Clifford Simak - The Shipshape Miracle - And Other Stories

“Hell of a big game goin’ on inside,” Dan Hunter volunteered. “Zeb White is in there cleaning out the place. Luckiest buzzard ever I did see.”

“Zeb isn’t any gambler,” declared Fletcher.

“Hell, no,” Hunter agreed, “but he’s run into a streak of luck that he just can’t get rid of.”

Fletcher crossed the street, heading for his two rooms above the bank. Before starting up the stairs he stopped and looked at the thermometer hung from the door casing. The mercury said 85 above.

The rooms upstairs were barren—the front one especially. A desk and three battered chairs, a framed picture of Abraham Lincoln. He had a picture of George Washington, too, but the glass was broken.

Soon as he got the law books from the freight office at Antelope, Fletcher told himself, he’d have to build some shelves. Give the place an air—make it look a bit more like a law office. He’d have time to build the shelves, he knew, for there weren’t many clients.

Standing in the center of the room, he wondered if there’d ever be many clients. Men in this town didn’t take to law too well. They carried it in their holsters instead of getting it from books.

Harry Duff the other day. And Tony, the barber, up to see what could be done about the drunk who’d heaved a rock through Tony’s window as a protest against what he considered the high price of haircuts. And the grocer to find out about collecting from Lance Blair, who owned the Silver Dollar across the street… That was about all.

Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs and even before the visitor arrived, Fletcher knew it was Charles J. Childress, the banker from downstairs, panting and puffing his way up the creaky steps.

Childress was flabby and affable. His face was red and his shirt tail had come out and was hanging down his back. “Jeff just came in to see me,” he puffed at Fletcher. “Told me about Duff. Too bad, too bad! Told Jeff to leave no stone unturned. No, sir, not a stone unturned. Can’t have things like that happening in this community.”

“Jeff won’t be able to do much,” Fletcher pointed out. “The killer had a few hours start. Got off into the badlands more than likely. No chance of finding him.”

“Jeff’s a mighty capable law officer,” insisted Childress. “Slow on the uptake, but sticks to things. Yes, sir, he sticks to things.”

The banker reached into his back pocket and hauled forth a red bandanna, mopped his face. Handkerchief still clutched in his hand, he lowered himself cautiously into one of the battered chairs and looked around the room.

“How’re you getting on?” he asked.

“Not too bad,” said Fletcher. “It takes time. People have to get to know you. No one ever built a law practice overnight.”

“I was just thinking,” Childress told him, “maybe I could use you. Lots of law work connected with a bank. Been doing it myself, but now you’re here, you might just as well have it—whole kit and caboodle of it. Not enough to keep you busy all the time, but something to fill in.”

“That’s fine,” said Fletcher. “Appreciate it.”

Childress snapped his suspenders. “Yes, sir, great opportunity here for an up-and-coming lawyer. Never could understand why one didn’t come before.”

“I hope you’re right,” Fletcher said. “I thought, perhaps—”

“Sure, sure,” said Childress, interrupting. “Sure, that’s why you came. Foresight. No reason why you couldn’t be county attorney, come election time. Just knowing the right people, doing the right things—playing along, no reason, just because Antelope’s the county seat that the county attorney has to come from there. Now you take Rand—he’s the county attorney, you know.”

Fletcher nodded. “I know.”

“He don’t understand the problems of this country,” declared Childress. “Don’t know up from down. Just trying a little, you could do lots better.”

Fletcher grinned. “Maybe I ought to wait a year or two.”

Childress grunted. “Stuff and nonsense. Put you up next year, that’s what I’ll do. Take you around and introduce you to the folks. Get the boys out to vote for you.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Fletcher.

Childress hoisted himself slowly from the chair. “Like to help fellers along,” he grunted. He mopped his face with the red bandanna. “Nothing like helping the other feller out when you can.” He guffawed. “Then maybe they help you out, come a pinch. That’s my motto, turn about’s fair play. Do what I can to help a feller, expect him to do the same for me.”

He reached out a ham-like hand and thumped Fletcher on the back.” Come down sometime,” he invited, “and we’ll talk about the law business. Got a few jobs now you could start off on right away.”

“I’ll be down tomorrow,” Fletcher promised. He stood in the center of the room, listening to Childress crawfishing heavily downstairs, puffing with exertion.

Funny guy, thought Fletcher. Funny and dangerous—like a lumbering grizzly. That business about running for county attorney, helping one another out, turn and turn about. The offer of a job out of blue sky, meeting the right people and playing along.

He didn’t like it. Fletcher didn’t like the way Childress had acted—as if he already owned him. “I’ll put you up next year.” Just as if he, Fletcher, had nothing to say about it.

Yet, he couldn’t afford to antagonize the man. Law business thrown his way would help a lot, keep him going until he could pick up other clients.

Fletcher grimaced, paced across the room to one of the two windows fronting on the street.

Dan Hunter still lounged on the steps across the street, whittling at his board. A man was leading his horse out of the blacksmith shop, while McKinley, the blacksmith, stood with one arm braced against the doorway.

Childress had emerged from the stairway onto the sidewalk, was mopping at his face, back to the street, reading the thermometer.

Suddenly the thermometer shattered into a spray of flying glass and wood, almost as if it had exploded in the banker’s face. The street echoed to the hammering bellow of a heavy gun.

The man who had been leading the horse out of the blacksmith shop had dropped the reins, stood in the street with his legs widespread as if to anchor himself for another shot. The gun in his fist belched smoke and thunder. Splinters flashed into the sunlight from the building’s side.

Childress had hurled himself to the sidewalk, seemed to be trying to burrow into it. In the quiet that followed the second shot, Fletcher heard the banker’s voice mewing in fright.

Deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world to do his job, the man in front of the blacksmith shop lifted his gun again, but before he could press the trigger another gun coughed.

For a second, the man in front of the blacksmith shop stood stock-still as if gripped and held by a mighty hand. Then he slowly wilted. With gathering momentum, he pitched forward on his face. His gun, knocked from his hand by the impact of the fall, pinwheeled end-over-end and into the dust.

In front of the Silver Dollar, Dan Hunter broke his gun, calmly blew smoke from the barrel, holstered it again. He bent and picked up the board and jackknife which he had dropped.

Fletcher spun from the window, hit the door running, ran downstairs. The street had erupted in a swirl of life. The dead man’s horse was racing up the street, reins flying in the dust. The blacksmith had lifted the dead man from the ground, then slowly let him fall back again. He rose and dusted his hands on his pants.

“He’s dead!” His voice boomed up and down the street.

The barber, white coated, was running down the sidewalk. The Silver Dollar emptied and feet drummed down its steps. Dan Hunter leaned against a post and let them pass, a frosty smile upon his lips.