The Shopkeeper by James D. Best

concerned, because I needed Sharp, but he finally said in a matter-of-fact voice, “I’m good for my debts.”

    “Of course. I’m not worried. I guess I was trying to impress you. I actually bought the bank to gain control of Washburn’s mortgages.”

    Sharp sat back and chewed on that one. “Washburn stretched thin?”

    I waved my coffee cup in Mary’s direction. “Thinner than one of Mary’s pancakes. All of Washburn’s local mines are mortgaged to the rafters.”

    Sharp’s startled look delighted me. “How much does he owe?”

    “More important … how far behind are his payments?”

    “You intend to foreclose?”

    I nodded. “I know how to deal with the courts, but I need muscle to enforce the writs.”

    Sharp didn’t hesitate. “You can’t rely on the sheriff. Hire Pinkertons … and ya need to hurry.” He turned his coffee mug a full circle. “You know, don’t ya, that the damned circuit judge is on the Washburn payroll.”

    “I know, but that only means he can be bought. I just need to establish a new price.” I remained quiet while Mary refreshed our cups and then asked, “Where can I get Pinkertons?”

    “Denver.” Sharp again set his cup aside to let it cool. “The judge won’t come over to ya if he doesn’t think ya’ll be around for his next payday.”

    “I thought about that. I’m going to set up a trust that will guarantee him his money. How many Pinkertons should I hire?”

    “Six or eight.” Sharp furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s a trust?”

    “A pile of money in a Carson City bank that can pay out cash on a regular basis.”

    Sharp grinned. “You’re not playing by Washburn’s rules.”

    “His rules tilt the table. Everything slides to his side.” I leaned forward. “How long before the Pinkertons can get here? I’m suddenly in a big hurry.”

    “About five or six days by train and then by horse … if you wire them today.”

    “Then I’d better get to it.” I left for the telegraph office as Mary brought over Sharp’s chops. He looked like he was going to enjoy the meal.

Chapter 12

     

    In a few days, I had bought a bank, got rid of Washburn’s mayor, ordered Pinkertons by telegraph, and sent what I hoped would be an enticing telegram to the circuit judge. Progress, but Sprague worried me. How long before he got to town, and how could I avoid his sights once he arrived? I needed time to bring my plan to fruition, and that meant I needed a diversion—something to grab Washburn’s attention, other than me.

    My plan was to break Washburn’s lock on the town one piece at a time and put him on the defensive in areas he wouldn’t anticipate. Battling business moguls in New York, I had learned to avoid the frontal assault and attack neglected portions of their empires. You had to be careful with this breed of men. When pricked, these carnivorous beasts would instinctively whirl at their tormentors and strike with furious resolve. You had to throw them off balance and make them hesitant, unsure, and disoriented. Next, if possible, you had to deny them their favorite weapons. Washburn’s favorite weapons were violence and the threat of violence. Because I had killed the Cutlers, he expected a straightforward contest of arms—his hired hands against my six-gun. I needed his attention elsewhere.

    I unlocked the door of my new business and flipped up the shades to signal that the bank had reopened after my lunch break. Walking back to my desk, I started to hand-letter a “Bank Teller Needed” sign, when someone rapped on the wall of my cage.

    I put the heel of my foot on my chair leg and leaned my swivel chair back until I could peer through the cage window. What I saw caused me to bolt out of the chair and bound toward the window.

    “Mr. Bolton, Mrs. Bolton, how may I help you?”

    “Where’s Crown?” Bolton demanded.

    “Crown found it necessary to return to St. Louis. I bought the bank.”

    “You? You’re a gunman. What do you