Andromeda Gun (16 page)

When he spotted the black-coated cortège winding up from the south, Ian feared trouble. Now there were eight instead of six of the Latter-Day Saints, two more than the bullets in his revolver, and he was not a two-gun man.

Six bullets for eight saints!

Feeling the closest emotion to fear he had known since Gettysburg, Ian watched as the horsemen rode up the hill. Even if his gunslinging proved as sharp as the day he winged Billy Peyton, Ian thought, there was no way he could fire and reload in time to get them all. Of course, he could turn and flee. Heretofore flight had been his standard response to the approach of armed men. Now, pride and his investment in the valley prevented him from running.

As the Mormons drew nearer, Ian raised his left hand in greeting, Indian fashion, and Stake Superintendent Peyton raised his right hand in return. Old Man Peyton, Ian decided, was either intending to be reasonable or he knew no more about gunfighting than his son.

“Hello, deputy.”

“Hello, super. What’s the word from heaven?”

“Namoo tells me you’ve got one of my boys in your work gang.”

The voice behind the smile was neither harsh nor hostile, but it was also neither importune nor placating.

Two of the riders were swinging behind Peyton, keeping away from the group and going higher up the hill to outflank Ian and get a clear angle of fire. Probably they were hired guns from Salt Lake City, Ian thought, and swerved his horse to keep them in his line of vision. He would have to get the gunfighters first and hope that in the resulting confusion a couple of the amateurs would shoot one another. Such mix-ups had been known to happen, but it was a slender reed to prop his life on.

G-7 fully agreed with Ian’s estimate of the danger. Alerted by the deliberate approach of Peyton, G-7 had already disengaged its tendrils, leaving only a trailing filament attached to its host’s otic nerve to register conversations. Invisible in the noonday sun, the nebulosity floated above McCloud.

The man’s fate was solely in his own hands, for Ian’s bright angel had left him.

“Yeah,” Ian admitted, unaware that he had been deserted, “Jebediah Clayton got a little out of line yesterday, three days or thirty dollars’ worth, by defrauding a Hebrew.”

“His arrest and sentencing was all legallike, I reckon.”

Peyton’s remark came perilously close to being a question, and Ian reacted quickly. “You ain’t questioning the court’s decision, are you, mister?”

Ian’s words were a knife thrust Peyton parried with moderation. “Can’t say I am, deputy.”

“Good! Contempt of court could get you twenty days… Except I might have trouble with the pussyfooting judge. He’s been trying to get a little soft lately, and he might let you off with less. Maybe I ought to jail the judge for contempt of court… But you ain’t here to listen to my problems.”

“Maybe the judge is the problem for both of us, deputy. The Hebrew’s been giving you Gentiles thirty days or thirty dollars which figures out at one dollar a day. Then he ups and give J. C. three days or 30 dollars, which figures out at ten dollars a day. If the Hebrew had give J. C. three days or three dollars, the stake could have raised the fine. But, no. That son of Israel ain’t being just with us Mormons.”

On the record, the Mormons couldn’t be trusted, Ian decided. They had brought eight men against a six-shooter, two of the men had tried to outflank him as they parleyed, and now the Mormon was trying to drive a wedge between the Hebrew and the Christian Gentiles to get the Christians over on the Mormon’s side against the Hebrew.

“I ordered the ten dollars a day fine,” Ian told him bluntly.

“Ain’t that kind of high, deputy?”

Not only was the Mormon untrustworthy—he was unreasonable.

“High?” Ian flared. “It’s low. Jeb’s worth twelve ordinary Gentiles when it comes to hard work. Next to that red-haired Irishman, down yonder, J.C. is the best man I got. He’d be better than the Irishman, except Mickey O’Shea’s got brains, and Jeb ain’t.”

Peyton eyed the deputy sheriff with confused understanding, as if giving Ian a new appraisal, and when he spoke, some of the iron was gone from his voice.

“You sound like a just man, deputy… I know Jeb’s a good worker. He’s a law-abiding, God-fearing man, and he ought not to be in a jailhouse gang. He’s got three wives and sixteen children to support.”

“J. C. oughta thought about them before he set out to break the law,” Ian snapped.

“But he ain’t no lawbreaker, deputy.”

Ian waved his hand toward the work gang below.

“Super, you go down and talk to any of them convicts. You won’t find a one that ain’t the most innocent, law-abiding, God-fearing man you ever met—by his own lights.”

“I don’t reckon no man’s going to poor-mouth his self,” Peyton admitted, “but I’m speaking up for J. C. He tithes regular.”

“What’s tithing?”

“He gives ten percent of all he makes to the church, like all good Mormons do.”

Ian had not realized the Mormons were so generous, but with the knowledge he saw an opportunity.

“You think I ought to give J. C. ten percent off for good behavior,” Ian asked harshly, “when the judge’s done give him three days?”

Aware of the penalty for contempt of court, Peyton skirted the subject cautiously. “No, I ain’t saying that. But J. C. is a head of families. Now, I brought you two unmarried boys, one’s a tobacco chewer and the other smokes behind the barn, and I’ll let you have them both for Clayton in a dead-even swap because these boys need discipline.”

Peyton’s remark explained the presence of the two scruffy-looking specimens farther up the hill; they were not flanking gunmen, they were outcast Mormons.

“Super, I ain’t running no reform school for Latter-Day Saints, but seeing as how you and me always seem to hit it off, I’m willing to do you a favor… You see that little point of land, down yonder, jutting off from the road?”

Still wary, Ian lifted his left hand and pointed down the hill beyond the road to the spur where O’Shea had piled the boulders from the blasting operation. Peyton followed the point with his gaze and nodded.

“That’s your land,” Ian continued. “If you’re willing to donate it for a school for Miss Gabriella Stewart, I’d be willing to accept your proposal, but it would have to be between you and me, win, lose, or draw.”

“Why between you and me?”

“I can’t speak for Jebediah Clayton,” Ian explained. “Jeb’s sort of took a personal interest in the road, and he might not want to quit. For one thing, he’s taking part in the dedication of the stone bridge tomorrow. He’s placing the keystone in the arch by hisself . Another thing, he’s got a suit of work clothes free that’s all his own since no other prisoner in the territory’s big enough to wear them, and Jeb, being honest, might figure he ain’t earned them yet. Then J. C. might not be willing to go back to all them wives and children since he’s got a taste of the free life in jail.”

Peyton seemed to have forgotten Jebediah Clayton as he looked down on the point of land below. “There’s nigh onto three acres of good farmland down there.”

“Two acres of rock,” Ian snorted.

“You put a Gentile school too near us folks, and our young ones will be wanting to go to it.”

“Makes no difference. Book learning’s book learning.”

“I don’t want to mix our angels with them Gentile angels,” Peyton demurred. “Seeing as you got a powerful fondness for angels, deputy, you can understand that. I done lost one Mormon to the Methodists. He warn’t much good, but I’d hate to lose a whole passel of good, tithing Mormons… No, I couldn’t give up them three acres for less than ten dollars an acre.”

“Super, you can see from here that land’s too rocky for farming. Them two acres ain’t worth ten dollars an acre.”

“I could lose ten tithing Mormons to that school,” Peyton insisted.

“All Miss Stewart’s going to teach is reading, writing, and ciphering,” Ian said. “It’s against the law to teach religion in school.”

“If you’re talking about the United States Constitution”—Peyton shook his head—“I don’t know if it applies out here. Wyoming’s a territory.”

“I ain’t talking about anybody’s constitution. I’m talking about me. I’m the law in Shoshone Flats, and I’m saying there ain’t going to be no talk about angels in that school, only the three R’s. I ain’t got nothing against Moroni or Namoo either, but I’m asking you this: Do you want to keep that miserable acre and a half of rocks, or do you want me to go down there and tell Jeb Clayton he’s free to walk off his job, take them two boys of yours and break their tobacco habit, and put up a stone schoolhouse overlooking the valley like a monument—the Bryce Peyton Territorial School?”

A glow lighted Peyton’s eyes and a sudden, warm enthusiasm came into his voice. “Deputy, ever since you started talking, that miserable half-acre of rocks is been getting smaller and rockier. If you’ll let J. C. make his own choice and take them two jackleg saints up the hill there, the school land is yours.”

Ian looked up the hill, regretting his own enthusiasm. The pair looked too seedy to really qualify for the road gang, and he could see no way to break the smoker’s habit. Curing the tobacco chewer would be easy; he could break the man’s jaw.

“Look, super. I’m running short of cell space. If J. C. ain’t willing to make the trade for them two, does our bargain still hold?”

“All I want is my rights as stake superintendent,” Peyton said. “If J. C. don’t want his, that’s up to J. C. Far as I’m concerned, the Bryce Peyton Territorial School is yours.”

G-7 slunk back into its host, feeling pride mixed with chagrin. Ian had not needed its guidance, was, indeed, on the verge of scoring a coup for the community’s good unassisted. The irony for G-7 was its awareness that McCloud must have had this scheme subconsciously in his mind when he ordered O’Shea to pile the rocks on the acreage.

What McCloud lacked in wisdom he made up in shrewdness and cunning, G-7 had to admit.

As Ian rode down the slope in the company of the stake superintendent, he realized he was taking a small but calculated risk that Clayton might decide to go with Peyton, but Ian doubted it. The big man had been allotted a two-box ration of Liza’s best chicken, and he had fallen in with the spirit of the road gang. As O’Shea had done, Clayton had developed an interest in stonemasonry and was personally involved in the construction of the bridge which had brought the largest turnout of female spectators in the history of territorial road building.

“Clayton, front and center,” Ian yelled as they rode up. The giant heaved a boulder he was carrying in the direction of the creek and loped over to the horsemen.

“Jebediah,” Ian said, “Mr. Peyton’s willing to swap two of his boys to serve out your time. He figures you’re worth more to your family than you’re worth to the people of Wyoming, or at least you’re worth as much as a couple of his boys.”

Clayton looked at Ian with disbelief and turned to glance at Peyton with scorn. When he spoke, he spoke only to McCloud.

“Deputy, if I ain’t worth more than that, I ain’t worth nothing. Anyhow, the mason’s cutting the center stone tomorrow, and I’m the only man who can hoist it into place. I’m staying to see that bridge finished if the creek floods tomorrow and I have to wait a week.”

Clayton turned and galloped back to the rock pile.

Shrugging his shoulders, Ian turned to the stake superintendent. “Trouble with these boys, Mr. Peyton, is that they’re appreciated for what they’re doing, and they appreciate what the others are doing. They don’t get that kind of appreciation at home. You see I tried, but J. C. is bound and determined to finish that bridge, because I promised him the honor of putting the keystone in place.”

“Well, he ain’t bushwhacking our proposition,” Peyton said. “You go ahead and put up that Bryce Peyton Territorial School, and I’ll speak to the Elders about sending the children. You can have my eighteen young ones, that’s a promise.”

Riding back at the head of the column with O’Shea after quitting time, Ian said casually, “You seem sort of taken with stonework, Mickey. How’d you like to build a schoolhouse?”

“One thing at a time, boss. We haven’t finished the road yet.”

“I mean, how’d you like to be a contractor, build it for the town?”

“No, captain. This road’s my last charitable contribution to Shoshone Flats.”

“I ain’t talking about charity, O’Shea.”

“Begging your pardon, deputy, but if you’re talking about building a schoolhouse for this town, you’re talking about charity.”

“You leave the contract up to me. How much do you figure it would cost the town for you to build a four-room schoolhouse out of native stone?”

O’Shea thought a moment before answering, “Not more than five hundred dollars.”

“That’s about what I figured,” Ian agreed. “But I’ll get you a contract for seven hundred, with a two-hundred-dollar advance for incidentals. You can pay me fifty for my half of the two hundred and you can pocket the rest. Is that fair?”

“You got a quick head for figures, captain,” O’Shea said, “But I’m all for it.”

After supper, Ian broached the subject to Mayor Winchester, who agreed to the proposal with reservations.

“O’Shea can’t build a schoolhouse for any seven hundred dollars. I’ll advance him the retainer, all right, from the administration fund, but I’d like to look over his cost figures. No sense letting that boy lose his shirt on his first contract with the town.

“Tell you what. You bring him by the church, Sunday. I’ll go over the figures with him after the sermon, and I’ll personally see to it that he gets back to jail.”

O’Shea had not complimented Ian on his quick head for figures without, a reason. After a few seconds’ reflection, Ian realized that the mayor wanted to get the contractor alone only to raise the price of the schoolhouse, and Ian took immediate countermeasures to insure himself his share of the mayor’s profits.

“Your word’s as good as gold, Winchester, but I can’t release a prisoner without a ten-dollar bond. That’s a town ordinance.”

“Of course,” the mayor agreed, reaching for his wallet. “As mayor of this town, I’m always happy to abide by its ordinances, even the ones I forgot to sign.”