch focused his ire on Asa. “I ask you again, who do you think you are? If you’re not a drummer, what are you? A gambler? Is that why you have a hideout?”

  “I don’t gamble . . . with cards,” Asa said.

  “Do you have a name? Or is it presumptuous of me to ask? I wouldn’t want that gun shoved in my face again.”

  “There is a name I use.”

  “How do you ‘use’ a name? Or are you on the dodge and afraid to say?”

  “It’s Asa Delaware.”

  “Well, Mr. Delaware, let me tell you a thing or two about—” Finch stopped again, and blinked. “Wait. Did you say Asa Delaware?”

  “You’re sitting right there,” Asa said.

  Finch became paler still. He glanced at the leather case with the ties at both ends, and beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I can take it out and we can see.”

  “No,” Finch said. “No, that’s all right.” He moved away from Madeline until he was against the side. “Asa Delaware, by God.”

  “I’m sorry,” Madeline said to Asa. “I know you wanted to keep it a secret and I was to pretend I don’t know you.”

  “For your own safety,” Asa said.

  “Wait,” Finch said. “You two are acquainted?”

  Madeline Sykes nodded.

  “Ah,” Finch said, looking confused. His eyes narrowed, a lecherous cast marked his face, and he said again, louder, “Ah.”

  Asa placed the leather case on his lap. He untied one end then the other, slid his hand inside, and brought out the shotgun. It was a beautiful weapon, a Winchester lever-action altered to meet his special needs. The wood was black walnut, the stock shortened to half its original length. The barrel had been sawed off to where it was barely an inch longer than the tube magazine. Every piece of metal, from the barrel to the magazine to the receiver and the lever, were bright black, not blued, and without a scratch or nick. Jacking the lever to feed a 12-gauge shell into the chamber, Asa pointed it at the drummer’s head. “Say ‘ah’ one more time.”

  Finch tried to wilt into the seat. “Here, now! You can’t keep shoving guns in people’s faces.”

  “Only yours,” Asa said. He shifted the shotgun so the barrel rested on his shoulder. “That’s twice you’ve insulted her. One more time will be the last.”

  “Damn it, man,” Finch blustered. “I don’t care who you are. You don’t have the right to threaten a person.”

  “I can do more than threaten.”

  Finch went to respond, and Madeline quickly said, “I’d hush up, were I you. I’ve only known Mr. Delaware a short while, but I’ve learned he’s a man of principle.”

  “High-handed, is what he is,” Finch grumbled.

  Madeline stared at the shotgun. “The newspaper said you use a scattergun.”

  “Used to, I did,” Asa said. “But they only hold two shots.” He touched his cheek to the Winchester. “This can hold five.”

  “Why not use a rifle? I don’t know a lot about guns, but I know they can hold a lot more.”

  “A rifle puts a hole in a man,” Asa said. “A shotgun blows him in half.”

  “But a rifle can shoot a lot farther,” Madeline persisted. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

  “Most of my work is close-up.”

  “Work,” Finch said, and snorted. “Is that what you call it? You kill people for a living, for God’s sake.”

  “No,” Asa said. “I tame towns.”

  8

  The driver liked to put on a show when he arrived anywhere. He cracked his whip, let out a “yip,” and sat as if he were on a throne instead of balanced on a bouncing seat.

  Several people were waiting, among them George Tandy. The portrait of sorrow, Tandy seemed reluctant to step out from under the overhang.

  The driver jumped down, opened the door, and dipped in a bow. “We’re here, lady and gents.”

  Madeline Sykes carefully placed her foot on the step. When the driver offered his arm, she alighted and saw George Tandy and smiled. But the smile promptly faded, and she went up to him and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know how else to say it, so I’ll come right out with it,” Tandy said. “Your parents—”

  Madeline didn’t wait to hear the rest. She whirled and ran down the street, heedless of the looks cast her way.

  Asa Delaware stepped down and watched her hurry off. He had donned his slicker, and his shotgun was in its soft leather case, the ends tied, under his left arm. He stood watching her until she reached a house and went in.

  “Are you going to get out of my way or stand there all day?” Finch demanded.

  Asa looked over his shoulder and said in utter contempt, “Slug.” Then he collected his carpetbag and moved around the stage and across the street to a building with a sign that read ETHEL’S BOARDINGHOUSE. He’d never been to Ludlow before, but he knew the town as well as he knew the lines in his own face, thanks to the information provided by those who had hired him. He opened the door and found himself in a comfortable foyer with a counter to one side and a gray-haired woman knitting in a chair behind it.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Are you Ethel?”

  “I am.”

  “Looks more like a hotel than a boardinghouse,” Asa commented.

  “This?” Ethel rose and tapped the top of the counter with a knitting needle. “Bought it cheap when the Tumbleweed Hotel went out of business. Makes thing easier when folks sign the register.” She set her knitting down. “Would you like a room by the day or the week?”

  “Week,” Asa said.

  “I have rules,” Ethel said. “No liquor. No gambling. No tobacco spitting. No women unless she’s your wife. No loud noises. By that I mean no hollering. No stomping. No cussing. No slamming of doors. No treating the other guests with disrespect.” She stopped.

  “That’s a heap of rules.”

  “I like quiet and order in my establishment,” Ethel said.

  “I’m fond of order myself,” Asa said. “And I have some rules of my own.”

  “Rules about what?”

  Asa didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “How many guests are here at the moment?”

  “Five, not counting you,” Ethel said. “There’s Mr. Gattersby, who works at the feed and grain. He takes his room by the month. There’s Miss Marple, a ‘spinster,’ some call her, and a dear friend of mine. There’s a nice young fellow by the name of Byron Gordon. He works at a whiskey fountain over at the saloon, but he’s as polite as anything.”

  “Good upbringing,” Asa said.

  “There’s a young lady who showed up just two days ago. Noona, she calls herself. Noona Not. Now I ask you, is that a peculiar name or is that a peculiar name? She took a job at the saloon, too. I warned her she shouldn’t, but she took it anyway.”

  “Some people never listen.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Ethel studied him. “You’re part Indian.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not in the least. I’m not one of those who looks down their noses at inferiors. Mind telling me which tribe?”

  “Is it important?”

  “Only if you’re part Apache. I’m sorry, but I don’t trust Apaches worth a lick. My pa was killed by them nigh on forty years ago.”

  “That’s a long time to hold a grudge,”
Asa remarked.

  “Grudge, nothing. I hate them, pure and true.” Ethel paused. “Now which tribe are you?”

  “The last name I use is Delaware.”

  Ethel’s face scrunched in thought. “I seem to recollect a tribe by that name. Aren’t they from back east somewhere?”

  “They were. The government moved them.”

  “Did the government move you, too?”

  “I have nothing to do with them. My grandmother was a Delaware, and she married a white. She left the tribe to live with him and never went back. She had two sons and a daughter and all three looked white. The daughter married and had two sons by the white she married and one of them is me. And you can see how I look.”

  “I’ll be,” Ethel said. “So both your parents are white but you look Indian? How did that happen, do you reckon?”

  “I was told it’s in the blood,” Asa said. “I was told it sometimes skips a generation.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A doctor.”

  “Well, a doctor should know. It must be strange, you being raised white and looking so redskin.”

  “It’s something,” Asa said.

  9

  Madeline Sykes was in the parlor on the settee, quietly crying. George Tandy and his wife and a dozen other townspeople stood in the hall or were seated in the kitchen. The knock on the front door seemed to startle them.

  George Tandy answered it. He opened the door and said, “You.”

  “Me,” Asa Delaware said.

  “Now might not be a good time. Her parents were murdered by the Circle K hands three days ago. We couldn’t get word to her because she was on her way here.”

  “Move,” Asa said.

  Tandy stepped aside, and Asa walked down the hall to the parlor. He took his derby off and went to the settee.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your folks.”

  Madeline looked up, her eyes brimming. She sniffled and shook her head and lowered it again. “I can’t talk right now.”

  “It might help.”

  “We should have sent for you sooner. If I had, they’d be alive right now.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Madeline sniffled some more and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “Why do you think I contacted you after I read that newspaper account? I’ve lived in constant fear for their lives ever since that Knox took over the Circle K and hired that Bull Cumberland and his bunch.”

  Asa waited.

  “It was me who persuaded my father and Mr. Tandy and the others to hire you. I told them they had to do something. That if they didn’t, more good people would die.”

  “The dying is about over,” Asa said.

  Madeline looked up again. Anger had stopped her tears but not the dribbling from her nose. She dabbed and said, “You’ll kill them? Every last one?”

  “Those as don’t run.”

  “Good,” she said, and then, more forcefully, “Good.”

  “The woman at the boardinghouse told me about your parents when I asked her about the latest goings-on,” Asa said. “I came to pay my respects. But after this, I don’t know you until it’s finished.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have come to your home.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “If any of them saw me, they might wonder.”

  “I don’t care if any of them did.” Madeline stood and touched his arm. “I appreciate the gesture. You’re not anything like the newspapers say you are.”

  “Yes,” Asa said, “I am.” He put his derby on, nodded, and retraced his steps to the front door. Halfway there, George Tandy stopped him.

  “A word, if you please.”

  “Make it short.”

  “I just want you to know that the town council backs you one hundred percent.”

  “Do they?”

  “Need you ask, especially after this?” Tandy gestured at the parlor. “Ed and Myrtle were well-liked. He was the one brought us the idea of hiring you after Madeline wrote to him.”

  “All of you agreed then and there?”

  “Well, no,” Tandy admitted. “Some of us balked. You ask an exorbitant fee, or so we felt at the time.”

  “And now?”

  “I just told you. We back you one hundred percent.”

  Asa regarded him a few moments. “Make it clear to them. There’s no backing out. Make sure they understand that I always finish what I start, no matter how much they might complain.”

  “Why would they complain? We sent for you. We paid you half in advance. We want the job done as much as you do.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “It’s our town, Mr. Delaware. We’ve had to live with those curly wolves running roughshod over us for far too long. They shot our marshal and do as they damn well please, and they have to be stopped.”

  “I’ll stop them.”

  “You’re one man against many.” Tandy glanced at the soft leather case. “Even with that, I don’t see how you can do it.”

  “I have a secret.”

  “Care to share it?”

  “No.” Asa moved to the door and gripped the latch. “One last thing. This town have an undertaker?”

  “Sure. His name is Sam Wannamaker.”

  “Have him send word to the Circle K. Have him tell them that he wants them to come in so he can fit them for coffins.”

  “Do what now?”

  “You heard me.” Asa opened the door.

  “Hold on,” Tandy said. “If Sam does that, they’ll want to know why. What should he tell them?”

  “He’s to say that Asa Delaware asked him to.”

  “Sam is to say who you are?”

  “He is.”

  “Is that wise? They’re not stupid. Some of them will have heard of you and will put two and two together.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “You want them to come looking for you?”

  Ada nodded. “Saves me the trouble of going to them.”

  “And then you’ll kill them?”

  “When the time comes,” Asa said, “I’ll kill them as dead as can be.”

  10

  The evening’s festivities were in full swing for the middle of the week when Noona Not came out of the back of the Whiskey Mill and sashayed to the bar. The men lining it and those at the tables stopped what they were doing to gape. She was an eyeful, and she knew it.

  Lustrous black hair hung to the small of her back. Her eyes were a lovely hazel, her body an hourglass. Her red lips formed a perpetual pout and made her all the more enticing. Grinning in amusement, she turned in a circle and airily asked, “What do you think, barkeep?”

  “You look like a whore,” Byron Gordon said.

  Noona laughed. “That was poetical.”

  “I don’t like it, and you know it.”

  “You never do.”

  A townsman half in his cups sobered enough to ask, “What are you two talkin’ about?”

  “Nothing,” Byron snapped. “Go back to drinking.”

  “Bite a man’s head off, why don’t you.”

  “Careful,” Noona said.

  “I always am,” Byron replied irritably, and moved down the bar to pour for another customer.

  “He’s a mite prickly tonight,” the townsman said to Noona.

  “Not just tonight.” Noona smiled sweetly, clapped the man on the arm, and moved to a table where four others were playing poker. She leaned on the table and said, “Having fun, gents?”

  “We are now,” a husky said.

  “We’re awful glad that Tandy brought you in, ma’am,” remarked another.

  “You’re just what this place needs,” commented the third.

  “I b
et you say that to all the gals,” Noona said.

  “I wish,” the man said. “My wife would kill me if she heard me compliment another female.”

  Noona laughed and moved to the next table. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Byron glowering at her, and she shot him a glance to warn him. She would have thought by now he was used to it but he always was too protective.

  She made small talk and did more teasing, and when she returned to the bar, he was waiting. Careful not to be overheard, she quietly said, “You’ll give it away, consarn you.”

  “Look at you,” Byron said. “Prancing around like you give it away.”

  “Now, now,” Noona said. “The smart doves sell it. They never do it for free.”

  “That’s not even a little bit funny.”

  “To me it is.”

  Someone bellowed for Scotch, and Byron turned to the shelves and selected a bottle. When he turned back, he said, “You never take this seriously enough.”

  “Not that again.” Noona grinned mischievously. “Besides, you’re here, aren’t you? What do I have to worry about?”

  “I’m not him.”

  “He’s arrived, you know, today on the stage. I saw him get off.”

  “Then it could start tonight.”

  “Could,” Noona said.

  Byron went to say something but glanced sharply at the batwings and visibly tensed. “Watch yourself,” he said.

  Noona turned.

  Two cowboys had entered. Dusty from their long ride, they both wore Stetsons, chaps, and spurs. One was short and flinty-eyed and had a Colt high on his hip. The other was a rake handle whose upper lip drooped over the lower as if about to fall off.

  “Circle K?” Noona said.

  Byron nodded. “The rooster is Jake Bass. He shot the last girl who worked here in the leg and shot a townswoman dead the other night.”

  “And you wonder why I do this?”

  “The other one is called Crusty. He looks harmless, but I’ve asked around and they say he does his share of the killing, rustling, and robbing.”

  “They’ve seen me.” Noona casually placed a hand on her hip and contrived to thrust out her bosom. “Look at them. Their eyes are fit to bug out.”