Yellow Town

THE BEARDED MAN TACKED a wanted poster alongside the bank’s door, spit, and walked across to the barbershop.

“Mind if I post this here?” he asked. “Been putting ’em up all over town. Last one I got.” He held up the poster. “It’s the guy who killed Sheriff Rance.”

Henry Parker tossed his newspaper aside. “Bobby Brackett, wanted for murder. Sure, put it anywhere you like,” Parker said. “Where you from, stranger? And how do they know this Brackett killed our sheriff?”

“Obliged to ya.” The man looked around the shop for a suitable spot. “Home is out near Fort Kent. I don’t know how they found out Brackett killed Rance. A U.S. Marshal paid me to ride over here and place these posters all around. That’s just what I done. This here’s the last one.” The man tacked the wanted poster on a wall, hammering the final nail with his gun handle. He glanced at the empty chair, rubbed a meaty hand along his cheeks, and said, “If you ain’t too busy, I’ll have a shave and a haircut.”

“Have a seat,” Parker said.

“Shame what happened to Sheriff Rance,” the man said while hair fell to the floor. “Word has it there was a lot of people who saw the shooting but none of ’em was willing to speak up.”

Parker momentarily stopped cutting. “Ain’t true. Where’d you hear that?”

The man shrugged. “Don’t matter, none. From what I seen, this here Stone Quake looks like a nice town, you know, nice people and all.”

“It is,” Parker said.

“Nice and yellow.”

Parker again stopped cutting, “Now just a darn minute, mister. I don’t even know your name, and you come into my shop and insult me and the entire town. I won’t stand for it.”

“Whoa, slow down there. I don’t mean nothing by it. Just repeating things I heard around the fort. News travels.”

“Well, it ain’t true. Sheriff Rance was gunned down, shot in the back. No one saw who did it. I can guarantee you that much,” Parker said.

“That so?”

The two men were silent. Parker finished cutting and began shaving the man. Through the corner of his mouth, the man asked, “How can you be so sure no one saw who done it?”

The straight edge scraped over the man’s Adam’s apple. “’Cause it happened on a Sunday morning, that’s how. The entire town was in church when we heard the shot. By the time we all came rushing out to see what happened, the killer was gone, and Sheriff Rance lay bleeding in the street. He died in the doc’s arms. Doc couldn’t get no words out of him before he… anyway, he’s in heaven now.”

Parker continued shaving. The man held up a hand to stop him for the moment. “You’re telling me this town ain’t yellow? You trying to tell me there are some real men in this town?” He laughed. “People say otherwise.”

Parker squeezed the razor’s handle. “Look here, stranger. I don’t give no hoot what other people are saying. I don’t like what you’re saying, not one bit, I don’t. I’m gonna finish shaving you. Then I’m going to tell you to walk out of here and leave town.”

“I’ll do as you say, friend,” the man said.

“I’m not your….” Parker stared at the man’s cleanshaven face. He glanced back at the wanted poster. “You’re—”

“Bobby Brackett?” the man said, rising from the chair. He pulled his gun. “This town might be yellow, but it got itself one smart barber.” Keeping his gun on Parker, the man looked at himself in the mirror. “Nice job, friend.”

“Get out!” Parker shouted.

“I’m going.” He backed up a step. “Oh, one other thing. I’ll be back. Tomorrow. First thing. A town with a bunch of cowards and no lawman is a town for me. I ain’t gonna tell you which place I’m gonna rob. Fact is, I haven’t made up my mind yet. Might be the bank or the saloon or the general store. I just don’t know yet. But you and everyone else in town will know tomorrow early.”

The man took off. Parker watched him ride away. It was already late. There wasn’t time to get a message to the sheriff in Bookerville. Parker closed his shop and ran to the church.

The man spent the night less than a mile from Stone Quake. Under a moonless sky, he made his way back. He carried a ladder he’d brought along, climbed up, and went through one of the hotel’s back windows.

Sunrise. He stared out the window. Smiling, he scanned the street and storefronts. There were men everywhere. Armed men. Nasty looking men. Trigger-happy men. They stood sentry in front of every shop in Stone Quake. He didn’t realize the town had that many men. Impressive. It was time to make his move. He walked slowly down the stairs but noticed a group had also congregated in front of the hotel, guarding it. The man went back up the steps. He exited through the window and climbed down the ladder. He fired a shot into the air as he emerged onto the street.

“Hold off, everyone,” he shouted. He holstered the gun, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a badge. “Name’s Peter Childs. I’m a U.S. Marshal. I’m the new law in Stone Quake.”

Despite the number of men, the street was silent. Henry Parker spoke. “What? You’re not Bobby Brackett?”

“No. Bobby Brackett doesn’t exist. I had those posters printed myself.”

“But, why?” Parker asked. “I don’t get it.”

“Truth is, I heard rumors about this town, that it was yellow. I had to find out for myself before accepting this job. Well, I accept. And I make a solemn promise to each and every one of you. I will track down Sheriff Rance’s killer and bring whoever done it to justice. God bless Stone Quake.”

—BRUCE HARRIS writes mystery, crime, and western stories. His western short stories have appeared online at Frontier Tales, and anthologized in Grizzly Creek Runs Red, The Last Comanche, Bourbon & a Good Cigar, Time to Myself, Coyote Junction, Hangmen & Bullets, and The Shot Rang Out, among others. He lives in New Jersey, but that is only a temporary situation.