Shoot-Out!, page 2
‘You got a clear run,’ he expanded. ‘I hope you come in a winner.’
‘Thank you.’ Relief lightened Donnely’s voice. ‘I appreciate that. I trust there are no hard feelings?’
‘No.’ McLain shook his head. ‘No hard feelings.’
‘Good.’ The captain relaxed visibly, his voice resuming its tone of brisk authority. ‘That settles the personal side. I propose to invite Janey to accompany me to Brownsville. In the circumstances, I think she’ll accept.’
‘Brownsville?’ asked McLain. ‘What business you got on the coast?’
‘Army,’ said Donnely, adding quickly: ‘I shall take a small escort, of course. We’ll not be alone.’
‘Of course,’ McLain said, grinning. ‘But why Brownsville?’
Donnely answered the question with one of his own: ‘You’ve heard of the revolver Colt has developed?’
Abruptly, McLain was all interest. He sat upright in the chair, leaning forwards as he stared at the officer. ‘Rumors, mostly. That why you’re goin’?’
‘Yes.’ Donnely nodded. ‘There’s a small consignment coming in for testing. Colonel Cutter has ordered me to fetch it to Fort Davis for assessment as a military side arm.’
‘What I’ve heard makes it sound like a natural,’ said McLain. ‘I didn’t know there were any around yet.’
‘Twelve are coming down by boat,’ said Donnely. ‘I’m on secondment to test them.’
‘An’ it’s a long way to Brownsville,’ grinned the Missouri man, ‘with Janey by your side.’
Donnely blushed again. ‘I’ll be gone at least a month. Maybe longer. Lieutenant Bellew will be in command.’ McLain nodded: Sylvanus Bellew, for all his odd name, was a likable fellow, albeit he was a Yankee from Connecticut.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I guess we can look after things between us. When you leavin’?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Donnely replied. ‘I’ve already asked Janey to accompany me. She agreed to give her answer today.’
‘I hope it’s yes.’ McLain was serious. ‘On both counts.’ Donnely stood up, his smile relieved. He put out a hand. ‘No hard feelings?’
McLain shook. ‘No hard feelin’s,’ he repeated. ‘I only get those with Belle.’
Donnely almost chuckled. Almost, but not quite. Instead, he ducked his head and spun around to march briskly out into the sunlight. McLain settled back in the chair, thinking about the pistols.
Since the introduction of the cap-and-ball revolver Samuel Colt had done more to shape the development of the handgun than any other individual. The manufactory in Hartford, Connecticut, had first introduced the folding trigger Paterson model in .36-caliber, then the massive Whitneyville-Walker holster pistol. After that had come the .44-caliber third model, the big Hartford Dragoon McLain himself favored, and the smaller Navy and Army models. All these had been percussion pistols, utilizing the nipple-and-chamber configuration that required the relatively laborious process of first loading the powder measure into the front of the cylinder, then the tamping down of the ball, and, finally, the capping of each nipple at the rear of the cylinder with the little fulminate hoods that detonated the powder in the chamber when struck by the hammer pin. When he had ridden with Bloody Bill Anderson and Butcher Harvey in the savage border fighting of the War Between The States, McLain had carried two Dragoons for the simple reason that loading took long enough a man could get himself killed while he was tamping ball to powder. The introduction of ready-mades, combining powder and shot in a single paper cartridge, had speeded up the operation some, but the caps were still necessary; and still a big disadvantage. Each cap needed to be set carefully in place, exactly positioned and set on the nipple with just the correct amount of pressure. A poorly set cap could fail to detonate. A misfire could spark a flash reaction that exploded the whole cylinder in the loader’s hand. During the War, McLain had seen a man called Sturmer blow off his right hand when the Dragoon he had loaded too hurriedly did its best to discharge all six chambers at once. It hadn’t killed Sturmer, but while he was screaming and waving his bloody stump, a Union infantryman had put a .44-caliber ball from a long-barreled Henry clean through his skull, spreading his brains over the main street of a town called Coffeyville. The rumors McLain had heard – confirmed now by Frank Donnely – concerned what was reputed to be Sam Colt’s latest invention.
The way they went, Colt was about to revolutionize the handgun yet again. They said the Hartford factory had come up with a single-action revolver that took brass cartridges in .45 caliber. Percussion cap, powder and bullet were all contained in the single shell casing. The six-shot pistol was loaded from the rear of the cylinder, with a sprung gate protecting the exposed chamber and preventing the cartridge from falling out. The frame and cylinder were reputed to be robust enough to tolerate the expansion of the brass jacket when the shell was fired, and the used casings were ejected from the loading bay by a rod mounted under the barrel and slid back into the chambers by the user. Thus loading and unloading were simplified, speeding the operation, and shootists would no longer need to carry cartridges and caps in separate containers. If the rumors were right, the new handgun was likely to bring a new era to the Frontier.
McLain stroked absently at the familiar wood grips of his Dragoon as he quit the office and walked towards Abe Kintyre’s store.
He wanted to get his hands on a Colt Single Action: Abe boasted he could find anything if the price was right.
Chapter Two
ABE KINTYRE’S STORE stood adjacent to the saloon, a long, thin building with a flat roof and a false front that carried the legend:
Abraham Kintyre – Purvey of the Finest.
Abe reckoned to stock most anything folks might want to buy, and what he didn’t carry, he could mostly order from the Sears, Roebuck or the Montgomery, Ward and Company catalogues he kept on permanent display. Tall windows stood either side of the door, looking down the length of the room so that casual passers-by might see the full range of goods. The door itself carried a newly-set pane, the words General Store etched in the glass. A bell tinkled as McLain opened the door and Kintyre’s voice echoed from the rear. ‘Be with you in just a minute.’
‘No hurry,’ McLain called back, glancing round.
The storekeeper lived in a single room at the back, taking his meals in the saloon. His business took up the remaining space, bales of cloth and haberdashery items dividing the area so that two aisles were formed. One wall was stacked with hardware and dry goods, men’s clothing down at one end and a long counter set out from the other wall with shelves behind it. McLain was examining the pistols when Kintyre emerged.
‘John!’ The pale face creased in a smile. ‘Ain’t seen you in a while. Guess you been busy.’
McLain grinned at the unspoken reference to Belle and diverted the storekeeper’s curiosity.
‘Want to talk to you, Abe. About a gun.’
Kintyre stepped behind his counter, adjusting the garters holding his striped shirtsleeves back from his wrists. He was a small, compact man with a bush of coarse black hair and the features of an amiable monkey. A strip of hair with gray starting to show ran around the angles of his jaw; his upper lip was shaved clean. The prospect of a commercial transaction brightened his dark eyes.
‘You thinkin’ of changing that hogleg?’ He nodded towards the big Dragoon on the marshal’s hip. ‘I can get you a real dandy rimfire.’
‘A Colt.’ McLain shook his head. ‘One of the new models.’
‘I got a .44 model of ’72,’ Kintyre said. ‘That the one you mean?’
‘No.’ McLain made a negative gesture. ‘I got word there’s a newer model.’
‘Hey!’ Kintyre grinned. ‘That’s not public knowledge yet. Hell! I only just got word myself.’
‘They’re around then?’ asked McLain.
‘I got this.’ Kintyre ducked below counter level, coming up with a leaflet that he passed across. ‘Ain’t barely had time to read it myself.’
McLain felt a surge of excitement as he studied the sheet. It was printed with the emblem of a prancing horse and the words, Saml. Colt Arms Manufactory, Pearl St, Hartford, Conn. Below that, in larger letters was the heading, Colt Single Action Army Model, Cal. .450. There was an artist’s sketch of a solid-looking handgun that, although smaller than the Dragoon McLain wore, seemed somehow more compact, more efficient. An expanded drawing of the parts and the information below, confirmed the impression. The new pistol looked everything the rumors promised, and then some.
‘This.’ He turned the sheet towards Kintyre. ‘This is the one.’
The storekeeper scratched his head, frowning.
‘I ain’t sure, John. So far as I’ve heard, that’s an Army gun. Colt wants a military contract before he goes into production on any scale.’
‘The Army’s testing them now.’ McLain tapped the leaflet for emphasis. ‘That means they’re around. Colt delivers what he says, there’ll be a lot of folks wantin’ this pistol.’
‘I can check.’ Kintyre shrugged. ‘Northbound stage is due next week. I can send word.’
‘That’s a month or more.’ McLain frowned. ‘Pistol like this gets to the wrong people, I want to equalize it. I want one fast, Abe.’
‘Not much I can do.’ Kintyre shrugged apologetically. ‘Leastways, not myself. But maybe I can help.’
‘How?’
McLain’s voice was eager. The sales leaflet had confirmed the new gun as the biggest step forwards since the original six-shooter, and the knowledge that models were around whetted his appetite to own one. It was an excitement greater than his natural desire as a peace officer to keep abreast of the latest weaponry: he felt a genuine fear that some lawbreaker might lay hands on one and come through Garrison able to outgun the marshal. In the early days it wouldn’t have worried him too much – the Colt Dragoon had proved its worth often enough – but now the town was growing and there was a steadily increasing number of people passing through, or settling. And there was another reason, he realized. It was called Belle. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman since his marriage, back in Missouri before the War, and with an abrupt shock he knew that he was afraid of losing a second time. All it needed was for some pistoleer to stop by the Maison Belle or the saloon and leave McLain fumbling with percussion caps while he dropped brass jackets into the new Colt...
‘Tell me,’ he said, hearing the urgency in his own voice. Kintyre looked surprised as he said, ‘Well, if you want to ride over to San Antonio, I can give you a note for Jesse Comstock. If anyone can help, it’ll be him.’
‘I’d appreciate it,’ McLain said and nodded.
Kintyre opened a drawer to extract a wad of blank bills with his name printed at the top. He licked a blue indelible pencil and began to write busily in his small, precise hand. When he had signed the note, he passed it to McLain.
‘That should do it. If Jesse says he can help, tell him I’ll take a consignment of twelve. You think this pistol’s so good; I’ll be selling plenty. An’ John? If he can get you one, tell him to bill me.’
‘That ain’t fair.’ McLain shook his head again. ‘I’ll pay my own way, Abe.’
‘Listen.’ Kintyre’s simian features wrinkled further as he grinned up at the tall man. ‘You’re doin’ a damn fine job as marshal. I’m a citizen who wants to see our peace officer armed with the best. Besides,’ he winked elaborately, ‘I reckon that when I mention it to Shawn an’ the rest, most everyone’ll agree. An’ chip in to pay.’
McLain thought about it for a while. If the Colt was in such short supply that even Abe Kintyre doubted he could find one, the pistol would be commanding a high price. On what he made as marshal he didn’t have a lot left over. Probably not enough to buy a gun like this.
‘All right,’ he allowed, still feeling reluctant to accept charity. ‘But I pay it back.’
‘Town expenses.’ Kintyre waved a hand airily. ‘Be the same as buildin’ more cells, right?’
‘Maybe.’ McLain still wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I do,’ said the storekeeper. ‘You just show that note to Jesse an’ tell him you’re a friend.’
‘Thanks.’ McLain ducked his head in gratitude.
‘Least I can do.’
Kintyre waved as the big Missouri man went out of the store. The bell tinkled again as the door closed and McLain paused on the sidewalk, folding the note before stowing it carefully in his shirt pocket. The sun was up high now, approaching noonday, and Garrison basked in the late-summer heat. The buildings that formed the nucleus of the settlement were augmented by the tents and wagons of settlers, and the makeshift cabins that had gone up were taking on a permanent look. Down at the end of Main Street farthest from the walls of Donnely’s Army post a new structure was taking shape as the sons of a vociferous Chinaman called Chen Lee hammered together what promised to be Garrison’s first public bathhouse and Chinese laundry. McLain grinned as the high-pitched voice bellowed instructions that lifted the already-frenzied activity to still more frantic levels. Farther along, he could see the grizzled Scandinavian everyone called Swede (because no one could get their tongue around his real name) pounding iron beside the glowing furnace of his smithy. A cowboy emerged from Angus MacKay’s barber shop, the skin of his jaw slightly paler than the rest of his weatherbeaten features. Three troopers came out of the cathouse, grinning as they headed towards the earthworks and walls of the cavalry garrison.
McLain was still smiling as he went inside the saloon.
Shawn looked up from behind the bar and smiled his expansive Irish smile, blue eyes twinkling as he lifted a beer mug in his left hand and a whiskey glass in his right. McLain pointed at the glass and Shawn tugged the cork on a bottle.
‘You sleepin’ late these days, John?’ he asked innocently. ‘Or just stayin’ in bed longer?’
McLain grinned without answering and took the proffered glass.
‘How’s Alice?’
‘Well,’ said Shawn. ‘Workin’ hard, as usual. She kinda misses havin’ you around.’
McLain nodded and swallowed liquor.
‘Hear Frank’s takin’ Janey down to Brownsville,’ Shawn said. ‘One-Eye come by earlier an’ told me he’s gettin’ a rig ready.’
‘I knew he’d asked her,’ McLain said. ‘Guess she agreed.’
‘Figger they’ll come back wed?’
It was hard to tell whether Shawn was merely passing local gossip around, or trying to probe for McLain’s reactions. Either way, the Missouri man just shrugged and replied, ‘I reckon Frank’ll ask her. The answer’s up to Janey.’
‘You takin’ up with Belle kinda pushes the choice,’ Shawn murmured. ‘How you like it, livin’ in the cathouse?’
‘Fine,’ said McLain. ‘Real fine.’
Shawn was about to speak again, but his wife’s voice stopped him. McLain turned as Alice came out of the dining room with an apron over her dress and a huge smile on her lined face. Her gray hair was drawn back in a bun and streaked with flour from the kitchen. She wiped her hands vigorously on the apron as she crossed the room to put her arms around McLain.
‘You all right, John T.?’
There was a note of almost maternal concern in her question that emphasized the closeness of their friendship, but also a faint hint of something like jealousy. Alice was happily married, and too many years separated her from McLain’s age to allow for anything more than friendship, but there was still something else. Some folks had been known to wonder – quietly, and never openly – if the gray-haired woman hadn’t carried a spark for the younger man. But then Janey Page had come on the scene and the general assumption had been that Alice favored McLain and Janey getting together. Even now, the Missouri man wasn’t exactly sure how Alice felt about him taking up with Belle, though she had never commented other than approvingly.
‘I’m all right,’ he smiled. ‘Belle’s near as good a cook as you.’
‘With extra home comforts,’ chuckled Shawn. ‘Not to mention—’
‘So don’t.’ Alice glanced sharply at her husband, then turned to smile again at McLain. ‘You gonna eat, John T.?’
‘I guess not.’ McLain shook his head. ‘Belle’s fixin’ something. I come by to ask Shawn a favor.’
‘Name it,’ said the silver-haired ex-sergeant. ‘You got it.’
‘I want to ride over to San Antone,’ said McLain. ‘I reckon to be gone no more’n a week. Syl Bellew’s takin’ Frank’s command an’ I was hoping you’d deputize for me, Shawn.’
‘Sure.’ The older man nodded enthusiastically.
Alice said, ‘You ain’t been back from Mexico longer’n it takes a cat to spit and now you’re off again. You sure things are all right?’
‘I’m sure,’ confirmed McLain. ‘I need to see a man about a gun.’
‘You’ve got a gun,’ said Alice.
‘This is a special gun,’ answered McLain. ‘Real special.’
He used the same words when Belle said, ‘You’ve got all the firepower you need. And a week feels like a long time right now.’
They were sitting in the parlor behind the cathouse. There was a big bowl of stew with dumplings on the table between them, and a coffee pot bubbling on the stove. Belle was wearing a dark green dress that matched the color of her eyes and her hair was piled up on her head so that the pale column of her neck got shown to advantage. McLain looked at her and agreed.
