"Certainly I think so, but let's not go off half-cocked. This is going
to take a bit of figuring. We can't just wander around leaving corpses
all over the woods."
"What would you do?"
"Find who really shot your pop and get him."
"I never thought of that," Dan admitted.
"Let's talk about it over a good meal. That sound all right?"
"Great but--I'm down to corn meal mush."
"Tonight we'll have something else," Jeff decided. "I was just going in
to Smithville to buy grub. Do you like pork chops?"
"Oh, boy!" Dan licked his lips. "But why should you buy me anything?"
"If we're partners," Jeff said firmly, "we share and share alike. You
can understand that. We're already sharing the cabin."
Confidence and hope warmed Dan's eyes. He smiled, and Jeff reflected
that that was the way he should always look.
"Uh--Jeff."
"What's up?"
"Do you think you could bring some shells for this shotgun?"
"On one condition. The gun isn't shot at anything, or anybody, unless
both of us know about it."
"All right," Dan agreed.
Pal went to the door with him. Jeff shoved the dog back, shut the door,
and struck into the gathering twilight. He shook a bewildered head.
Was it a year ago, or only a few days, that he had been the footloose
owner-manager-working force of Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd.? Why was he
burdened now with a dog that few other people wanted and a boy that
nobody wanted very much? Why hadn't he left both where he found them and
accepted just his own responsibilities? He shook his head again and
murmured to himself, "Darn fool! Tarrant, of all the pinheaded things
you've ever done, these take the hand-polished railroad spike!"
At the same time he knew that he couldn't have done otherwise. The dog
had helped him, therefore the dog must not be abandoned. Nor could Jeff
simply leave Dan to any fate that awaited him. The only man left in the
Blazer family, Dan had walked all the way from Ackerton--more than a
hundred miles--to avenge his father. He intended to make sure he did it
by shooting all the Whitneys, and he would die if he raised the gun to
the first one. It was a staggering situation and how should he, Jeff,
solve it?
Again Jeff gave himself over to the idea that first things must be first
and walked into Smithville.
It was a small town, with perhaps four hundred inhabitants, and as
nearly as there could be such a thing, it was a place where the outer
world intruded on the hills. Smithville was about half-civilized. The
streets were dirt and rutted, but instead of the log houses in which
hill families abode, the dwellings here were frame. The Smithville Inn
was largely a place for those who wished merriment in its louder forms,
and there was one store. Wagons piled high with logs offered mute
testimony as to the way the town's residents earned a livelihood but
there were no horses to be seen. Doubtless, with night approaching, the
teamsters had stabled their draft animals.
Jeff halted in front of the store, a rather large building whose front
end consisted of numerous small panes of glass inserted in wooden
frames. There was the legend "Abel Tarkman, General Store," and beneath
it was printed, "Post Office Too."
Knowing before he did so what he would find, Jeff entered. Isolated
stores such as this one catered to all the wants of many people. As a
result, they had to stock a little bit of everything that was practical,
and Abel Tarkman's store was no exception. Counters stretched its full
length. Pails, straps, lanterns and bits of harness, were suspended from
rafter beams. There was a rack of hoes, rakes, spades and other garden
tools, but no plows or harrows; this was not a farm community. Jeff saw
a shelf of drugs, a vast assortment of chewing and smoking tobaccos, a
whole rack of vari-calibered firearms and ammunition, a food counter, a
dry goods counter, and toward the back--a small cubby hole of unpainted
lumber that was labeled "Post Office."
Two other people, a stocky man with a badge, and a woman, were in the
store. Jeff stood aside while the proprietor, evidently Abel Tarkman
himself, served the woman. A small, quiet man with an inoffensive
manner, he wrapped the woman's purchases and looked inquiringly at Jeff.
"Four pounds of pork chops," Jeff said.
He ordered a dozen eggs, two loaves of bread, a three-pound slab of
bacon, two quarts of milk, a pound of coffee, a peck of potatoes, and
mindful of the youngster at the cabin, a head of lettuce and a bunch of
carrots. To these purchases he added a broom, four panes of glass to
replace those broken out of the cabin, putty with which to hold them, a
lantern, a gallon of kerosene, and finally, "A half dozen eight gauge
shotgun shells."
"I've nothing but number fours in eight gauge."
"They'll do and I want to stick them in my pocket."