Fairshot

The Life and Times of Jackson Haines

FAIRSHOT

By Carl Randal

Copyright

Cover Art by Kelly Shorten

Copyright 2013 Carl Randal

All rights reserved

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Dedication

To Ted Mozell, a good friend and neighbor who greatly encouraged the writing of this book and thus helped make it a reality.

Chapter One

Early Fall, 1890

Jackson Haines came up over a small rise and there it was; his destination. He was relieved to see it at last, having slept on the ground--a few hundred yards off the dusty wagon track that passed for a road in this deserted part of Wyoming—for the past two nights.

Though only thirty-four years of age that autumn, Haines now found that sleeping out under the stars wasn’t as enjoyable as it had been years ago, when he’d worked the cattle drives, helping move herds up from Texas to the railheads in Kansas. He’d been in his late teens and early twenties in those days and hadn’t minded sleeping rough like that a bit, back then.

Nowadays, however, he much preferred the comfort of a real bed and the amenities a good hotel could offer. He sighed, glad his journey was almost over, leaned forward, patted his horse on the side of the neck, and whispered, "Let’s hope I don’t have to kill too many people on this trip, boy."

****

It had been a long ride, but not a totally unpleasant one for Haines. He’d gotten on the trail at first light, heading north out of Denver that first morning, and managed to make it all the way to a charming little up-and-coming Colorado town by the name of Fort Collins on the first night of his journey.

The hotel there had been first rate, though not nearly as opulent as the

Windsor Hotel, where Haines had been staying in Denver. Still, after the long day’s ride, he had thoroughly enjoyed the soft bed and pleasant room the Fort Collins Hotel had provided. The next morning he had been served a wonderful breakfast in the dining room. And, because he had taken his time eating it and reading the local newspaper, had gotten away later than he had from Denver on the previous morning.

That meant he’d had to push hard to make Cheyenne, Wyoming, by early evening. But it had proved to be worth the effort, as he’d spent the night there in a truly beautifully-appointed hotel named—quite aptly in his opinion--the Palace.

Jackson Haines loved hotels. That was one of the reasons he currently enjoyed half ownership in a dozen such establishments and was constantly scheming to buy more.

The proceeds from this trip would render him flush enough to acquire yet another hotel property, perhaps several more, if things played out as he hoped. He and his business partner had their eye on a mid-sized hostelry in Chicago, located near the Boul Mich district, short for Michigan Boulevard, which they were certain could be turned into a real jewel of a property with just a bit of minor refurbishing.

****

It was almost evening when Haines reined up Cheyenne, his tall chestnut stallion, in front of the livery stable in Fairshot, Wyoming. He swung down from the saddle, stretched his long, lean body for a moment to get the kinks out of it, and then tied his reins to the hitching rail out in front of the place

Anyone working here today? he called, as he pushed open the large white barn’s double doors and peered inside, into the darkened confines, which seemed to consist of mostly empty stalls.

A moment later, a short, rotund, older man emerged from out of the darkness, a subservient little how-can-help-you smile on his florid face. He was fruitlessly attempting to wipe his dirty hands off with a rag that was even filthier than his hands were.

I sure am, mister. I’ve been workin’ my tail off since early mornin’. What can I do for you?

I’m likely to be in town for a few days, Haines said, backing out of the stable, untying his horse again, and then handing the reins to the smiling stable-keeper. Take good care of Cheyenne, here. The best oats, barley, and hay you’ve got; and brush him down good, all right?

Haines handed him a five dollar gold piece and the man’s eyes lit up. He stammered, Only a few days—friend, for this kind of money, he could stay here a week and be treated like a sultan!

Haines removed his saddle bags, a large, dust-covered hat box, his Winchester carbine, his Sharps buffalo rifle, and his sawed-off Remington ten-gauge, double-barreled shotgun from the back of the horse, leaving the saddle, empty rifle scabbards, and bedroll in place. He smiled over at the stable man and said, "Just make sure he is treated that well. He’s a good one."

With that, he turned and headed up the town’s main street, toward the Cheyenne Hotel. He intended to give the hostelry a try, partly because it shared a name with his favorite horse, and partly because it looked to be the only hotel in this God-forsaken, wind-blown town.

Once inside, he approached the front desk and put his heavy artillery down, leaning it against the counter. The clerk was a tall, skinny young fellow, with an Adams apple that bobbed up and down like a cork on a lake as he spoke, How may I help you, sir?

I’ll need a single room, for four or five nights, I reckon, Haines replied with a courteous smile, up here in front, overlooking Main Street, if you have it.

The clerk made a great show of checking his guest book, as if he didn’t know whether or not he had a vacancy such as the one his prospective guest had just described. After half a minute of this charade, he smiled at Haines and said, I think we may be able to accommodate you, mister. We have a room, just what you’re looking for, up front, overlooking Main Street. The rate will be two dollars per night. Won’t you sign here, please?

Haines turned the book on the counter toward him and wrote, Timothy Smith, Esquire, on the line.

The clerk’s eyes narrowed, clearly having seen more Smiths, Joneses, and Browns during his tenure as a desk clerk than he had ever hoped to see in his life. He said softly, "We will require payment for tonight and tomorrow night in advance, if you don’t mind, mister…uh…Smith?"

Haines dug another five-dollar gold piece out of the pocket of his dungarees and tossed it onto the counter. He said, I trust that will do?

The counterman smiled as broadly as he would’ve if President Benjamin Harrison himself had just checked into his establishment and said, Very good, Mr. Smith. Here is your room key. It’s number three hundred and eleven, on the third floor?

Jackson Haines, alias Timothy Smith, Esquire, picked up his saddlebags full of clothing and ammunition, his hat box, and his long guns, and made his way up the stairs. Had he been in Kansas City, New York, Denver, or San Francisco, he would have asked the clerk if a bellman was available to assist him with his luggage. But here, west of nowhere, in nobody cares, and not worth a flaming fart, Wyoming, all he could do was set his jaw, tighten his grip on his guns and other gear, and hump them up the three flights of stairs himself.

****

Once ensconced in his room, Haines took his time, carefully putting his things away, and then went downstairs to try and find a decent place to have dinner. He had little hope of doing so in Fairshot, Wyoming, but he asked the desk clerk anyway: Where is the best dinner house in town?

Why, that would be Gallagher’s, just across the street, Mr. Smith. It’s the finest dining establishment north of Denver.

Haines smiled at that bit of hometown puffery. Having just made the ride up from Denver, he could attest to the fact that this Gallagher’s had little in the way of competition, as far as the title of "the finest dining establishment north of Denver" went. After you left Cheyenne, it was mostly brush, rocks, rattlesnakes, and towering mountains off in the distance, across the wide plain. Restaurants or cafes of any kind were in as short supply as a full set of teeth in a speckled hen.

Well, then, I guess I’ll give it a try, he said, tugging on the brim of his hat by way of tipping it to the clerk.

He crossed the street in the gathering dusk, hoping for the best but not expecting much. The small restaurant looked all right from the outside, at least.

It had a nice window in front and Haines could see that seven of the ten or so tables were already occupied by diners. He opened the door and stepped inside, taking off his hat as he did so, and was both shocked and delighted to find actual linen tablecloths on the tables, along with matched sets of silverware, and small clear-glass vases, half full of water, at the center of each table, each vase containing a bright-yellow arrangement of prairie flowers of some sort.

Sir, will you be dining alone this evenin’, then? a small man, dressed immaculately in black trousers, a clean white shirt, and a black bowtie asked him, his Irish brogue as thick and heavy as a glass of Dublin dry stout.

You must be Gallagher, Haines said.

That I am, lad, Gallagher replied, Liam Gallagher, at your service; a table for one is it then?

You’re a long way from the Old Sod, aren’t you, friend? he asked conversationally as the proprietor escorted him to a four-place table at the rear of the restaurant.

I am at that, Gallagher agreed. I came to Wyoming originally, you see, for its heady mix of sophistication and cosmopolitan culture.

Haines raised his eyebrows and glanced back out the window at the front of Gallagher’s establishment, at the dusty street and board sidewalks. Gallagher grinned and delivered the punch line to his little joke, Apparently, I was misinformed.

The two of them shared a chuckle at that bit of business and Haines sat down at the table, taking the far chair that kept his back to the rear of the restaurant. His host handed him a menu and said, The special of the night is buffalo stew. I can’t really recommend it. Mind you, it’s the best buffalo stew you’ve ever tasted, but still…in the end, its just buffalo stew.

His face brightened as he went on to say, My version of the Delmonico steak, on the other hand, is better than theirs. I ate in Delmonico’s a number of times when I first arrived in this country and lived for a time in New York City; you see, so I know what I’m talking about.

Steak it is, then, Haines said, closing the menu and handing it back to him.

He looked up at Gallagher’s quintessential Irish face and asked, What ever possessed you to leave New York City for this place?

"I wanted to see the country. It’s so amazingly large! Then, when I got to Denver, I was told that there were no fine restaurants to speak of north of Cheyenne, so I thought; ‘Aye, that’s for me—with my skills in the kitchen, I’ll clean up in a place with no competition. How can I miss?’"

The door opened and two more diners entered. Gallagher beamed at the sight of them and said to Haines, See; and I was right, too. I do a land office business in this little place every evening, except on those nights during the winter when the weather’s so raw a man can’t make it across the street through the wind gusts and the drifting snow.

He glanced over at his new customers and said, Excuse me, I’ll just seat that pair and then I’ll get your steak going.

Haines watched the loquacious Irishman lead the two new arrivals to a table and hand them menus. The front door opened again and a large, heavyset man wearing a sheriff’s badge entered, followed by four other, shorter men who were also wearing tin stars on their chests and looked to be the big man’s deputies.

The group of lawmen went over to the two last vacant tables in the restaurant, roughly shoved them together as if they owned the place, and then proceeded to sit down. The sheriff grinned over at the restaurant’s actual owner and said in a loud, gruff voice, Steaks all around, Irish. And bring us some them tasty spuds of yours, too.

Did you bring some money with you tonight, I hope, Sheriff Healy? Gallagher inquired with a stiff little smile on his face.

Aw, dammit to hell; you know what, Irish? I do believe I went and forgot my poke again, the sheriff said, still grinning as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world. Just put it on my tab.

And when is it you’re going to be settling up that tab, if I might ask? Gallagher demanded testily, not bothering to disguise his distaste for the sheriff and his men’s free-loading antics.

The grin vanished and the lawman brushed the tail of the short coat he was wearing back away from the handle of his six-gun. He said softly, in a voice that nevertheless dripped with menace, "We can settle up right now, if you want, you surly little mick."

Gallagher glared at him for long seconds and then said, That won’t be necessary; five steaks, coming up, gents.

The small man walked, with as much dignity as he could muster, back into the rear of the restaurant where the kitchen was. Seconds later, Haines heard the sizzle of raw meat hitting a grill.

The sheriff’s eyes swept the room, checking to see if any of his fellow diners had a problem with what they’d just witnessed. His gaze fell on Haines and stopped.

After a few seconds, he got up out of his chair and came over. The burly man stared down at the seated stranger and asked, in a voice that was anything but friendly, Who the hell are you, mister?

I’m Tim Smith, Haines said, smiling blithely back up at the big man. I just got into town an hour or so ago. I’m thinking of buying some land somewhere near your fair city and running a few head of cattle on it.

Ain’t no land for sale around here that I’ve heard of, the sheriff snapped, managing to make the simple statement sound like a threat, so you’d best keep moving.

Haines nodded that he understood and then said, Well, that’s a shame about there not being any land for sale, as there seems to be a good deal of it around here.

"A great friend of mine, name of Ike Hillyard, owns most of the land in these parts," Healy said.

Ike’s of the opinion that there are too damned many nickel and dime cow operations in this part of Wyoming already; puttin’ up barbwire fences, ruining the free-range grazing we used to have around here. And I happen to agree with him, so you’d best find someplace else to try your hand at ranching, friend.

Haines just sat there, with a bemused smile on his face, nodding in agreement. After a moment, he said, Well, that’s good advice. Maybe I’ll take the little stake I’ve managed to save up and build a store or something here in town, instead of buying a ranch. How would that be?

Healy laughed. It was a barking, grating sort of laugh without an ounce of humor in it.

That’d be right fine, he said, still chuckling. We can always use more businesses here in town. The taxes on them help pay my salary.

He shot Haines a nasty grin and added, "You do look like some kind of egg-sucking ribbon clerk at that, the more I look at you."

After giving Haines a few moments to rise to his challenge and then, seeing that he wasn’t going to do so, Healy turned away dismissively and went back over to sit down with his deputies. Haines noticed that the man swaggered when he walked, like the human version of a barnyard rooster.

Underneath the table, he slipped the forty-five he’d eased out of its holster when the sheriff had stood up back into that holster, uncocking the hammer as he did so. Gallagher arrived a few minutes later with a sizzling, thoroughly delicious-looking rib eye steak, plus a pile of golden-brown Delmonico-style potatoes with their renowned baked cheddar cheese crust.

Damn if that doesn’t look as good as any steak I’ve ever eaten in Delmonico’s and those potatoes look perfect, too, Haines said enthusiastically.

Gallagher beamed happily at the praise and asked, What will you drink with your dinner tonight, young sir?

Have you got any red wine?

Haines wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the Irishman’s smile grew even wider. I do, indeed, not that I sell much of it in this town. I mostly drink it myself; the local lads having more of a taste for bad beer and rotgut bourbon whiskey than they do fine wine, the heathens!

Well, I’ll have a bottle of it with this excellent meal, if you don’t mind. I favor the heavier reds, with a good steak like this.

Of course, right away, Gallagher chirped happily and then hurried off to get the wine and a proper glass, clearly thrilled to have someone in his establishment who appreciated wine as much as he did.

Chapter Two

You’re him, aren’t you? Liam Gallagher asked, a canny little smile playing across his face, as he took a sip of his wine.

It was nine o’clock and the restaurant had just closed. The two of them sat at Haines’s back table in the darkened dining room, the front door now locked, drinking a second bottle of the Irishman’s excellent red together.

So, who is it you think I am?

The man that Billy Longmont, the head of the town council, rode the train all the way from Denver out to California last month to see, after the rest of us on the council agreed that he should do so. You’re Jackson Haines, aren’t you?

His face gone wary, he replied, You’re a clever one, aren’t you, Mr. Gallagher? Tell me, what was it that gave me away?

You didn’t seem a bit scared of Healy and his goons. Most men would have been quaking in their boots if he’d been standing over them, glaring as he does, trying to intimidate them. But you never turned a hair.

Haines looked chagrined, and slightly disappointed in himself, as he admitted, I was trying to look harmless…unremarkable, so that he’d lose interest quickly and dismiss me as just another drifter. I guess I should have tried to look more like I was buffaloed by him, but I must confess; I don’t do that very well--I’m not that good of an actor.

Gallagher looked him up and down. He shook his head and said, You don’t much look the part of the Most Feared Killer in the West, either.

Haines laughed and said, Oh, I will. I just slipped into town like I did, registering under a phony name, so that I could look your thieving sheriff’s operation over a bit before I confronted him. I’ve found that it pays to get the lay of the land in a situation like this, before you make your presence known to the opposition.

You’ve done this sort of thing before then, have you?

Oh, yes, or at least things that were similar to this, Haines said. Stopping a range war before it really gets started is something I’ve had some experience with. I guess you could call it one of my many talents.

Many talents, Gallagher echoed, you have others?

Winning at cards, and working as a lawman sometimes; usually in towns that are completely lawless, Haines answered. I charge a lot for my services when I undertake that sort of work. It tends to be dangerous as hell--being the law in a town where half the citizenry would like nothing better than to plug you in the back.

You’re charging us a pretty penny for your services here, Gallagher pointed out.

"That I am. From what I’ve managed to find out about him so far, your rogue sheriff is a nasty piece of work. He’s killed at least ten men in gunfights. His deputies aren’t much; compared to him, but there are four of them."

You must be quite confident of your own abilities with a gun, signing up to take on five men.

Haines chuckled. That’s the secret to pulling something like this off. Most of those saddle-bums backing up the sheriff probably won’t fight, when it comes right down to it. As soon as they find out who it is they’re up against, some of them will just cut and run without a shot being fired. Or at least that’s what usually happens.

Gallagher looked puzzled. He said, You talk as if this is all some sort of bizarre theatre performance; a show you’ve seen before.

Oh, it is, to a certain extent, Haines replied, still smiling, confident, and I do know more than a little bit about show business, you know. A few years back, in ‘87, I was with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, when it toured England. Our troupe was so popular that I got to hobnob with half the dukes, earls, and princes there. I even met the queen.

"Really…the Queen of England…you actually met her?"

Hell, yes, she had us do two separate command performances for her. She really liked the show.

They were silent for a moment, contemplating Victoria, Queen of the British Empire and Empress of India. At last, Haines put meeting the famous monarch out of his mind and continued with his original thought.

From touring with Bill, I learned a lot about showmanship, and creating an impressive entrance when you first face a crowd or walk into a room. I’d already figured some of it out myself, about the power of a memorable first impression, and the impact of fancy regalia on people who aren’t used to seeing flashy clothes and such.

He suddenly grinned and completely changed the subject, asking, What’s the best saloon in town?

Why, the Crystal Palace, just down the street a block, Gallagher said, clearly mystified as to how the conversation had jumped from putting on a show to which was the best drinking establishment in town. And why would you want to know that?

I’m betting that the sheriff and his boys drink there every night, for free, right?

The Irishman shook his head in morose agreement. "Aye, they’re like locusts in a field of crops, those five. They come in here almost every evening and wolf down some of my prime steaks, and then they adjourn to Tom