Clifford Simak - No Life of Their Own And Other Stories

Chill silence had seeped into the room. The two men at the bar were rigid. The drunk was awake, clutching for his hat.

Jeff felt the breath rasping in his throat, wished for one wild moment that the light was better. Then the other man’s hands were moving and his guns were coming out.

With a swift flip of his wrist, Jeff brought his own gun free.

Twin eyes of red twinkled for a moment almost straight into Jeff’s face and he felt his own gun kicking against his arm, its muzzle drooling fire. Behind him glass crashed and tinkled like little silver bells.

The white smudge face twisted in sudden pain and the two guns clattered on the floor.

Jeff flipped his gun toward the silent figures at the bar.

“Anyone else?” he asked and his voice was so brittle he hardly knew it for his own.

One of the men stirred. “It ain’t our fight, stranger.”

The man out in the center of the room had made no move to pick up the fallen guns. He was bent over, like someone with the stomach ache, moaning softly, left hand clutching right wrist.

The man who had spoken stepped away from the bar and paced slowly forward.

“I’m Owen,” he said.

Jeff stabbed the gun at him. “Your name,” he said, “don’t mean a thing to me.”

Owen stopped short. He was a big man, a bear of a man, a sleek bear with shiny black coat and a black cravat in which a stickpin gleamed.

“I own the place,” he said. “Can’t imagine what got into Jim. One minute he was there talking with us. Next minute he was out there calling you.”

The wounded man straightened up. “He’s Peaceful Jones,” he screamed. “I’d know him anywhere by that scar across his face.”

Jeff slid the gun back into its holster. “Meaning which?” he asked.

“You know damn well what I mean,” yelled Jim. “Back in Texas …”

“Shut up,” snapped Owen. “By rights, you should be buzzard bait.”

“I don’t kill no man without he has his guns,” said Jeff.

“You, Buck, pick up them guns,” said Owen, “and put them on the bar. Jim, you better hightail it for the doc and get that wrist fixed up.”

The wounded man mumbled, started for the door, still holding his wrist, fingers stained with red. Buck picked up the guns, grinned wolfishly at Jeff.

“So you’re Peaceful Jones,” said Owen.

Jeff hesitated. His name was Jones, all right, but he wasn’t Peaceful Jones. Leastwise, he’d never been called that anywhere before.

“I been waiting for you,” Owen told him. He eyed Jeff speculatively. “Thought maybe we could talk some business.”

“I’m sort of busy,” Jeff declared. “Looking for someone.”

“Sure,” said Owen. “I know all about that. Come out in the back and kill a bottle with me.”

He reached out and took the bottle the bartender had set out for Jeff.

For a moment, Jeff hesitated. He wasn’t Peaceful Jones and maybe he’d save himself a heap of trouble by up and saying so. But he’d come to Cactus City looking for trouble and now that he’d found it …

“Guess I can spare some time,” he said slowly.

The drunk, he saw, had fallen asleep once more. His hat had fallen off again and lay on the floor.

The back room was a bare affair. An empty bottle, a few glasses and a deck of greasy cards littered the table.

Jeff slid into a chair while Owen poured liquor into two glasses.

“So Banker Slemp hired you,” Owen fired at Jim.

Jeff picked up a glass, twirled it between his hands. Owen stared at him.

“Lay down your cards,” said Jeff. “Face up.”

“You’re making it tough to deal with you,” Owen complained.

“Me,” said Jeff. “I got a job.”

“With Slemp,” said Owen.

Jeff nodded.

“That way you’re bucking me,” Owen told him flatly.

“I don’t know about that,” said Jeff. “Slemp has a job for me. That’s all I know about it.”

Owen drained his glass, thumped it on the table.

“Likely figuring on cheating you out of half your money,” he declared. “Same as he’s cheated all the ranchers.”

“What you figuring on doing about it?” demanded Jeff.

Owen hiked his chair forward, leaned across the table. “What if the bank happened to get robbed and Slemp got killed?”

Jeff stifled his gasp. He bent his head, staring at the glass, brain racing. Trying to figure it out, trying to find the answer.

“Slemp wouldn’t be underfoot any more,” he said.

“You catch on quick,” said Owen. “Quick on the trigger, quick on the savvy. That’s the way I like it.”

“Bank robbing,” Jeff pointed out, “is sometimes downright risky.”

Owen chuckled thickly. “Not the way we’d do it. With you inside and us outside it would be a cinch. Some night when Slemp was working on the books. And it would be blamed on the Hills gang.”

He chuckled again. “No one would even think of us.”

Jeff tilted the glass and swallowed the whisky, put the glass back on the table. He rose and hitched up his gunbelt.

“There’d be something in it for me?” he asked.

Owen guffawed. “Plenty. You needn’t worry. I ain’t interested in the money. Just Slemp.”

“I’ll be in to see you,” Jeff said.

“We’ll be watching you,” warned Owen.

“Just be careful,” said Jeff, “that you don’t crowd me none.”

On the street in front of the Silver Dollar, Jeff stood for a moment, looking down the street. One sign said RESTAURANT. Another said SADDLES. The third one said BANK.

The pony still stood with hanging head, switching lazily. A dog had come from somewhere and lay curled in the shadows at the corner of a building.

Jeff headed down the street. Little puffs of dust spatted around his boots. The dog watched him with sad, half interested eyes.

The bank was one room, divided in half by a counter topped by a black iron netting that formed a cage. There was one window. A man writing at a desk got up.

“You Slemp?” asked Jeff.

The banker nodded.

“I’m Jones,” said Jeff.

What passed for a smile glinted beneath the weedy mustache.

“You must have made good time, Mr. Jones. I hadn’t expected you for a day or two.”

“When I travel,” said Jeff, “I travel.”

“I’ll let you in, Mr. Jones,” said Slemp.

“The name,” said Jeff, “is Peaceful.”

“I’ll lock up,” said Slemp. “It’s almost closing time anyhow. Not much business these days.”

He pulled a chain from his pocket, selected a key and walked to the front door.

Jeff heard a lock click and Slemp was back again, holding open the door that led behind the cage.

“Have a chair,” he invited.

Jeff hooked a chair from under the desk with the toe of his boot and sat down.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

Slemp motioned. “Those guns? You handy with them?”

“Might say I was,” admitted Jeff.

“You may have occasion to use them,” declared Slemp.

“What’s the trouble, Slemp? Some of the ranchers on the prod?”

“What do you mean?” rasped Slemp.

Jeff grinned. “Some bankers ain’t too popular. Just a mite particular about foreclosure laws.”

“I’ve never had any trouble that way,” Slemp declared. “Whatever I’ve done was strictly legal. Any foreclosures I might have made were only carried out to protect the loan.”

“Naturally,” said Jeff.

“The man you have to watch,” said Slemp, leaning closer, lowering his voice, “is a man named Owen. Owns the Silver Dollar.”

“Yeah,” said Jeff, “I know. I stopped there for a drink.”

Slemp frowned. “Didn’t meet Owen, did you?”

“Me and him,” said Jeff, “had a drink together.”