Haxan Read Online Free PDF Page B

got
charqui
.”
    “That will do, along with hard biscuit or tack. Oh, and one of those new blue enamel coffee pots over yonder. New lamp and coal oil bucket. Potato for the spout. Block of sulphur matches.”
    I walked across the store toward the gun cabinet. Rifles and shotguns lined the wall, kept under lock and chain. Pistols and ammunition were laid out neat beneath a shining glass case.
    “Five of these new Winchester rifles, a hundred rounds of ammunition, and gun oil.” I remembered the gun Magra carried. “Before I forget, a box of double-ought shells for a Stevens double-barrel coach gun. I’ll also need powder, cap and ball for this.”
    I swept my grey duster aside, revealing the yellow-bone handle of a Colt Dragoon.
    “Nice percussion gun, Marshal. A real stopper, too.” His brow crinkled. “That handle made of antelope horn?”
    “No.”
    “Well, it’s not ivory or jigged.” He watched me close.
    “No, it’s not.”
    “Carve it yourself?”
    “Yes. I always change the loads every morning in case they get damp overnight.” That wouldn’t be much of a problem here in the desert, but old habits were hard to break.
    “I hear you,” he said. “Pays to be careful.”
    “Therefore I will need enough ammunition for the week,” I said. “I also have need of writing paper, pen and ink, lead pencils, and envelopes for office work. Got all that?”
    He finished writing it all down in a careful hand. “When do you want this delivered, Marshal?”
    “Anytime tomorrow will suit.”
    “Happy to oblige. I’ll box it up myself.” I started for my wallet.
    He put out a hand to stop me. “No, Marshal. I fought for the Union Army in Gettysburg. I guess I have to believe you’re good for it. Anyway, I prefer to settle up a bill like this at the end of the month. Makes booking easier, my end.”
    “Not a problem with me, Mr. Whatley. Good night.”
    “Night, Marshal.”
    I stepped outside. Polgar had said a Texas herd of four thousand longhorns had dusted in yesterday morning, beaten and tired from the trail. Another herd of three thousand was arriving tomorrow, or the day after, though they were scheduled to press north for Denver. Nevertheless, cattle agents were already trying to undercut one another and vying for limited space on the night train. Cowboys had been paid off and were looking to shoot the moon and maybe anyone who stepped in their way. Three of them raced down Front Street on their cow ponies, firing pistols in the air. One or two pistol shots answered in reply around the plaza. Five men staggered down Cutt Street, singing and passing a bottle of rye between them.
    It was going to be a long, and busy, first night.
    I drew a deep breath and hefted the Sharps rifle in my hand. I walked with purpose across the plaza, pushed through the flap doors of the first saloon I came to—a raucous place called the Texas Star. It smelled of sour whisky, rank sweat, and stale tobacco.
    Without any warning at all I discharged the buffalo gun into the ceiling.
    “Welcome to Haxan, boys,” I said.

CHAPTER 5
    I stepped out of the way of yellow plaster sifting down from the ceiling.
    “Now that I’ve got your attention, here are a few new rules,” I told the stunned audience. “As set down by the Haxan Peace Commission and enforced by myself, United States Marshal John T. Marwood. These rules are posted outside my office for anyone to see. For those who can’t read, I’ll make it plain.”
    I swept back my grey duster so they could see the yellow-bone handle of my gun and the federal badge. No one moved or said a word.
    “I’ve already talked to Mayor Polgar and cleared it with him and the Haxan Peace Commission. First, the deadline on Potato Road remains down long as everyone behaves himself.” There was a lessening of tension. People smiled at one another. So far they liked what they heard.
    “We want you to have a good time in Haxan,” I said. “Spend your wages and buck the tiger. The