Bishop Creek

By John J. Law

"I'll thank you not to use vulgarity in this establishment," Alva, the shopkeeper's daughter shouted to a closed door. Then seeing that her father, was not going to make any effort to help the customer until he'd finished his game, she set her broom aside and turned to the customer. The young man was standing there scanning the unfamiliar shelves, so she asked, "Can I help you find something, sir?"
"I need five pounds of two-penny nails," he replied.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223195740

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Alva was sweeping the floor of the mercantile where she worked and her father owned, when a man stepped through the rear door of the store. She turned see who it was and was disappointed to see the man who sold her father whiskey walking in. She gave the man a withering look as he walked over to where her father and his friend were playing chess. 

We don’t need any, she stated loudly, trying to dismiss the man.

I’ll be with you in a couple minutes, Jake, her father, Chet Holt interjected, ignoring the nasty look and disapproving shake of Alva’s head. He was too busy playing chess to deal with her just this minute. The chess board was set upon an old nail keg between him and a grizzle-faced old miner, by the name of Buck.

Looks like you might actually win one for a change, Jake quipped, leaning on the counter, then he picked up a captured black bishop and rolled it over in his hand.

I win plenty, Chet replied offhandedly, not noticing the ringing of the bell over the door announcing a paying customer had entered the store, just not against old Buck... yet.

Old Buck managed a tight-lipped grin, glancing over the top of his spectacles. The wire rimmed spectacles looked out of place on the man who spent the vast majority of his time wandering in the mountains. Old Buck took a deep draw on his crude pipe, he made himself, as he pondered his next move for several seconds. Then he exhaled slowly, allowing the pungent wisps to curl towards the tall ceiling, Your day will come, Chet, your day will come. Just as soon as you learn to look a couple of moves ahead. Old Buck informed the stout storekeeper.

The miner’s voice was quiet, assured, with a soothing quality, not unlike a parson delivering condolences. The young woman had always liked him, though he seldom spoke to her. He came in from the mountains every few weeks. Something he had been doing for as long as she could remember. He always bought pipe tobacco and sometime he bought a book or two. The strangest thing he ever bought, just recently, was a set of fiddle strings that had to be ordered from a company back east. Until he made the order, no one even knew he played the fiddle.

Looks like today just might be his day, the whiskey peddler observed, gesturing towards the pile of captured pieces. Even a casual observer could see the storekeeper had captured nearly twice as many of the old miner’s pieces, then the old miner had captured of his. 

Looks that way, the miner mumbled, capturing a pawn with one of his own.

Now, Buck, Jake the peddler chided, Even I could tell that was a bad move, and I ain’t played in years.

Old Buck looked at the whiskey peddler, kind of sideways. Then he mumbled in a voice with just a hint of annoyance, Don’t you have anything more important to do? When the whiskey peddler failed to respond, other than to grin at him, he added, I saw old Jim out back earlier...he must have suspected you were coming.

Jake, the peddler, turned and raced to the back door, cussing a blue streak as he went. As the door slammed closed behind him, he bellowed, Why didn’t anyone tell me, before this?

I’ll thank you not to use vulgarity in this establishment, Alva, the shopkeeper’s daughter shouted to a closed door. Then seeing that her father, was not going to make any effort to help the customer until he’d finished his game, she set her broom aside and turned to the customer. The young man was standing there scanning the unfamiliar shelves, so she asked, Can I help you find something, sir?

I need five pounds of two-penny nails, he replied. I’d like to have them charged to Mister Daniels’ account. The young man informed her.

Certainly, Alva responded.  She was thinking the whole time, This must be the young man who drifted into town a couple days ago. He be rather handsome, if he had a good haircut. Course he needs to be a couple of inches taller. He must be a good man because it isn’t just anyone who can managed to work for Mister Daniels a day and a half. Most workers don’t make it past sundown with Mr. Daniels. Directing the young man to a row of hardware bins on the far wall of the store, she turned back to her father and chirped, If you’re just about done with that silly game, there is work to be done.

The young man picked up a tin of two penny nails and turned towards the door. Thank you. The young man said as he stepped through the door. Alva watched him walk off through the store’s front windows, clearly admiring the view.

Taking his eyes off the checkered board only briefly, Chet gave his daughter a look like an old hound being pestered by a pup, Alva, I’ll get to it, when I’m good and ready. His tone left no room for argument, but a wry grin overtook his features as he moved a white knight towards the left edge of the board, capturing the black queen, Should be just a couple more moves. He stated confidently.

Buck repressed a smirk, though his sky-blue eyes, showed just a hint of humor, as he looked over at Chet leaning back on his chair, hands clasped behind a head. Buck removed the pipe with one hand, stroking his stubbly chin with the other. Indeed, he muttered, as he studied the board.

Jake burst back in the store, still uttering a stream of profanities. It was clear he was happy. He carried a wooden crate across the floor, its contents clinking inside as he walked across the floor. That worthless Injun run off with two full bottles. He griped, as he set the crate down.

If you’re ready to get to work, you can start, Alva gave her father a sharp look, by informing this gentleman, we no longer sell whiskey.

Put it in the corner, and we’ll take two more crates, Chet called over his shoulder, ignoring Alva’s wishes, as he stared at the board, waiting for Buck to make a move. Despite Reverend Watson’s best attempts to convince his daughter to be a temperance crusader, rye whiskey still turned a hefty profit. If he were to quit selling it, folks would just go elsewhere to get it and the profit would go somewhere else as well. 

Chet added, I’m not paying for the two bottles, old Jim took. Maybe you can get him to pay you, if you can find him, but I don’t figure to spend any time in Sheriff Kent’s Greybar Hotel for providing liquor to Indians. It’s against the law in these parts.

Across the street, the swinging doors on the saloon groaned their objection as a tall man stepped out of the Muleshoe Saloon. He was young, but looked much older, due to the lines and wrinkles that marked his face. He had lived a short and hard life, one of hard work outside in the elements, hard dinking in the saloons and smoking to pass the time. He shuffled over to the hitching rail and once there, he patted his horse, a roan gelding, on the neck, as he unlooped the reins. The horse nickered lightly, as he put his boot in the stirrups and swung himself up into the saddle, ready to get to work, maybe. 

As he sat there a stride his horse, he contemplated mending the fences on the western range, he thought about how he’d really like another drink before he got started. But quickly admonished himself, telling himself, there was work to do and he need to get going. Besides he was out of money, so there wasn’t any way to get another drink at the Mule Shoe. Then he remembered he had good credit with the mercantile. He rode over to the store. He’d pick up a bottle or two of whiskey, just in case he wasn’t able to get some money later or get back to town. Besides, it’d be cheaper that way anyhow.

Chet grinned at Old Buck, who took his time, his gaze alternating between his opponent and the board. Dismal indeed, he mused, struggling to not to snicker. It does look as though you’ve gotten the better of me. He looked down, so he wouldn’t smirk at Chet. 

Chet had a look of satisfaction on his face, the kind that only comes from achieving a hard fought achievement. It had to happen sooner or later, my friend. How long have we been playin’ this game, anyway? Chet asked, gloating just a little.

Almost an hour, his daughter scolded.

It’ll be twenty-three years next month, Buck recalled, ignoring Alva entirely. 

Twenty-three long years, I’ve waited. Chet smirked, so self-satisfied. And now I have finally beaten you.

You’re are overdue, Buck allowed, as he took another deep drag upon his pipe. Upon blowing the smoke out, he picked up his bishop, sliding it forward to a space next to Chet’s King. Check mate, the miner grinned, as he sat back puffing on his pipe.

Gary Sommers didn’t bother to tie his horse, Red, to the hitching rail, outside the mercantile. He’d only be a minute, and the horse wouldn’t go anywhere.

The young stranger coming out of the mercantile didn’t see him. Neither man was paying particular attention to where he was going. They collided, with the young and smaller man getting the worse of meeting, knocking him back a couple steps.

Watch where you’re going! Gary snarled, grabbing the doorframe to steady himself.

Sorry, mister, I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going, the sandy haired stranger replied. His tone was steady, consolatory, but without a trace of the fear, the larger man was accustomed to inspiring. The two men locked eyes, after a brief moment the young stranger, turned and walked away. 

"This little runt must not know who I am," the larger man thought, "Still, he’s got sand. Unfortunately, I ain’t got time to inform him