Chapter 11: Detour

Ben Cooper brought his horse to a halt and for nearly ten minutes sat in the saddle, looking at a signpost. It was a crude piece of work. A length of sapling trunk, set in the hard ground, rose to a height of nearly eight feet. In a cleft at the top, fixed by a nail, was a two-foot length of fence wood pointing southwest and bearing the legend ‘Parry 5 Miles’, in uneven characters of black paint.

The name struck a chord with Ben. It had been mentioned to him by an elderly prospector with whom he’d had a casual encounter two weeks earlier. The fellow had spent a few hours in Parry. He said it was the only town for a long way in any direction, adding that it seemed to him an unusual kind of place, especially in matters of law and order, which were in the hands of an officer named Constable Fox, a man best avoided.

Since speaking with the old man, Ben had not given any further thought to their conversation, but now he was pondering on it. He hadn’t slept in a comfortable bed or eaten a properly cooked meal for some time, and was overdue for a bath and a haircut. He was heading due south, but recalling the prospector’s words caused him to consider a minor change of course. It seemed reasonable to suppose that since there was a side-trail to Parry from the northeast, there might be a similar one leading southeast out of the town, back to the main north-south route. On that assumption, and remembering what Pythagoras observed about right-angled triangles, Ben concluded that the detour would probably add only three miles or so to his long journey. He would try it.

Like many men who spend a lot of time alone, Ben was given to bouts of introspection, and as he headed towards Parry, he took stock of himself. At twenty-five years of age, he was physically in good shape. An even six feet in height and sturdily built, he scaled almost two hundred pounds, all in the right places. His usually tidy hair was sandy, his eyes blue. He’d had a passable education and taken full advantage of it. The only fault he found with himself was his tendency to react too swiftly and fiercely to anything he considered annoying. The phrase ‘no sooner a word than a blow’ would not have been an entirely inaccurate description of his attitude in such matters.

The reason Ben found himself in this part of Colorado was that he was on his way to join a cousin in California, who’d offered him a forty percent share in a fruit-growing business, already thriving under the cousin’s sole ownership. Ben had been pleased to accept and as there was no great hurry, he’d decided to treat himself to the trip of a lifetime by following the eastern flank of the Rocky Mountains from his home in Montana down to Santa Fe, then swinging westwards through New Mexico and Arizona to his destination.

An hour after leaving the main trail, Ben rounded the foot of a hill and found himself within half a mile of Parry. One glance was enough to show him that the old prospector had been right in describing the place as unusual. It was laid out somewhat like a fort, with four long low timber-built blocks surrounding a large square, access to which was via gaps at the corners between the buildings. There were several outlying structures, the only one of any size being a barn with an attached corral, obviously the livery stable. Ben headed there and was greeted by the owner, a small, wizened oldster. He asked how long Ben intended to stay in Parry. “A couple of days,” Ben replied. “I aim to get myself cleaned up, take in some decent food and have a little rest.”

“You can get a bath at the barber’s place, south corner of the west block yonder. Hotel’s halfway along the north block and Nellie Spruce runs a nice little diner on east block. You’ll be all right here as long as you don’t tangle with Constable Fox.”

“Funny you should say that,” Ben answered. “Fellow I met some way north of here told me the same thing.”

“He was right. Just try to keep clear of our lawman – and don’t tell anybody that advice came from me.”

Two hours later Ben left the hotel, where he had a bed in a north-facing room that was cool, even on this hot day. He’d had a haircut, shave and bath and was looking forward to a beer or two and something to eat. Walking along the east block, he took in tantalising smells from the diner. He established that the place would be open until seven o’clock. That gave him well over an hour to have a couple of drinks and what seemed likely to be a good meal.

After glancing at the two saloons, Ben decided to try the smaller one on the south block. Admittance was by a plain wooden door that led to the right-hand side of a room about twenty-five feet square with a bar running along the rear wall. A dozen drinkers were seated in twos and threes at five of the eight tables. Ben ordered a beer and was for a moment the only patron at the bar. Then he heard a chair scraping across the floorboards and ten seconds later a short thin scruffy-looking man joined him, banged down the half-full glass he’d brought from his table and grunted: “You’re in my place, mister.”

Ben was close to the middle of the bar. He took a big step sideways, increasing the distance between the two men to six feet. “That suit you better?” he asked.

Apparently it didn’t, for the fellow shuffled along to within arm’s length of Ben. “You’re still in my place,” he said.

With another stride, Ben widened the gap between the two again. Now his back was almost touching the east wall. “That’s as far as it goes, friend,” he answered. “And I have to say you need a hell of a lot of room, considering your size.”

The man sniggered. “You don’t get it. When Jake Hollins drinks, he needs the whole bar, an’ he specially don’t want to to share it with a gent who smells like you.”

“Oh, and how do I smell?”