Chapter 3
1357 Words
The street brimmed with people going about their daily routines. Ritter doffed his hat to the occasional passing lady, nodded to various men, most of whom looked at him askance, frowning at his tied-down g*n. Few held his stare. Ritter carried the air of a man confident in his own abilities – but just what these were, most citizens of Archangel that blustery morning preferred not to ponder on. Few of his sort passed through the town streets, but when they did, it invariably meant trouble.
He went into a small coffee-house and ordered a midday meal of eggs and bacon. Ignoring the stares of the other customers, he looked out of the window towards the many shops and service businesses lining the street. A group of shirt-sleeved men laboured like ants around a large, semi-completed building and he studied them with keen interest.
The waitress loomed over him and placed a full plate of food in front of him. He smiled. “Busy place.”
“Yes,” she said, following his gaze to the street. “And it"ll be getting busier with any luck.”
Grunting, he turned to his meal, enjoying every mouthful.
Later, having paid the bill, he crossed the street. Stopping beneath the swinging sign of The Wishbone Saloon, Ritter leaned forward to read the notice pinned to the boarded-up entrance. Lessons in Miss Winters" one-room school house back in Denver had given him a basic knowledge of words, but he continued to find difficulty with more complex sentences.
“It says we"re closed due to the excessive libations of certain hot-headed individuals who caused inappropriate and extensive damage to this establishment.”
Frowning, Ritter turned to regard the owner of the voice, a swarthy-looking individual with a cheery face and ample midriff. “You"d be Cable Hughes?”
The man tilted his head, arching a single eyebrow. “I am. I am the owner of this here establishment.”
“So I understand.” He gestured towards the sign. “These here "hot-headed individuals", they be—”
“Two gunhands from the Scrimshaw ranch. Jessup and Martindale, I understand them to be called. A nastier pair I have yet to meet.”
Ritter stepped up onto the boardwalk fronting the saloon and tapped the notice. “What is "libations"?”
“Drinking.”
“Ah… So they was drunk?”
“Beyond drunk, sir. Could I ask you what is your interest?”
“I am travelling through the State, looking for a certain fugitive from justice.”
“An outlaw?”
“A killer.”
Sucking in his breath, Hughes rocked back on his heels. “A killer? That sounds somewhat dramatic.”
“It is.”
Surveying Ritter from head to foot, Hughes" eyes settled on the other"s revolver. “I"m surmising you are a bounty hunter?”
“What of it?”
Hughes held up his hands. “I am not judging you, sir, merely pointing out the obvious.”
“My g*n is my tool of trade. It enables me to make sense of a world which has lost its way. Violence, lawlessness, the abandonment of common decency… The War created deep divisions within us, Mr Hughes, and it is all a man can do to find a path through it which does not lead him to confrontation and death.”
“Yes, well, the War has been over these past eight or so years.”
“Even so.”
“Yes…. even so.”
Ritter stepped down into the street again and stood level with Hughes, towering over the saloon owner by a good head. “You have plans on re-opening?”
“Perhaps. When those two trouble-makers have moved on.”
“You think they will?”
“Who knows? Old man Scrimshaw has lost his way, leaving control of his business affairs to his sons.” Hughes paused, glancing up and down the main street. A train of three wagons trundled by, pots and pans clanking against the sides. “More tenderfoots looking for the promise of a new life.” He shook his head, forcing a smile at the lead driver as he moved on. “They sure as eggs is eggs won"t find one here in Archangel.”
“It seems prosperous enough.”
“Oh, it is. When the railroad finally opens, it will be reborn. Merchant men, traders, shopkeepers, they are all making ready for that great day.”
“Might even be the moment for you to re-open.”
“Perhaps. Mister, who is it you are looking for? This so-called killer?”
“Nothing "so-called" about it, Mr Hughes. I understood from my previous stopping place that he was headed this way.”
“I know of no killers ever stopping by here.”
“He doesn"t advertise the fact. Indeed, if ever you set eyes upon him, you would find him a most respectable individual, well-dressed, polite, slight in stature. But if you looked close and caught the glint in his eyes, you"d see something you would not like. Unfortunately, such an action would almost certainly cause him to be affronted, or give him rise to suspect you were challenging him. No one has ever held his stare and lived.”
“Dear God.” His eyes widened as he latched on to something beyond Ritter"s shoulder. “Blessed Jesus,” he said, his face paling, “that looks like trouble.”
Ritter swung around to see two horsemen charging up the main street. They dismounted at a run and charged towards the entrance to the saloon where Tobias Scrimshaw had received his beating. Ritter whistled as the riders burst through the batwing doors, their guns already materialising in their fists. “Yep, you could be right, Mr Hughes. They sure look like trouble to me.”
“What in tarnation has gone on in there?”
“A beating,” said Ritter. “Seems like your priest can dish it out with some considerable skill.”
“You mean Father Merry?”
“I do indeed. Some fat man in there got the living s**t kicked out of him, and now I suspect his friends have got wind of it.”
“One of them looks like Reece, old Scrimshaw"s youngest.”
“They"ll be wanting retribution from the priest.”
“No doubt. Someone must have told Reece about what happened.”
“There were two others there. Maybe it was one of them.”
“People will stir up all sorts if they think they"ll get paid for it.”
Ritter nodded grimly. “I"ve a mind Father Merry may be the one I need to speak with about my quarry. The proprietor of yonder establishment told me as much, in exchange for a dollar. I do believe a man of the world such as the good padre would recognise John Wesley without so much as a blink.”
“John Wesley…?”
Turning, Ritter saw the deathly pallor of the saloon owner and grinned. “Yeah, his name does tend to cause that reaction. Now, if you would be so kind, could you point me in Merry"s direction?”
As Hughes opened his mouth to speak, the commotion across the street in the other bar came to a c****x as the two men kicked through the doors, carrying the large, semi-conscious frame of Tobias between them. Behind them appeared the barkeep, wringing his hands, a troubled expression on his face which, when he caught sight of Ritter, turned to desperation. He gestured towards the bounty hunter and cut through the gathering groups of onlookers, all curious to see what was happening.
“They"ll be meeting up with some others and going over to Father Merry"s place, I shouldn"t wonder,” Hughes said, rattling off his words at a furious pace. “If I know them boys, they plan on killing him.”
Grunting, Ritter swung around to face Hughes. “Well, seems I might have to skedaddle if I"m to make it to him first. Now, tell me where he lives.”
- Writer
