Ralph Compton the Robber Barons by Craig Barstow & Ralph Compton

Author:Craig Barstow & Ralph Compton [Barstow, Craig & Compton, Ralph]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lessing found two things he was looking for in a yardage shop: one of them—a square of soft, lint-free flannel—intentionally; the other, a meeting with newspaper publisher Jim Buckholtz, by accident. When he came into the store, he caught the tail end of a conversation, delivered sermonlike to the clerk, a middle-aged woman with straw-colored braids.

“I don’t want to hear about you letting them give you that City Protection Service routine of theirs, you hear? We had a name for that where I came from. Shakedown. Don’t matter what kind of clothing they wear or manners they affect. A shakedown’s illegal, understand?”

The clerk touched Buckholtz’s arm in thanks before she turned to serve Lessing. Buckholtz didn’t seem to mind being thanked. A graying man with a monk’s tonsure that framed a frizzy patch of remaining hair, he wore the plain twills of a wealthy man who had no need to broadcast his status through frock coats, chunky watch chains, or bespoke trousers with elaborate side hems. His only affectation was the hand-tooled boots of a roping cowboy, even though one look at his scrawny frame would have shown most people he had little contact with horses.

“Getting ready for the battle, are we?” he asked Lessing, pointing at the flannel. “Man who takes care of his weapons uses the best cleaning cloths. Likely some high-class lubricants, yes?”

“What interests me,” Lessing said, “is the way we each know the other, no introductions necessary, eh, Mr. Buckholtz? Maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me something. You’ve a pretty sharp eye for the local population. Surely you’ve noticed—”

Buckholtz cut Lessing off midsentence, seeming eager to get down to business. “By my count, a hundred and twenty-seven.”

“That many?”

“Might have been higher, but I recognized two of them. They’re from Las Cruces, caterer sorts here to work the wedding. At least six women, by which I mean, ladies of what passes for social status around here.” That observation got a snort out of him. “Miz Matty’s trying to associate herself with society. That answer your question?”

“One of them. May I assume you knew I wasn’t one of the newcomers?”

Buckholtz nodded assent. “You got that look about you, Lester.”

“Lessing. What kind of look do I have?”

“Honest. Driven. Bent on the kind of justice most men your age dropped a long while back.”

“You’ve got me sounding all wrapped up in idealism.”

“Let me tell you this . . . Lessing, is it? They may think you work for them at the Pinkertons. May even be times you think you work for the Pinkertons. But we both know who you work for, don’t we?”

Lessing found himself starting to like the guy. Quirky as all hell. But not a bad person to have on one’s side in a throw down. “One more question?”

Jim Buckholtz’s smile reminded Lessing of a circuit-riding preacher who’d just pardoned a minor sin and waited for the big one to follow. He held up a halting hand. “No, unequivocally. You won’t have to fight me, Mr.

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