Slip Gun Read Online Free

him in the
men ’s
communal quarters. Returning to the porch, he removed jacket and
gloves so that he could take a wash in the basin which stood on a
bench by the front door. While drying himself on a somewhat cleaner
than usual roller-towel attached to the wall over the basin, he
heard the sound of hooves and wheels. Looking around, he saw a big,
heavily-mustached, florid faced man driving up in a buggy. From his
bowler hat and grey overcoat, open to show a matching suit and
gaudy necktie, taken with the trunk strapped to the back of the
vehicle, he might be a drummer of some kind. Nodding a greeting to
Smith, the man went by and halted outside the barn.
    With his hands dry, Smith gathered his
property and entered the combined bar and dining-room. He selected
a small table by one of the windows and sat at it. The owner had
warned him that no food would be available until the stage arrived,
so he settled in what comfort he could manage to wait for it.
Letting the jacket hang on the back of his chair, he slid on his
gloves. The first drops of rain splattered against the window-panes
and he felt the expected twinge of pain commence.
    Experience had taught Smith that
he could forget the pain if he found something to occupy his mind.
So he took his wallet from the jacket ’s inside pocket and extracted a
buff-colored telegraph message form. Opening the paper, he laid it
and the wallet before him on the table.
    ‘ W.
Smith. Marshal’s Office. Albertsville, New Mexico,’ Smith read, ‘Need your services
urgently by end of month. If can come, bank your town authorized to
advance two hundred dollars as evidence our good faith, also
railroad fare to Laramie. W. S. P. Jeffreys, Mayor. Widow’s Creek,
Wyoming Territory.’
    Not much to go on there, but
Smith had felt justified in investigating. The money had been
handed over by the Albertsville banker without batting an eye. If anything,
considering that he was one of the city fathers, the banker had
probably been pleased with the sign that Smith was
leaving.
    They were all the same, Smith mused, eager
to hire his gun in times of trouble; but even more eager to see him
move on once he had hauled their hot chestnuts out of the fire.
That was understandable, for his services came higher than the
wages paid to an ordinary town marshal. Of course, Smith took
chances and handled chores an ordinary town marshal would never be
called upon to face. That was why he was hired.
    Folks did not like hired gun fighters, even
when they brought one in to help them. Such a man provided an
answer to difficult problems, or applied a drastic remedy for
certain social ills. With the problems solved, or the ills cured,
he became an expensive luxury and an unpleasant reminder of things
the sober, upright citizens who hired him would rather forget.
    All right. So Smith had known
what he was getting into when he had first hired his gun. Doing so had
seemed to be the only answer to his problems. Until he had lost his trigger-fingers,
his sole trade had been that of peace officer. The skills he had
acquired at it were of small use in any other field.
    ‘ Easy
there!’ Smith warned himself silently but sharply. ‘You always get
to thinking that ways when it’s raining and your hands
hurt.’
    Even as he gave himself the
advice, Smith became aware of a feeling that somebody was watching
him. The front door had opened and the scrutiny came from that
direction. Swinging his head, Smith found that the dude from the
buggy had just entered. For a moment, the Texan thought that he had
forgotten to replace his gloves. His hands always attracted
attention, which was why he kept them covered. No, he had the
gloves on. By his hands lay his open wallet, its well-filled
interior exposed to the newcomer ’s gaze.
    ‘ Howdy,’ greeted the man, bringing his eyes to Smith’s face.
‘We’re in for a real wet one tonight, I’d say.’
    ‘ Looks
that way,’ Smith admitted and wondered why the hell folks always
had