Doubtful Canon by Johnny D. Boggs Read Free Book Online Page B

Jack,” Mr. Shankin greeted me warmly. “How are you faring today?” Before I could answer, he placed the boots beside the two-gun man’s feet. “Try these on, sir,” he told his customer and looked back at me. “You need anything, son?”
    “I can come back.” I started to go.
    “No need to run off, kid. It’ll take Dutch here half the day to get them boots over his stinkin’ socks.” The last time I’d heard that voice, Brocious had been screaming at those Mexicans to bury the gambler he had killed.
    “What do you need, Jack?” Mr. Shankin asked kindly.
    “Just wondering.” Slowly I turned back around. “It’s nothing important.”
    The first boot went on with a grunt, and Brocious slammed the hat on his head, grabbing the candy with his free hand as his teeth crunched the stick in half. The second man pulled his left boot on with a soft whoosh, and rose slowly, then walked to the far end of the store, testing the new footwear.
    “What’s on your mind, Jack?” Mr. Shankin asked again.
    With Brocious chomping on his candy and the other gunman testing out the new pair of boots, I asked the mercantile owner if he had ever heard of Apaches attacking a stagecoach in Doubtful Cañon back in 1861.
    “Jack Dunivan here is bound to be a newspaper editor,” Mr. Shankin told Brocious with a beaming smile. “He’s….” He never finished, likely remembering my father’s troubles, and looked away from me, asking Brocious’s pal how the boots fit.
    “Kind of big,” the man said in a quiet voice.
    “Pour some water in them,” Brocious said. “Walk around with them wet all day. Leather’ll shrink. Fit fine after that bit of doctoring.”
    “I’m not one to waste water like that, Curly.”
    Shrugging, Brocious wiped sticky fingers on his bib front. “Well, buy them or take them off. We need to ride soon.”
    “That’s the only size I have in that style, sir,” Mr. Shankin said. “I could order you a pair, but that would take at least six or eight weeks.”
    “No cobbler in Shakespeare?” the man asked.
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, let me walk around a minute more. I do like the way they look, and the fit isn’t that bad.”
    “The water treatment does work,” Mr. Shankin said.
    As the gunman walked back toward the bolts of cotton, Mr. Shankin turned back toward me. “That’s a little before my time, Jack, to answer your inquiry,” he said. “Back in ’Sixty-One I hung my hat in Terre Haute before joining the Thirty-Second Regiment to save the Union. Yet I have heard of many dreadful things happening in Doubtful Cañon. You might ask John Eversen. He re-opened the stage station after the rebellion when the Kerens and Mitchell Company ran stages from San Diego. Granted, I don’t think John ever worked the Butterfield lines, but if anyone remembers about the time you ask about, it would be him.”
    “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.” I paused, wondering if I should ask a second question, then glanced outside to make sure the albino was nowhere in sight. Summoning up the courage, I asked if he had ever heard of a man named Whitey Grey.
    Crunch!
    I spun, my heart racing, only to see Curly Bill Brocious had helped himself to a second piece of stick candy. Grinning, he picked a morsel of candy from his waxed mustache and flicked it on the floor.
    “That’s not a name I recall,” Mr. Shankin answered. “I can ask around….”
    “No,” I said, louder than I meant. “Don’t do that. It’s nothing important, just a story Ian Spencer Henry was telling me and….”
    The merchant laughed. “I wouldn’t put much stock in any story that young man tells you, Jack. Probably something he read that Ned Buntline dreamed up.”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Turning to go, I stepped into the sunlight, thinking I had made up my mind.
    A voice stopped me. “Doubtful Cañon’s no place to be.” I looked back inside to see the second man staring at me. His eyes seemed almost hollow, a cold blue, and