A Good Day to Die (28 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: A Good Day to Die
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“And his whore,” Vince said quickly.
Clay groaned. “You still harping on that? For God's sake, Pa, let it go. It's crazy talk.”
“Nothing crazy about doing what's right,” Vince said. “It'll get done, too.”
“I ain't killing no woman. I got to live in these parts. Nobody's hanging a woman-killer tag around my neck.”
“I ain't gone kill her, if that's what making you go all yellow, Clay. I'm just going to make her wish she was dead, like my boy—your brother Bliss—or did you forget about him already?”
“I didn't forget, Pa.”
“See that you don't.”
“You sweet on that gal, Clay?” Quent said, snickering.
“I wouldn't have had nothing to do with her, if Pa hadn't sent me to buy her off,” Clay said, coloring. “She'd've took the money, too, if it'd done any good. But Bliss would've gone chasing after her, no matter where she went. He just had to have her all to himself.”
“And now he's dead, and they's gone be a reckoning,” Vince Stafford said in a tone of finality.
Clay fell silent, exasperated.
Dusky shadows thickened in the feed store.
 
 
The Dog Star Saloon regulars, a hard-core nucleus of fifteen or so, clustered in and around the jail. Most of them had had more than a passing acquaintance with the hoosegow in the past, but this time things were different.
Using tables, chairs, barrels, and hay bales, they built a barricade in front of the stone blockhouse, with wings extending along the sides for a man's length or so, forming a U-shape. Narrow openings at the sides allowed free passage. Finished, the men loitered around, loafing, smoking, talking, drinking, matching coins, and checking their weapons.
The sun had set, purple dusk deepening into night. Barton stood outside the barricade, smoking a cigar. He looked around. It was risky, putting the Ramrod bunch so close to the Golden Spur, but it kept both parties well away from the women and children forted up in the courthouse.
Closer to home, he eyed the Dog Star troops, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “What a crew! Looks like a posse should be chasing you fellows.”
“Funny, huh? Us boys making our stand here at the jail, that is,” Squint McCray said.
“Why not? For most of you, it's your home away from home. I ought to charge rent for all the time you rannigans have slept off a drunk back in the cells,” Barton said.
“Rent? What do you think them fines were?”
Barton let it pass. “Where else are you and your crowd gonna light? Not in the courthouse with the respectable folk. They won't have you. Not in the Spur, Damon wouldn't chance all you booze hounds getting so close to his fine, high-priced liquor.”
“Hard words, Sheriff, hard words.”
“But true. And you sure don't want to bed down with Vince and friends.”
McCray said a dirty word, then spat. “Shoot, I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.”
“Maybe Red Hand'll do just that, and set him on fire for you not to piss on him,” Barton quipped.
“I can hope. Anyhow, the jailhouse's the place to be. Good solid walls,” reasoned McCray.
“You ought to know, you been behind 'em enough.” Barton puffed on his cigar, the smoke clouds wreathing his head.
“Say, Sheriff, you wouldn't happen to have an extra seegar to spare, would you?” McCray wheedled.
Barton started to tell him where to go, then thought better of it for some unknown reason. He took a cigar out of his breast pocket. “Here.”
“Why, thankee!” McCray said, surprised.
“Don't tell where you got it or all your pals'll be trying to bum a smoke from me,” Barton warned.
“I'm a closed book,” McCray said solemnly. He bit off the end of the cigar, spitting it out. He lit up, puffing away. “You're a gentleman, Sheriff.”
“Just remember to vote for me come Election Day.”
“I always do. Several times.”
“Make sure you keep on doing it,” Barton said.
If we're still around.
E
IGHTEEN
Dark was the night, and long.
Mrs. Frye knocked softly on the Spur's back office door. “Damon?” she said, low voiced. No answer. She turned the handle. The door was closed, but not locked. She entered, easing the door shut behind her.
A globe lamp provided the sole illumination. A window in the rear wall had plank boards nailed over it, covering it almost to the top. Above the planks, a narrow horizontal band of blackness showed through the glass. A couch stood against a side wall.
Damon Bolt sat behind a desk, arms folded on the desktop cushioning his head, which was turned to the side. His eyes were closed, his skin flushed. A snaky blue vein stood out on his high forehead, and sweat misted his face. Slow breathing came heavily. His jacket was draped across the back of his chair. A pair of pistols lay on the desktop, along with a whiskey bottle and an empty glass.
Mrs. Frye padded noiselessly behind the desk. She put a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking it. “Damon ... Damon.”
His slow, heavy breathing stopped and his eyelids slitted open. He lifted his head. “I'm not sleeping, Mrs. Frye. What time is it?”
“Eleven-thirty. Why don't you sack out on the couch? You'll be more comfortable.”
“I'm fine.”
She knew better than to argue. Crossing to the couch, she picked up a folded knit comforter that lay at one end, unfolded it, and draped it over the gambler's shoulders.
His head once again lay on pillowing arms. “Thank you.”
“I'm going up to bed,” she said.
“Tell Monk to wake me an hour before dawn.”
“I will.” Mrs. Frye lowered the flame on the lamp, dimming the light. A cone of bronze-colored light covered the desk and immediate area; beyond it swam yellow-brown shadows. She went to the door and paused. “Good night.”
“'Night,” he said.
She went out, closing the door.
Damon's eyes opened, peering blearily at the whiskey glass. Reaching for it, his hand closed around it, pulling it to him. Less than a mouthful of liquid lined the bottom of the glass. He raised his head and drank it.
Setting down the glass, he took hold of the bottle, tilting it to pour. The glass was three-quarters full when the bottle ran dry. Damon drank most of it, shuddering. He set the glass down, rested his head on his arms, and closed his eyes.
Mrs. Frye crossed the floor of the main room. Wall-mounted oil lamps broke up the big, barnlike space into zones of light and shadow. To economize, every other lamp in line had been extinguished, and those that burned had been trimmed low to not waste lamp oil. Besides, best not to have the place all lit up for fear of tempting Stafford's men into taking potshots at shadowy figures within. There was enough light to see by, and that was plenty. And, if she lived through Red Hand, she'd need every cent she could scrape up to rebuild.
The Golden Spur had been fortified. Boards were nailed over each window head-high, with plenty of loopholes and firing ports let into them, but the glass panes were still intact. Mrs. Frye was resigned to the likelihood of their destruction, but she refused to hurry the process. Window glass was expensive everywhere and hard to get that far west, especially the oversized front windowpanes. Maybe the Comanches wouldn't come; time enough to shoot out the glass if they did.
Strangers—Mexican-Americans from Mextown—were grouped at various places along the walls. There were dozens of them, ages ranging from graybeards to beardless youths. Their women, children, and oldsters were in the safety of the stonewalled courthouse.
Few if any of the men had ever before set foot inside the Golden Spur. It catered to those who could pay the freight. Some of the better-paid higher-ups at Rancho Grande were occasional customers, but rarely did the denizen of Mextown have enough gold in his pockets for a night at the Spur.
They'll have something to tell their grandkids about how they spent the night in the gilded palace of sin,
Mrs. Frye thought.
If they live.
It was the Yankee, Heller, whose idea it was for the Mexicans to fort up at the place. Mrs. Frye had been against it at the start, until Johnny Cross pointed out that the Ramrod bunch would be less likely to start trouble with all those extra armed men on the premises.
“That's one way to hedge a bet,” Damon had remarked.
Never one to let her prejudices get in the way of her keen eye for the main chance, Mrs. Frye had agreed to admit the newcomers. She even allowed them kitchen privileges, to cook up a mess of beans and tortillas for their crowd. Any whiskey or beer they wanted, they had to pay for, though. There were few takers as the drinkers among them passed around bottles of tequila and mescal they had brought themselves.
Some of the men smoked and talked quietly, others slept or tried to. They sat on the floor, backs to the wall, their wide-brimmed straw hats pulled down over their eyes. Others lay stretched out on the floorboards, folded serapes cushioning their heads.
More than a few were armed with pistols. A goodly number of shotguns, from lightweight fowling pieces to trumpet-mouthed blunderbusses were close at hand. Some had rifles, mostly single-shot long guns and more than a few had unrifled muskets. Very few had repeating rifles. Everybody had blade weapons, machetes, belt knives, Spanish daggers, or stilettoes. Sharp-edged farm implements such as axes, scythes, hand sickles, and such were in evidence as well.
Mrs. Frye devoutly wished the fight with the Comanches would not come to such close quarters, but ... it might.
Morrissey stood behind the bar, beefy forearms resting on the countertop. Monk the bouncer stood opposite him, tossing back drinks as though trying to make up for those hours spent earlier on the roof keeping watch under the the hot sun. Wiley Crabbe was there, too, soaking up free drinks.
Morrissey doled them out sparingly. A Dog Star boozehound like Wiley could soak up a lot of hooch if not kept on a tight rein.
Flint Ryan and Luke Pettigrew sat at a nearby table, yarning back and forth between sips of whiskey. Charley Bronco sat with his back to the wall, his chair tilted back with two legs raised into the air. With his hat covering his eyes and hands folded in his lap, he was sleeping, or maybe just resting his eyes.
Creed Teece was in his room, asleep. Passing by his door earlier, Mrs. Frye had heard him snoring away. Trust that bloodless cuss to be able to sleep even though a Comanche attack was imminent. He didn't have a nerve in his body. She envied him that ability. Maybe that's why he was so good at the gunman's trade.
Johnny Cross was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Frye knew where he was. She'd seen him going upstairs with Francine.
“Good night, men,” she said, waving a hand in parting to the group around the bar. They bid her good night.
How many will be alive this time tomorrow night? Will I?
To hell with it.
She went upstairs, the revolver in a slitted side pocket of her skirt banging against her leg as she climbed the steps. She crossed the mezzanine to her room on the west side of the second floor. A night owl who slept by day, she needed a room free from morning's intrusive sunlight.
She glanced down the hall at Francine's closed door, her mercenary soul irked by the thought of one of her girls giving it away for free. Still, special times called for special circumstances.
Johnny Cross had already earned his keep during the shootout with Wyck Joslyn, Stingaree, and the Fromes Boys. Doubtless he'd prove his worth many more times before sundown tomorrow. He was proving it with Francine, if the muffled squeals and gasping outcries coming from behind her door were any indication.
“Ah, youth,” Mrs. Frye murmured, a cynical half smile on her face. She opened her room door, letting in the hallway light so she could see what she was doing as she struck a match and lit the oil lamp atop her bedside night table.
She went back to the door, closing it, turning the key and locking it, leaving the key in the keyhole. Her room was clean and austere, with few decorations or creature comforts beyond a soft-mattressed bed.
Reaching into her skirt pocket, she took out her gun and set it on the bed. A short-barreled .44 revolver, the big-caliber six-gun had man-stopping power in every round. A lot of gun, but she knew how to use it ... and had.
Sitting on the side of the bed, she untied the knotted laces of her ankle boots and took off the footwear. She removed her blouse and skirt, hanging them up. Underneath she wore a thin white cotton shift that covered her from shoulders to ankles. She peeled off dark knee-length stockings, rolled them up, and set them aside. Her body was good, supple, with high firm breasts, flat belly, lean hips and long rounded thighs tapering to slim ankles and small, narrow feet. It was a comfort to know that if the Spur burned down to the ground she still had something to sell to make a living.
She went to a chest of drawers standing against one of the side walls. Opening the top drawer, she reached to the rear of it, taking a cigar box out from under some folded lingerie and setting it down atop the cabinet.
Her image glimmered and shifted in the oval mirror mounted on an H-shaped frame on top of the dresser. She was long-faced, more than a little horse-faced, but compensating for that were bright bold eyes, high cheekbones, and a ripe red slash of a mouth. A network of thin-lined wrinkles showed at the corners of her eyes, and a pair of vertical grooves ran from nostrils to chin, bracketing her mouth.
She unpinned her hair, freeing it so that it fell loose to her slim, smooth shoulders. Her mouth curved upward in an inward, secret smile. She looked as though she might have been getting ready for a visit from a lover. In a sense, she was.
Crossing to the bed, she set the cigar box down on the night table. It was warm in the room. She went to a window in the rear wall, parting the curtains and raising the window six inches, letting in the cool night air. Below lay only a bare wall. Not even the most agile Comanche could scale the wall to the window.
West of the window, Hangtown was dark, not a light burning. It occurred to her that she made a good target, outlined against the window's yellow rectangle. Closing the curtains, she went to the bed and sat down. Moving the .44 to the night table, out of the way, she opened the cigar box lid.
Inside was a small spirit alcohol lamp, a pair of golden needles not unlike knitting needles, an equally slim pipe tipped at one end by a thimble-sized bowl, and a plum-sized block of some gummy, blackish-brown substance wrapped in wax paper—Chandu, the Black Smoke.
Opium.
She took out the items, laying them out on the night table, her hands shaking slightly. Striking a match, she lit the spirit lamp's rope wick. It burned with a low blue flame.
Unwrapping the lump of opium, she used a golden needle to extract a pea-sized chunk of the stuff, spearing it on the tip. Using the flame of the spirit lamp, she set it alight, then blew it out. Thin lines of rich, aromatic smoke rose from it, the scent sending a wave of dizziness through her.
She placed the piece in the pipe bowl, hands trembling as she raised it to her lips. She took a puff, filling her lungs, holding it. She felt light-headed. She smoked some more, feeling as if she were in a train that had started moving, leaving the station. The Black Smoke was starting to come on. A cloud of purple-gray fog descended on her mind and senses, muffling them, taking her away.
She'd picked up the habit years ago, in her early days of whoredom. It was the one lover who never failed to satisfy. And it was always there for her—as long as she could pay for it. Run out of money and it would run out, too, like any faithless lover of mere flesh and blood.
Her eyes glazed, heavy-lidded; her mouth softened. The light from the globe lamp was too bright, hurting her eyes. She turned the light down low, muting it into soft sweet shadows where shapes lurked, half-seen faces, images, and dreams.
Cares and fears fell away from her, sloughed off like a snake shedding its skin. Let the world go to hell, eternity beckoned in the seductive coils of spiraling strands of Black Smoke.
Several rooms down the hall and behind a door, Johnny Cross sought a different brand of release, grappling in sweet sweaty love-play with Francine Hayes. Francine, with her angel face and figure of passion, glowed naked in all the glory of her smooth, flawless ivory skin.
She writhed under Johnny, wanton and knowing, her buttocks tightly clenched and quivering as she lifted her hips off the mattress to meet his surging downstrokes. She was good, a hell of a ride, and he'd had some of the best in his young, full life. He gave as good as he got ... or better.
Bedsprings creaked and squealed, the posts of the brass-railed headstead hammering rhythmically against the wall, chipping the paint and cracking the plaster. Francine's face contorted in an ageless mask of intense concentration. Her open mouth panting, she moaned.
Her legs were lifted and bent at the knees, hugging Johnny's sweat-slick flanks as he rode her on home to glory. Pelvis working, gyrating, and meeting his thrusts, she went over the edge, taking him with her.

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