With half the town crammed in to Haney’s Saloon that night, Dove Ed Williams kept so busy clearing tables and bringing out plates of food that he didn’t see the two strangers come in. Men, women, and even a few children crowded every space in the wide main room, some using the upright piano in the far corner for a table. Men stood all along the bar down the right side of the room, eating chicken and dumplings and drinking coffee with one foot on the brass rail. The place was hot and stuffy despite the cool air outside; Haney’s rarely saw a crowd like this, which was why they had hired Dove Ed in the first place, why Merle Haney had stooped to hiring a vagrant boy like Dove Ed against his better judgment.
“I catch you stealing anything,” Haney had said, “I’ll horsewhip you all the way to the Marshal’s, then watch him horsewhip you out of town, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dove Ed said. He needed the job, so he refrained from pointing out that the Marshal’s office and the jail had both burned to the ground. Besides, before he took the first lash, he’d beat the lard out of Haney—which would take some doing, Haney was so fat. Dove Ed didn’t say that, either. Instead for the last two days he worked like a dog, hauling dishes, washing dishes, wiping tables, sweeping and mopping and soaking up abuse from Haney and a few of his regular customers.
He expected a certain amount of that thanks to his name: his mother, an immigrant from Wales
His father didn’t approve of fighting, of course. Hugh Williams believed that hard work and perseverance would make him rich, but after he dabbled at it for a while he gave up. Their homestead in the Idaho Territory
He piled his tray with soiled dishes and was heading for the scullery when he heard an angry voice yell, “The hell you say!” The barroom went quiet. Like everyone else he looked around and saw Merle Haney, stout, ruddy, his face streaming with sweat from the heat of the room, standing nose-to-nose with two men in riding gear. Well, nose-to-nose with one man, really, a thick-chested man wearing a mackinaw; the second man, lean as a rod, stood behind his friend with a warning hand on his shoulder. Neither of them was sweating, but their beard stubble and the bright color in their cheeks showed they’d been riding a long time in the sharp wind.
Haney shook his head. “I’m sorry, boys,” he said, and Dove Ed grinned to hear the discomfiture in his voice. “I can give you dinner and coffee to go with it, but we’ve no rooms and the Marshal outlawed liquor for the duration of the emergency.”
The newcomer got even redder. His head reared back and he looked down the slope of his nose at Haney. He cocked his hands on his hips, pushing back the mackinaw so that his holster was visible. “You’re shitting me,” he said.
“No sir, sad to say. Maybe you noticed on your way in to town, there’s a shortage of saloons in Corinne tonight. Won’t you take a place at the bar? Supper won’t be but a minute.”
The long fellow tugged at his friend. “Come on, Tom, let’s just go,” he said.
Tom shrugged the hand away. “I’ll be damned if I’ll ride on with an empty belly. It’s a long ride to the next eatery, I promise you.” He turned toward the bar, and Haney sagged as he let out the breath he had been holding. He mopped his face with a sleeve and looked around the room, catching sight of Dove Ed watching him. His officiousness reasserted itself all at once as he barked, “Well, boy, what are you looking at? Get those dishes cleaned up and bring these gentlemen some supper!”
Dove Ed emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later bearing a tray laden with food and looked around for the two men, Tom and his tall friend. They stood at the end of the bar, crowded in between the wall and a group of men clustered at the center, listening to Doctor Ellstrom hold forth. The doctor would hold court for hours, passing the time and swapping tales with anyone who cared to stop. Unhappily, Dove Ed recognized several of the men there now, including Jacob Putney, a ranch foreman with a lazy eyelid and a mean streak whose favorite target was Dove Ed himself.
Dove Ed kept his head down as he hustled behind the bar to take supper to the two strangers, hoping Putney wouldn’t notice him. He was in luck, for Doctor Ellstrom had a full head of steam, and all eyes were on him.
“I warned him,” Ellstrom was saying, “You’ve got to carry a gun, I said. What if you’re held up? But Levi always said, ‘I’ve no money on me; if someone tries to rob me, ‘twill be where the money is. It’s easier to keep the gun and the money in the same place!’”
A chuckle ran through the group, and Jacob Putney said, “You got to admit he was right; he didn’t need no gun after all.” Everyone agreed with this, and Putney went on, “Where’d he get that damned thing anyway?”
“Up in the pines along Logan Ridge,” said Dr. Ellstrom. “He said he took his children for a picnic and heard it in the rocks.”
Dove Ed reached the end of the bar and tried unsuccessfully to catch the strangers’ eyes. The two men glanced at him, but they paid more mind to the doctor’s tale than to the plates of chicken and dumplings, biscuits, and mugs of coffee he set in front of them. They took up their forks and dug in without even looking down at their food, hanging on every word.
“Why didn’t he just kill it?” someone said.
“I asked him that very question,” Doctor Ellstrom said. “Levi told me, a bit shamefaced, that when he saw that baby rattler, the idea struck him all at once, and he acted without thinking twice. He snatched up his walking stick and used it to prod and hook that serpent into his wife’s picnic basket. Then he clapped the lid shut and brought it down and put it in the drawer at the bank.”
Watching the men, Dove Ed saw Tom stop eating, fork halfway to mouth, and stare at the doctor. His companion likewise froze, listening in disbelief. Dr. Ellstrom did not notice the consternation he had caused the two, and kept on. “Fed it up on milk…”
“And honey,” someone interrupted.
“Will you shut up, Kessler?” Bob Kessler, the stage line agent, fancied himself Dr. Ellstrom’s equal in wit, but the doctor would have none of it. “Fed it on milk till it got too big, then trapped mice for it. Levi said it got as big around as his wrist.”
“That’s horseshit,” Kessler said. “Rattlers don’t grow that big.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Kessler,” said Putney. “I saw one bigger than that at Sloan’s last year. It nested under the henhouse for weeks stealing eggs, and it was big around as my peter when they killed it.”
“If it was only big around as that, it proves Kessler’s point, don’t it?” Dr. Ellstrom said, and the men laughed. The two strangers joined in until the doctor continued, “I wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when those two boys opened the safe and found that old rattler sitting on the money!”
“From what I hear,” Putney said, “They didn’t have any faces at all when the fire finally burnt out.”
“That’s so, and I was there to see it when they pulled them out,” Dr. Ellstrom said, making a face at the memory. “Couldn’t have happened to two nicer fellows, either.”
“Too bad the snake had to die in such company, though,” said Kessler, and the men joined in another round of laughter. Dove Ed noticed that Tom did not laugh this time, and in fact his face darkened as he turned his attention down to his plate. His friend caught Dove Ed’s eye, raising his mug. Dove Ed fetched the pot, glancing over at Ellstrom and his cronies.
As he topped up the two cups with fresh coffee, he said in a low voice, “Sorry about the coffee.”
Now Tom did look up, puzzled. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“It ain’t whiskey.”
Tom regarded Dove Ed for a long moment before sipping from his mug and setting it down. “No, it surely ain’t.”
“I might know where you could get some.”
“Yeah? Where?”
Dove Ed looked around again. Across the room, Haney was setting out food for other customers, but in Ellstrom’s group, Putney was looking their way. Dove Ed turned his back and gathered up Tom’s plate. As he wiped the bar top of imaginary crumbs he said, “Tool shed out back. Ten minutes.”
With that, he headed for the kitchen, relieved to see that Putney’s whole attention was given to Bill Kessler, who was finishing a dirty story, “I don’t know, but I think his wife’s name is ‘Verandah’!” The men around him roared again as Dove Ed pushed his way through the door into the scullery.
Ten minutes later he poked his head out the rear door of Haney’s Saloon. There was no sign of Tom or his friend. Dove Ed jogged across the back alley to the tool shed where he bedded down each night, a small, drafty hovel crowded with all manner of odds and ends: tools, tack and harness in poor repair, castoff furniture. Amidst all this Dove Ed made his bed on a tabletop from which he had removed the two and a half remaining legs. A tiny stove with a jury-rigged tin-can chimney provided some heat, but it often went out during the night. Dove Ed either woke to feed it or woke cold in the morning.
Now he went to a washtub hung from a nail on the wall. The washtub had a hole rusted through the bottom and through this Dove Ed reached in and down. He drew out a whiskey bottle and two smudged, chipped shot glasses. The bottle stood less than one-third full, and he frowned as he sloshed it, feeling the emptiness of it. There was a light tap at the door of the shed, and he put the bottle with the glasses atop the unlit stove. “Come in,” he said. “It’s about time. I got to get back before Haney…”
His voice trailed away as a man stepped through the door who was neither Tom nor his thin friend. “Hey, boy,” said Jacob Putney. He pulled the door to, glanced around the cramped quarters. “Nice place you got here.”
Dove Ed kept silent. Putney blocked the door, the only exit from the shed, so he backed away until he fetched up against the wall where the useless washtub hung. Jacob Putney didn’t look like much; neither tall nor broad, he was unimpressive unless you stared him in the eye. Then you could see how strong he was, a strength that stemmed from caring only about himself and not a scrap for the welfare of anyone else. This was a man who didn’t mind hurting other people. Dove Ed thought that in a fair fight he could best Jacob Putney, but he also thought that against Jacob Putney, fair fights were hard to come by.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Putney pointed at the bottle and glasses. “You expectin’ compny? Well, here I am. Ain’t you gonna pour?”
Dove Ed shook his head. “That ain’t mine.”
“I know it ain’t. It’s Haney’s. Took it from his storeroom, and you’re peddlin’ it from his tool shed.” Since this was in fact the case, Dove Ed shut his mouth. For the past three days he had made twenty times his salary selling drinks of whiskey from a bottle swiped off Merle Haney. Since locals like Putney were liable to turn him in, Dove Ed sold only to strangers passing through. They were so happy to get a drink they all stayed mum. Dove Ed knew it couldn’t last, but he had hoped to earn a stake and move on before he was found out. Luckily, it was Putney and not Haney or the marshal he was facing now. The marshal would have to, and Haney would love nothing better than to jail him; Putney would just kick him around and take the whiskey.
“Boy, you must be the stupidest Mick in the Territories,” said Putney. He labored under the misconception that Dove Ed was Irish, probably thanks to the faint trace of the musical Welsh accent inherited from his parents. Dove Ed never bothered to correct him; what did he care if Putney called him “potato-eater” or “Paddy”? “I seen you talking to those boys just now, lookin’ around to see if anyone’s listenin’. I seen you all week.”
Putney uncorked the whiskey bottle and poured one of the glasses full. He kept hold of the bottle as he raised the drink and smirked at Dove Ed. “Want one? There’s two glasses.” Dove Ed shook his head. “Suit yourself. Me, I’m awful thirsty.” Putney downed the drink in one swallow and poured the glass full again. Dove Ed watched, hoping he would just take the bottle and leave; once Putney left, he planned to collect his stake from inside the washtub, get his horse from the stable and blow town. Surely Putney would be found drunk, and when he was the marshal would be curious about where his liquor came from.
Putney had thrown back the second shot and was pouring again when a knock came at the shed door. Dove Ed started. He had forgotten Tom and his friend. He and Putney stared at each other, long enough for a second knock at the door. Putney replaced the bottle on the stove and draped his hand over the revolver hanging off his right hip. He downed the drink in his hand, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and nodded at Dove Ed.
“Come in,” called Dove Ed.
“Bout time,” said Tom and opened the door. Dove Ed saw him draw up short when he saw Putney. The two regarded each other for a long moment, hands near their holsters, and for the space of a breath Dove Ed knew that they would draw. His right hand crept up to rest on the washtub, unsure what to do.
Then Tom said, “Innocent?”
Jacob Putney’s face creased with a smile and his body relaxed. His hand eased away from his pistol as he replied, “Innocent.”
The tension drained from Tom’s shoulders as well. He said, “I thought so. Tom Mulvehill, and this here,” he indicated his tall friend, standing behind him, “Cash Joyner.” The two men ducked through the doorway into the shed, which now felt overcrowded.
“Jacob Putney.” Putney nodded to Cash. “Innocent?” he said.
“Innocent of what?” Cash said. Tom smiled and shook his head.
“No, just a friend.” He looked around the cramped room, then at Dove Ed. “I must say this is the smallest saloon I ever been in.”
Before Dove Ed could say anything, Putney spoke up. “Ain’t got but one bottle and two glasses, but it drinks the way it ought.” He held up the bottle, now showing only an inch or so of liquid in the bottom. “Can I pour for you boys?” He filled both glasses and handed them over, keeping the bottle and its meager leavings for himself. As he raised it to his lips, he fixed a warning gaze on Dove Ed and kept it there while all three drank.
Tom sipped half his shot, then smacked his lips in appreciation. “That’s good,” he said, then turned to Dove Ed. “What do we owe you for the libation, friend?”
The question caught him, and Putney, by surprise. Putney lowered the bottle in a hurry, trying to speak, but Dove Ed beat him to it. “Dollar each,” he said.
“What? It ain’t but a quarter inside,” said Cash.
“But it ain’t for sale inside,” Putney said, glaring at Dove Ed. “Out here, it’s a dollar each.”
Cash started to protest, but Tom held up a hand. “Worth it,” he said, and dug in his pocket, coming up with a pair of dollar coins. Dove Ed held out his hand for them.
“You can just pay me direct,” said Putney. Tom paused, his hand outstretched, as everyone looked over at Putney.
“Didn’t know this was your place,” Cash said.
“It’s mine.”
Tom slowly withdrew the two dollar coins, but did not offer them to Putney. “Twas the boy offered us the drink,” he said.
“Just cause he tends bar don’t mean he owns the saloon,” Putney said. He switched the bottle to his left hand and extended the right toward Tom. Dove Ed fumed as Tom tossed him the silver coins, one by one. Putney grinned at him and said, “Thanks. Now, boy, how about the rest?”
Dove Ed’s mouth hung open in fury and disbelief. “The rest of what?”
Putney clucked at him like a mother hen. “The rest of the take, boy. We been peddlin’ whiskey for three days, and I want the money now. Did you forget why I was here in the first place?”
Rage boiled up in Dove Ed, clouding his vision. He ground out, “You’re a liar.” Putney’s expression went black as thunderheads, but Dove Ed continued, “I stole that whiskey and I sold it myself. Not you. Keep the two dollars. You’re getting fuck all else.”
Tom and Cash glanced back and forth between him and Putney but said nothing, waiting to see how it would play out. Putney’s hand was back on the butt of his revolver, and he swigged down the last of the whiskey before tossing the bottle aside. “Come on, Paddy,” he said. “I ain’t got all night.” He drew the revolver and aimed along the barrel at Dove Ed. In the close confines of the shed, the sight blade on the end of the pistol about tickled Dove Ed’s nose.
“All right,” said Dove Ed. “I’ll get it.” Moving slowly, he turned to the washtub beside him. With his right hand he steadied the tub as he reached through the jagged hole with his left. He pulled it out, bringing with it a cloth bag that jingled faintly. He held it up long enough for Putney to fix his eyes on it, then he said, “Here,” and tossed it in a gentle arc. Putney followed the bag, reaching for it with both hands, raising the barrel of his gun toward the ceiling in the process.
As soon as he let go of the bag, Dove Ed reached under the rim of the washtub with his right hand for the little pocket pistol he had hidden there. It was an old relic of his father’s, a stumpy .28-caliber Remington barely big enough for his hand. He clutched the rounded grip and yanked the weapon out, knocking the washtub from its nail. The clatter of the old tub startled Jacob Putney; he fumbled the bag and his own pistol and wound up clasping both to his chest in a disorderly bundle. He gaped at Dove Ed in the split second before the boy pointed the Remington at him and pulled the trigger.
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