“I didn’t think so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the three days since the train robbery, Dinkins and his men had been living lavishly on the money they had taken from the bank in Crystal and from the stagecoach.
With the increased prices of everything in town, they were paying a dollar for a glass of beer and twenty-five dollars for a bottle of whiskey. The women were charging them fifty dollars, but as long as the men had the money, they spent it, unaware the high prices had been fixed for them alone.
They had gotten very little money from the train robbery, and the money they had taken from the bank and the stagecoach was diminishing rapidly as they spent it foolishly and gambled unwisely. As they saw the money going, their attitude toward the citizens of Risco became more and more belligerent.
Thus it was that James Webb had a talk with Bill Dinkins.
Risco had neither mayor nor sheriff, but even a city without law had to have some sort of leader, and James Webb had assumed that role. A graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, Webb had studied for the law and had been a circuit judge in Missouri when he was caught taking bribe money to affect the outcome of a major case.
The date for the trial was set and Webb, because he was an important and influential figure, was given bail. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be sent to prison, where he’d face many of the hardened criminals he’d sent there. He was convinced that he would not live a year in prison, so he jumped bail. Abandoning his wife and two children, he headed west, winding up in the lawless town of Risco.
“What do you want to talk about?” Dinkins asked.
“You, and the men with you,” Webb replied. “You, Harley, and the Slater brothers are, well, to put it as delicately as I can, upsetting the equilibrium of our little town.”
“I tell you the truth, Webb, I don’t have an idea in hell what you just said,” Dinkins said.
“All right, let me reword it. Our little community is unique. We have neither law nor governing structure, and we ask no questions about anyone’s past. But, just because we have no law, does not mean you can behave any way you want while you are staying with us. No doubt, you noticed the corpse of the recently deceased Frank Marlow when you rode into town?”
“Yeah, it was kind of hard to miss.”
“That’s good. Mr. Marlow, you see, is an object lesson. We left him there as a reminder to others that there is a limit to our tolerance. He carved up and killed one of our whores. The rest of the town took umbrage with that.”
“Yeah, well, what are you talking to me for? We ain’t done nothin’ like that.”
“You have been, however, rather brutal with the ladies. And you have been belligerent to the ones who serve us here, the bartenders, the cooks, the clerks in our stores.”
“They have been charging us too much,” Dinkins said.
“I am sure you can understand there must be added costs to living here, and enjoying the freedom that we enjoy.”
“So, what you’re saying is you want us to be nicer to the hired help.”
“I’m just giving you a few words of advice,” Webb said. “You know, there are some people who don’t want you here at all. You have a string of murders behind you that might attract enough lawmen here that we won’t be able to discourage them.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that among the horse thieves, cattle rustlers, bank, coach, and train robbers here, there ain’t none of them ever kilt anyone?”
“I am sure that quite a few of our citizens have killed,” Webb replied. “But generally they have killed because they were forced to. With you and your men, it is almost as if you have killed for no other reason than the pleasure it gives you.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It is, indeed. Oh, and one final thing, Mr. Dinkins. As a result of the string of killings you and your men have left behind, the reward money being offered now is fifteen hundred dollars for you, dead or alive. It is one thousand dollars for Mr. Harley, dead or alive, and five hundred dollars each for Frank and Travis Slater. That makes the four of you worth a total of thirty-five hundred dollars, and I must warn you, that sum is enough to tempt some of our citizens.”
“What you are saying is we should leave town. That is what you are saying, ain’t it?”
“Let us just say I am making a strong suggestion to that effect,” Webb replied.
Smoke removed his U.S. deputy marshal’s badge and put it in his saddlebag before he rode into town. It had been a long time since he was last in Risco, but as he rode down Outlaw Way, the main street of the little town, the years seemed to fall away. The town, inbred and festering, serviced by neither railroad nor stagecoach, had not changed. The purpose for which it existed meant it was better off remaining unheralded, unnoticed, and for the most part, unknown.
Looping Seven’s reins around the hitching post in front of the saloon, Smoke loosened the pistol in his holster, then pushed through the swinging doors to step inside. To his amazement, the man tending bar was the same one who had been tending bar when he was there last.
He stepped up to the bar, and when the bartender moved toward him, Smoke greeted him with a smile. “Hello, Dixon. Are you still watering the whiskey?”
Dixon, who appeared to be in his mid-sixties, was confused for a moment, then his face reflected recognition. “Buck West.” He smiled and stuck his hand across the bar. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you had gone straight. Actually, I hoped you had gone straight.”
