Six Ways From Sunday. William W. Johnstone
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a week or two. Me, I saw a smoothly shaven face, black hawkeyes, a trim gray mustache, clean white teeth, fancy dark sideburns, and soft hands that had never done a lick of log-splitting, shoveling, ax-swinging, or plow-wrestling. In short, he was some Fancy Dan. He even had one of them gold watch fobs dangling across his middle.
“Who are you?” the man asked, as if he expected a reply.
“I don’t like to spell her out,” I said. “I never was too happy with the name, so I keep her to myself.”
“Nine barrels. Shall I shoot the first?”
“Cotton,” says I, all hasty. “It’s not a name I cotton to.”
“And?”
“You plumb gonna have to kill me dead before I give out the rest.’
He smiled suddenly. “Cotton Pickens,” he said. “You’ve been hanging around Swamp Creek looking for trouble to get into.”
I flushed pure red. How anyone got ahold of my rear handle I don’t know. I never tell it to anyone.
“This is fortuitous,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Now that was a word I couldn’t pronounce, much less figure out. “Put that in words someone like me’d know some of,” I said.
“Fortunate,” he said. “I heard you are good with a gun, and I thought to hire you.”
“Well, I’m not rightly sure I’m for sale,” I said. This feller was too clean-shaven for me. My gut feeling is not to trust anyone in a swallowtail coat and a mustache. “But you can give me the what-for.”
He shrugged. “This,” he said. “We have paper giving us that mine. But that gentleman resists.”
“Paper?”
“Deed and mineral rights. We paid the back taxes and bought it at auction.”
“But he still figures possession is nine tenths of the law, right?”
“You know some law, Cotton.”
“Well, you got to read something in an outhouse, especially when you’re as slow to do your business as I am. Outhouses are plumb boring. So I read Blackstone while I’m a-sittin’.”
“Frankly, it surprises me. But yes, I’m looking for able men, and you’d fit the bill. Forty a month.”
That was a heap of money for some half-starved saddle tramp like me. But I wasn’t all that sure about this outfit.
“Now, I don’t dicker with anyone that’s pointing a nine-shot pepperbox at me. It makes me nervous. And I don’t think you’ve given me a name.”
“Sorry,” the man said, and slid his pepperbox into a slick little underarm holster, where it lay so close it didn’t show under that swallowtail.
“Carter Scruples,” he said. “I’m a partner in this enterprise.”
That sure was an odd handle. I wasn’t sure what scruples meant, but it was something you hid behind most likely.
I quit my twitching, now that the mean little lead-thrower was back in its nest.
“I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no,” I said. “I want to see how this here business is transacted.”
He shrugged, and nodded toward the edge of the grove. “Have a look, if you want to risk a shot coming your way.”
“I think maybe I will,” I said. “But I’m going to leave Critter here, safe in these trees.”
I slid down from Critter. He objected some, laid his ears back, and I yanked the reins just in time to keep him from taking a bite out of this Mr. Scruples.
“Horse needs subduing,” Scruples said. “Either that or it needs its throat cut.”
I didn’t much care for that observation, and gave Scruples a hard look. But he just smiled pleasantly, like everything was fine here in a pine grove while his hired guns were trying to kill some mine owner.
We eased forward until we reached some brush that bordered the slope, and we could see the action above in relative safety.
“You just gonna kill him, just like that?” I asked.
“Not just like that. We gave him his chance to leave peaceably.”
“What’d he say?”
“I wouldn’t deem it proper to tell you,” Scruples said. “In any case, it’ll all be over in a few moments.”
It looked like it might be. I studied the scene real careful, and found a few gunmen creeping and dodging up that rocky grade, hiding behind talus. An occasional boom from that big Sharps kept them from rushing, but it was plain a rush was coming, and one man with one long gun wasn’t going to hold off a pack of gunslicks. Especially since now the two at the flanks were edging in, taking advantage of cover to stay out of sight.
A few of the gunslicks down below the mine head kept popping away with their carbines, just to keep the mine owner occupied, while them stalkers at the flanks was creeping along the rocky cliff getting ready for the potshot.
Then most everything happened at once. The ones in the middle upped and clambered that steep slope, while the ones at the sides opened fire, and now there were more than six in sight, maybe eight or nine, all a-jumping and dodging toward the mine head. The Sharps didn’t boom at all, and I wondered if the old boy in the mine had bought the ticket. Lotta lead flying around up there, whanging off that ore car. Then the whole lot of gunslicks whooped up that slope, and the damndest thing happened. It was sort of shocking actually.
Old miner, he let fly with a couple of sticks of DuPont Hercules with a cap and some spitting fuse wired together, and next thing I know, there was a hell of a eruption as that thing went off, and I seen a couple of bodies fly upward like rag dolls and flop to the earth, no doubt extinct. They sure looked surprised up there. Not a one of them was standing. The concussion had flattened the whole lot. It knocked Scruples and me off our pins, too. Then I heard a maniac laughing up there, behind the overturned ore car, laughing like a bucksaw slicing wood. I have to give those gunslicks credit. They upped and ran toward the mine head and the whole thing happened over again. A couple of sticks of dynamite with a spitting fuse sailed out. I got smart and stuck my fingers in my ears, and tried to hit the ground before the thing went off, but didn’t make it. The blast knocked me flat. This time, four more of those dudes were writhing on the slope, or tumbling down the talus. Durndest thing I ever did see.
I guess that did it some. The rest of them slicks, they hightailed downslope just as fast as they could scramble, leavin’ them dead sprawled around on gray rock. Those two flanking ones just quit and come tumbling down that grade. There was four lyin’ mighty still up there, and four more come stumbling into the woods, all deaf as stones and some bleeding red all over.
That’s when I saw her. She was just about the most beautiful woman I ever did lay eyes on, a blonde wearing black satin from chin to toe, one of them fancy dresses with more buttons than I can count. She had one of them picture hats topping that soft blond hair, and I just stood there and stared. Where’d she come from anyway?
Scruples, he went over to her and she tucked her arm into his.
“Win some, lose some,” he said to her.
She smiled wryly. I ain’t seen a smile like that on a lady like that ever before, and I just stood there staring and rocking on my feet. I was dumbstruck. There just ain’t any women like that in the whole Territory of Montana. That sort of woman, she’s tied up with J. P. Morgan or Vanderbilt, or one of those that live at Newport and have got a lot of gold to toss around. But there she was, being led away by Scruples.
They all forgot I was there. The whole lot drifted off, those bloodied-up gunslicks, the man and woman, and in a bit I saw Scruples and the blonde get into a shiny black carriage drawn by a pair of trotters, and the