Bunty the Bounty Hunter, page 1
Bunty the Bounty Hunter
Fergal O'Brien, Volume 2
I. J. Parnham
Published by Culbin Press, 2022.
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016, 2021 by I. J. Parnham
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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Chapter One
“Let’s see the money,” Spurgeon Buckfast said.
Kelvin Moylan withdrew fifty dollars from his pocket and slapped it on to the table.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
With a confident smile on his face Spurgeon placed fifty dollars next to Kelvin’s stake.
“If I remember right, this year it’s your turn to hold the stake money.” Spurgeon chuckled. “Although you’d save yourself a lot of trouble if you just gave it to me now.”
The men standing behind Spurgeon laughed, and Kelvin and his companion Preston Brady snorted appreciative laughs. Then Kelvin straightened his expression and shuffled closer to the table.
“If you’re that confident, maybe this year we should make our wager a little more interesting.”
Spurgeon spread his hands. “What have you got in mind?”
“That depends on how much you’re prepared to lose.”
Kelvin and Preston both laughed and this time Spurgeon laughed heartily before he hardened his expression. Then again, he had every reason to be confident. This was the fifth time that Spurgeon and Kelvin, as representatives of their respective sides, had gathered in the neutral territory of the Lonely Trails gambling house to go through this ritual.
The matter under discussion was the arrangements for the annual contest between the townsfolk of Paradise’s older side of town to the west and the newer side to the east. Every year a hundred dollars was at stake while the sides took it in turns to choose what form the contest would take.
No matter what was chosen, be it a sharpshooting competition, a wrestling match, or horse racing, the old town always won. Then for months afterward the winners took every opportunity to inform the losers that they had won because the folk in the old part of town were tougher than the softer newcomers. Kelvin was determined that this year the outcome would be different.
“I assume you want to raise the stakes because you’ve had a prosperous year, then,” Spurgeon said.
“The new town is successful,” Kelvin said. “In fact we’re prospering so much I’m worried my new bank vault will burst open from all the money that’s been deposited.”
Spurgeon sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “We folk in the old town don’t trust banks, even if yours is the safest in the state, but we’re prepared to risk storing a hundred of our hard-earned dollars in your vault. After all, it’ll only be in there for four days before we can claim it back.”
“That would raise the total prize money to two hundred dollars.” Kelvin waited until Spurgeon smiled, and then licked his lips. “We were thinking of making it two hundred dollars each.”
Spurgeon firmed his jaw, clearly trying to avoid reacting and then leaned back to confer with his colleagues. Everyone muttered quietly before he turned back to Kelvin.
“What’s the game?”
“You know how this works. We stake the money first.”
“That means you reckon you’ve come up with a contest that you can win at.” Spurgeon widened his eyes. “Make it three hundred dollars each and we might be interested.”
“If you can afford it, why not make it five hundred dollars each?”
“In that case, why not make it a thousand dollars each?” Spurgeon said, thumping a fist on the table. “Unless that’s too much for you?”
It was too much, but Kelvin’s heart was thudding with the excitement of the bargaining and he was all set to agree, but then thankfully Spurgeon’s colleagues stepped in and drew Spurgeon back. A more urgent muttered debate took place with much gesturing and shaking of heads.
Then Spurgeon turned back to Kelvin sporting a worried expression that confirmed he had overstepped his authority. Kelvin tapped his fingertips together as he extended Spurgeon’s discomfort.
“We started holding these contests to put aside our past and settle our differences in an amicable manner. So I’ll accept that a thousand dollars each is too high.”
Spurgeon smiled. “You’ll have to give us a couple of days to raise the new stake money. Then I’ll bring our five hundred dollars to the bank.”
Kelvin nodded and stood up. He collected his fifty dollars, but Spurgeon raised a hand and after their lengthy negotiations Kelvin had to think for a moment before he picked up on the problem.
“The contest this year will be one where the side with the most runs takes the money,” he said.
When Spurgeon frowned, Kelvin gestured at Preston, who stepped forward to speak up for the first time.
“The game will be a trial of skill, artistry and strength between two teams of gentlemen,” he said.
Spurgeon grinned. “If it’s a game played between men, our men will win. What’s the game?”
Preston edged to the side to stand beside Kelvin. “The game is cricket.”
Spurgeon flinched back and then raised his eyebrows.
“Eh?” he said.
“The name’s Randolph McDougal and my tonic can cure most things.”
The thin man set a hand on his hip, the action spreading his jacket to reveal his green vest. With his other hand he withdrew a bottle from his pocket and waggled it.
“I’m a healthy man and I sell goods, not buy them,” Burton Pleasance said. He leaned over the counter and the tonic’s murky green color made him gulp. “Either way, that tonic looks like it’d make you ill.”
“Nothing that’s good for you can taste nice.” The thin man removed the stopper and a foul stench emerged making Burton jerk backward. “And this tonic tastes so bad, it must be good for you!”
Burton could have pointed out the flaws in this argument, but he was too busy blinking to remove the tears from his eyes while wondering how long he could survive without breathing.
“Just go,” he gasped, pointing at the door to his store.
The thin man frowned and then replaced the stopper.
“You should reconsider. I’m offering this universal remedy for five dollars and I reckon you could sell it for ten.”
“If you offered me it for five cents I’d still lose money.”
The thin man bit his bottom lip and then turned on the spot in an apparent search for inspiration. Only one other customer was in the store. He was a large man wearing a dirty brown vest and his furtive expression suggested that he was working out how many bags of coffee beans he could slip under his jacket when Burton wasn’t looking.
“Let me demonstrate that my tonic is worth buying,” the thin man said and then raised his voice. “You over by the coffee beans, what’s your name?”
The man flinched and then turned as he accepted that he was being spoken to.
“I’m Fergal O’Brien,” he said, spreading his large arms wide apart.
“You look like a man with plenty of ailments.”
The large man shrugged as he headed across the store.
“I do have a problem, but it’s an embarrassing one.”
The thin man placed his tonic bottle on the counter.
“No injury is so nasty, no ailment is so annoying, no condition is so embarrassing that my tonic cannot cure it.”
The large man leaned on the counter and eyed the bottle with the same level of skepticism that Burton was providing. Then he poked the bottle, making the slimy green liquid lurch unpromisingly.
“I’m obliged for the opportunity, but I can’t afford to buy those coffee beans, so I can’t afford to buy your tonic.”
The thin man smiled. “Then today is your lucky day. I’ll give you a bottle, and all I want in return is the pleasure of seeing you cured of your embarrassing ailment, whatever that may be.”
The thin man raised an eyebrow, so the large man inclined his head, making both men edge closer.
“I can’t fire my gun no more.” He showed them his hand, palm facing down. “I’ve got the shakes something terrible.”
“The hand looks fine to me,” Burton said with a shrug.
“Do you reckon so?”
The large man lunged for the bottle. With his fingers wrapped around the glass, he took a deep breath and raised it. As he moved the bottle higher, the hand started to shake. By the time it was level with his head, the bottle was shaking so much the contents had been whipped up into a foam.
When he raised his other hand to remove the stopper he couldn’t get a grip of it. Even if he had, Burton doubted he’d do anything other than empty the contents over himself. The large man accepted this was the case with a sigh and lowered the bottle to the counter. Before he released it his hand had only a slight tremor, but the bottle still took several seconds before it rattled to a standstill.
“You sure do have a problem,” the thin man said and then turned to Burton for help.
Burton fought off his misgivings and picked up the bottle. With his face averted he removed the stopper and when the foam oozed out and dribbled over his hand he raised the bottle quickly.
The large man rocked his head to the side and with the thin man guiding Burton’s arm they brought the bottle to his lips. The large man slurped and then jerked away coughing and spitting.
As Burton’s hand was tingling where the foam had touched it, he sympathized. He pressed the stopper back in place and put the bottle back on the counter before searching for a towel to wipe his hand clean. When the large man’s coughing had petered out he swiped the bottle off the counter and gestured with it at the thin man.
“What in tarnation is this foul brew?” he demanded. “It tastes like you marinated a dead skunk in rancid grease.”
The thin man smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t give away all my secrets, but before you get angry, I can’t help but notice that you’re holding that bottle steadily.”
The large man opened his mouth, his blazing eyes showing he was about to snap back a retort, but then he noticed that the bottle was still. When Burton nodded encouragingly, the large man placed the bottle on the counter.
With a pensive expression on his face, he drew his gun and raised it to the height where the bottle had started shaking, but again his hand was steady. He nodded, seemingly lost for words, but the thin man didn’t have that problem.
“My tonic cured Fergal’s shaky hand and it’ll cure anyone of whatever is ailing them,” he declared, beaming at Burton. “That has to be worth plenty, but I’ll settle for ten dollars.”
“You said the tonic cost five dollars,” Burton said.
“That was before I had to prove it works.”
“Lone Pine is a peaceful town,” Burton said, settling for a convenient excuse. “Nobody here would worry about not being able to shoot straight.”
“That’s a pity,” the large man said, and then aimed his gun at Burton’s chest, making the other man chuckle. “Maybe I should find out if I can shoot accurately now.”
Burton winced. “You two are working together.”
“You got there in the end,” the thin man said. “Now how many bottles do you want to buy?”
Burton gulped. “I can afford five.”
“I’ll accept five. Hand over a hundred dollars and we’ll leave you alone.”
“At ten dollars a bottle, that’ll buy ten bottles.”
“That was before you forced Fergal to turn his gun on you.” He chuckled. “Do you want the price to go up to thirty dollars?”
“Five bottles at twenty dollars each, it is,” Burton grumbled. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“And I enjoyed doing business with you, too.” The thin man held out a hand for the money. “So if anyone asks what happened here, be sure to tell them that you dealt with Randolph McDougal and Fergal O’Brien, the finest tonic sellers in the world.”
“You made a big mistake coming to Paradise,” Chauncey Stock said. “This Wanted poster says you raided Miller’s Creek’s bank.”
Tex Porter sneered at Chauncey from under a lowered hat.
“Why does that concern you?” he drawled as the customers in the Buckfast saloon stopped their business to watch this confrontation.
“It says you’re wanted either dead or alive.” Chauncey threw the rolled up poster on to the table where it unfurled to lie flat. “You have five seconds to decide which one you’ll be.”
“I choose death.” Tex chuckled and then removed the glove from his right hand, one finger at a time. “Your death, to be precise.”
Chauncey snarled as he inched his hand toward his holster, but his hand had yet to touch leather when a gunshot ripped out from behind him and a bullet in the back made him stagger forward for a pace. He fetched up against the table where he faced the smirking Tex before his eyes glazed and he dropped to the floor.
Chauncey’s trailing hand gripped the edge of the table until the table toppled over leaving Chauncey lying on his back and the table lying on his chest. Tex stood up and nodded to the gunman standing in the doorway.
The two other men in the saloon room who were working for Tex made their presence known and hurried over to deal with the body. One man righted the table while the other man dragged Chauncey’s body to the door.
Tex smiled at the customers. Everyone took the hint and returned to their business, except for a woman, who was leaning back against the bar. When Tex turned to her, with slow paces she walked across the room until she stood before the righted table.
“A gunman by the door, another one by the table and another one outside,” she said. “You must be mighty scared that somebody will want to claim the bounty on your head.”
Tex gestured at the door where his third hired gun was coming back into the saloon.
“The dead man out there isn’t the first to try his luck.” Tex sneered. “Did you enjoy what you saw?”
She took a pace forward to stand in the same position that Chauncey had taken before he’d been shot.
“I let Chauncey make his move first so you’d reveal your hand.” She pointed at Tex’s glove that was now lying on the floor and laughed. “It wasn’t impressive.”
Tex narrowed his eyes. “Who are you and want do you want?”
She raised a finger to tip back her hat. “I’m Bunty Shelby, bounty hunter.”
“You’re a bounty hunter!” Tex intoned, his expression incredulous while the hired guns murmured in bemusement. “Sheriff Merryweather must be desperate if he’s letting women take on outlaws.”
“Leave the sheriff out of this.” Bunty noted the positions of Tex’s three men. “So do you want to do this in here or outside?”
“I’m not drinking whiskey outside.”
“Who’s interested in whiskey at a time like this?” Bunty asked.
“I am. You’re a bartender and I’m a customer, and I want whiskey.”
Bunty shook herself, accepting with a wince that she’d been dreaming about being a bounty hunter again. She focused her eyes, removing her vision of the gunslinger Tex Porter from her mind so that she could concentrate on the customer standing before the bar.
She was embarrassed to find that he was Sheriff Merryweather’s new deputy Norbett Cody, although it would have been more embarrassing if Merryweather himself had caught her daydreaming. As Bunty scurried off and located a whiskey bottle, she urged herself to pay more attention to the customers and less to her comforting fantasy in which she led an exciting life.
“Enjoy your drink,” she said, offering Cody an apologetic smile as she poured him a full glass.
“I can see you’re not interested in Marguerite’s show,” Cody said, pointing to the corner of the saloon where the other customers were surrounding a table.
Marguerite Devereaux and her latest client were sitting facing each other. Marguerite had lowered her head while the client nervously fingered his sleeve.
“You’re new in town, so you won’t know that Marguerite is here five nights a week and that means I’ve seen her performance plenty of times before.” She put a finger to her lips. “Now be quiet and enjoy the show.”
Cody nodded and leaned back against the bar to do as she’d requested. For several seconds Bunty followed her own advice before she sighed.
“Now where was I?” she whispered to herself.
She reckoned the odds stacked against Bunty the bounty hunter weren’t high enough, so she added another gunman to Tex Porter’s group. Then she leaned on the bar as she dismissed the quiet saloon from her mind and let the scene in the other, exciting version of the Buckfast saloon grab her attention.
“I’ll let you choose where you want to die, Bunty,” Tex said.
