Read William W. Johnstone Online
Authors: Massacre Mountain
Tags: #Murder, #Western Stories, #Wyoming, #Westerns, #Fiction, #Sheriffs - Wyoming, #General, #Mountain Life
William W. Johnstone (3 page)
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The Gildersleeve Variety Company pulled into Doubtful one rainy June afternoon when there was hardly anyone not under a roof. June’s about the only month the rain really cuts loose in Puma County, and usually wagons are up to their hubs in gumbo. But the company made it up there from the railroad in Laramie.
There sure wasn’t any thirty-six wagons, like it said on the playbills posted around town. There were three muddy coaches drawn by weary horses, and three freight wagons following. I guess this here variety outfit was a lot smaller than it was billed to be. The wagons lumbered in, spitting mud off the iron tires, and the maroon coaches came to a halt at the Ralston Opera House, where Ralston himself was standing in the door, just out of the cold drizzle.
Them draft horses sure looked tired after dragging the outfit through yellow mud for two days. There wasn’t no one on the street, given the lightning and rain, but I did see Hubert Sanders standing in the door of his bank down the street, watching. And sure enough, my rival Ike Berg was watching from the door of McGiver’s saloon up a way. And then I spotted the county supervisors studying the company from the window of the log courthouse. Other than that, there was nothing but a wet dog lifting a leg at the corner of the opera house. Well, the theater company was being watched real close after all, even if a cold rain had driven off the crowds. It sure wasn’t a circus parade, with a band playing, trapeze artists standing on gilded wagons, and a string of elephants. No, this company looked worn, weary, and maybe broke too.
I knew pretty well where this bunch would be housed. Belle could take four males at her boardinghouse but didn’t want any women. The local hotel, a four-room place called The Puma, could handle six more of the troupe, and I heard that Madame Gildersleeve herself would be there. Ralston had found room for the rest at Rosie’s House of Heaven, which was upstairs from Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room. None of them women in the company seemed to mind; at least that’s what I’d heard. Maybe that was because the line between women of the night and women of the theater is real thin.
But now, as I watched from the gallery of the Sampling Room across the street, the coaches disgorged their cargo. If there was anything flashy about these people I sure didn’t see it. Them women wore baggy gray dresses, and had shawls wrapped around their shoulders, and looked plumb worn. I couldn’t see if they was pretty, but they didn’t look it. They looked like a bunch of females that couldn’t find anything better to do with their lives. Of course, the way things were in Doubtful, any female was real pretty.
Anyway, there was Ralston in his pinstripes, welcoming that bunch, the actors and actresses, the roustabouts, and Mrs. Gildersleeve herself, dressed in taffeta. They all vanished inside the opera house where I suppose Ralston would get them settled and tell them what’s what.
I braved the drizzle to talk to some of them teamsters who were lighting up cheroots under the theater gallery.
“This the whole company?” I asked one, who had handlebar moustaches and carried a fine bullwhip.
“Far as I know, Sheriff,” he said.
“You gonna come and get them when they leave?”
“We’re staying. We’re booked to take them to Casper after this here’s done. Then up to Sheridan. Then into Montana Territory. They’re here one week, starting tomorrow. They were going to open tonight, but mud slowed us.”
“Tough road?”
“Oh, hell, I’ve seen worse. And we got so many passengers we can get ourselves out of any mudhole. There’s about six roustabouts and a dozen entertainers. That’s a lot of spare horsepower.”
“What’ll you do during the week?”
“Look after the stock, down some red-eye, and tomcat around. Most of the teamsters lay out a bedroll in the livery barn.”
“You travel with this show regular?” I asked.
“Yeah, off and on. Sometimes they book a railroad tour and don’t need me.”
Pretty quick the troupe drifted out of the opera house and the teamsters got them settled in their various quarters. That’s about the last I saw of any of them. It was as if Doubtful had swallowed the whole company. I watched rain slide down windows, and silvery puddles form in the clay streets and water blacken the backs of the draft horses, and the miserable travelers with soaked hair and wet shawls and muddied shoes slip into their rooms.
I sure would have liked to follow them into Rosie’s House of Heaven. I don’t know what Rosie did with her regular girls, but now there were twice as many females up there. Maybe she’d be getting some stage-door johnnies knocking at the door as well as her regular johns.
Wasn’t a very flashy life, this traveling with a variety company, I thought. Pretty much misery and weariness. I sure was glad I wasn’t stagestruck. I waited for the drizzle to slacken and then drifted over to the Puma County lockup and sheriff’s office back around the courthouse. My deputy Rusty was there, looking itchy.
“Well?” he asked.
“Wasn’t worth seeing. Few miserable mudspattered roustabouts, a fancy lady in taffeta who owns the outfit, a dude with her, and some ranklooking performers. One or two play music, and the rest—who knows?”
“Better than what we’ve got around here,” Rusty said. “That Iceberg came in and looked around. He gonna be my next boss?”
“He thinks he is, but not if I can help it. He’s hanging around, waiting for the supervisors to make up their minds.”
“They ain’t happy with you?”
“I got robbed. They call it a crime wave.”
Rusty was smiling real mean. “Only crime wave I know of here is them politicians,” he said. “Anyway, Sheriff Berg from Medicine Bow County was poking around here, eyeing the jail, studying the place like he was fixing to own it.”
“Maybe he will own it, the way things are going.”
“What’s got him sniffing around?”
“He’s asking eighty a month.”
Rusty whistled. “Jaysas,” he said.
“I think he plans to catch a crook just to show off, and there’s nothing like a variety show for that, I gather. I got that from Ralston himself. He said some of them outfits got real sticky fingers. Iceberg knows it and I’m guessing he’s gonna show off, make some pinches just to impress the supervisors.”
“Can he arrest? He’s not a peace officer in Puma County.”
“He’s got a star, and that’s all he needs.”
“Want me to stick around tonight?”
“Nah, we got more law than we need. There’s strangers in town, so I’ll be working the saloons. De Graff comes in at midnight, so we’re set.”
I headed over to the Lizard Lounge looking for a bite to eat. Most people avoided the Lizard, because the rumor was they served horsemeat stew, but they were the cheapest joint in Doubtful, and I didn’t mind eating horse anyway. Some said they served mule when they were short of horse. I’d eat Critter if I had to. I set down in my usual spot beside a real glass window where I could keep an eye on Doubtful, and Mrs. Studebaker served me up a bowl without asking, just as always.
This was just a regular night, nothing much happening, so I added some salt and spooned the gray stew into me and watched the puddles outside glimmer in lamplight. The streets of Doubtful could still turn into quagmires if it rained hard. Rumor was that a teamster had once vanished in a puddle right across from the Emporium. I doubted it, but I’d been up to my ankles a few times.
There were some suspicious items in the stew this night, but I refused to believe they were horse apples. Boiled groundhog, maybe. Doubtful had better eateries, but none cheaper, and I had to stretch my forty a month as far as it’d go. The town sure was growing. When I’d arrived a couple of years earlier, it was still a wild place, with six-gun law and a string of expired lawmen. Which is why they fetched me. I was the town’s last resort. But all that was the past. Now we had people settling the basin country and starting up businesses in town. We were up to seven saloons, one church, fourteen businesses, and an opera house. A town was hardly on the map until it got an opera house. And there had to be some cash around, and people willing to spend it, before anyone would put up an opera house. Down in Colorado, there was a mess of them. Denver, Leadville, Telluride, places like that.
My work had switched around, too. Now I was policing gamblers and crooks and cutpurses. Before, I’d had to settle the troubles of warring ranches and rival cowboy gangs who brought in traveling shootists with big reputations. I don’t know how I whipped some of them. My ma, she just thought I was nuts to try.
I knew just what I’d do this night. I was going to tour the saloons. If this variety company brought in any trouble, it would be in the saloons. Them roustabouts would cause any kind of ruckus they could start. I’d busted up a few brawls in my day, and I expected I’d add to the list this night.
I scooped up the last of the stew, paid Mrs. Studebaker her fifteen cents, and headed into the drizzle. My first stop would be the Last Chance, and I’d say hello to Sammy Upward, the barkeep there. He and I went back a way. None of the barkeeps liked me hanging around their watering-holes, but Sammy didn’t mind so much. I was pretty quiet about it, just slipping in, studying the drinking fraternity, looking for someone’s fingers in someone else’s rear pocket, and then tipping my hat to Sammy.
I wandered in there and was hit by the smoke from the lamps, but it looked like business as usual there. I was noticed at once; I always am, even if I look like someone’s wash hung out to dry. It’s the star. Talk quieted. But Sammy, he just nodded.
“What’ll you have, Sheriff?” he asked.
“Sarsaparilla,” I said.
He poured it and refused the nickel. I studied the painting of the naked lady over the bar, and eyed the crowd now and then. They were all familiar faces. I’ve spent the last couple of years getting a handle on everyone in Doubtful. If there were any of those show people or roustabouts around, they weren’t in here. But the roustabouts would still be busy unloading, and the show people would be pretty tired and not primed to step out in the rain and celebrate.
There sure wasn’t anything entertaining going on there, so I headed down the street to Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room. The rain just wouldn’t quit, and it dampened me pretty hard by the time I got there. I pushed through the double doors and ran smack into a lot of light. They had all their lanterns lit, and sure enough, there were a mess of those show people in there, most of them female. There’s some who think females shouldn’t be in saloons, but I wasn’t one. I sure enjoyed seeing the bunch, seven or eight of the ladies and a few of the traveling gents too, some of them at a table by themselves, but a few bellied up to Mrs. Gladstone’s polished bar.
There was a bunch of Doubtful people in there too, most of them taking a gander at the show people. It looked like a convention of whiskey drummers in there, and I swear there were Doubtful businessmen like Hiram Perkins who’d actually washed his face and trimmed his beard and put a little witch hazel behind his ears. The showgirls were bringing every stage-door johnnie in town to the Sampling Room. Well, this was where the entertainment would be this night, so I just smiled, got myself another sarsaparilla, this one from Rudy, the barkeep, and settled back to enjoy the show.
I slipped into a corner and just watched, and pretty quick no one remembered Sheriff Pickens was anywhere around. Them show people were in there hard at work. They was getting to know the locals, getting themselves free red-eye, and getting real close to a lot of Doubtful fellers. Most of those gals were all gussied up, and wearing lip rouge. My ma, she used to tell me never get interested in a gal wearing enamel on her face because she’d be after my money. Well, these gals looked pretty nice if you didn’t look too close at the varicose veins. Some had gotten their hair all bleached up, and most were showing plenty of neck and a little chest. But they was just being virgins there at the Sampling Room. Like ma says, I might not be the brightest light in town, but I could see they was working all the locals to come to the show the next night. And there were a couple of the gents there too, but nobody paid them any attention. No one bought the blackhaired one a drink, or the redhead juggler a glass of beer.
I got the drift of the action pretty quick. These show people weren’t just having a good time after a hard trip; they were aiming for standing room only, and they’d do most anything to separate a feller from his wage. I reckoned I’d do some sheriffing that night.
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The Sampling Room sure was the place to be in Doubtful that eve. Just sitting there I seen half the town. I saw Reggie Thimble wander in, and Mayor George Waller, and the postmaster Alphonse Smythe. Even Ziggy Camp, who was more or less married. Those fellers hardly ever went to the Sampling Room, but there they were, catching an eyeful of those show people. And then Lawyer Stokes ambled in, and that sure was news. I’d never seen him in a saloon before, and then I spotted my own deputy, Rusty, pokin’ his head in just to get an eyeful. And it didn’t quit there, either. I actually saw Doc Harrison wander in, eye the crowd, and belly up to the bar. That was like the pope showing up at a Baptist revival. Sure enough, there was Maxwell of the funeral parlor, Turk of the livery barn, and Leonard Silver, who had the emporium.
I just sort of hid out at the rear, watching the show. Cronk, who ran the poker table, was sitting near me and getting no players at all and shuffling the worn-out deck with one hand, looking sour. So I just sat there looking like a fixture that came with the place, but I wasn’t lacking for entertainment with all those show people getting right into it with all the citizens of Doubtful.
And then one of the prettiest of the showgirls, or maybe they were show women, seeing as how some had crepe flesh and varicose veins, came drifting my way, drink in hand. She was all enameled up like the others, but younger and didn’t look quite so worn-down as the other ladies. She was tall and curvy and knew it. And it was clear she was heading straight toward me, so I stood, wanting to be civil. My ma always told me to stand when women came around, because it was the thing to do. But my pa never did it, and I was sort of half-hearted about it. Sometimes I couldn’t make much sense of being civil.
But there she was, with a glass of amber fluid.
“You the sheriff?” she asked.
“I was last I knew, but maybe not,” I said.
She eyed me and my badge like I was loony. “You gonna offer a lady a seat?”
I hastened to pull over the empty chair next to me, and she settled in, eyeing me like I was a fiveyear-old. My ma had that look.
“I’m Viva Zapata,” she said.
“Ain’t that some Mexican bandit?”
“I wouldn’t know. That’s a stage name my agent gave me. Just call me Viva.”
“You got a real name?”
“I was born with one and don’t ever want to remember it again.”
She looked kind of sad.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked. “I’m having sarsaparilla.”
She eyed my sorry glass and laughed. “Ain’t you the prim and proper.”
I didn’t know what she was laughing about, so I just clinked my glass to hers. I’d never met a show person before, so I didn’t know what to expect. But they seemed like other people, only more so.
“Are you Mexican?” I asked.
“No, half Bohunk, half Croatian. That means one half of me fights the other.”
“Which half do you like best?”
“The south half, sweetheart. Doesn’t everyone?”
That sort of shut me up. I couldn’t think of nothing to talk about.
“What are you?” she asked.
“My ma said I was a bad accident.”
“That’s rich. I could give your ma some advice about that. You want to bring her over?”
“Ah, she might not want any advice.”
“You gonna treat us real sweet when we open?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Some lawmen just itch for reasons to cause trouble.”
“I’m not a trouble-causer, Viva,” I volunteered. I still didn’t know what kind of trouble she was talking about, but I was enjoying the company. She was missing a front tooth, but had an ivory one stuck in there and it looked about right.
“Say, honey, I’ll take that drink. Whiskey neat, all right?”
I didn’t want to plow into that bar crowd, but there was Cronk a few feet away. “Hey, get the lady a whiskey neat, okay?”
Cronk eyed me, settled the deck on the green baize, flexed his manicured white fingers, arose, and headed for the bar.
“Hey, you got clout in here,” she said.
“What’s clout?”
“Moxie.”
“What’s moxie?”
“Aw, you’re just being modest, chief. Here.” She leaned right over and kissed me on the kisser. I could have fainted. Not only that, but some of that bar crowd saw it, and a few were nudging each other with big elbows.
“Was that Bohunk or Mexican?” I asked.
“Meet me after the show tomorrow and I’ll show you,” she said. “Say, do you want a couple of front center seats for you and the missus?”
“No missus, but I’m sort of taken.”
“Not yet, you aren’t. I’ll leave some tickets for you at the box office.”
She patted my stubble. “You’re a sweetheart,” she said.
Cronk returned with the drink and handed it to her.
“Here, you drink it, Sheriff,” she said. “I got it because no one should be condemned to sarsaparilla for life.”
With that, she abandoned me.
“That’ll be two bits,” said Cronk.
“Viva Zapata,” I said. She sure was curvy in all the right places. I finished my sarsaparilla and watched her sashay her way into the crowd. She reminded me of a bucking bronco the way she wiggled her croup. That got me to thinking about Critter.
“You’ve been had,” Cronk said, cutting his deck with one hand.
There wasn’t nothing more I could get from the Sampling Room, so I headed out the door. The rain had quit and I saw some stars. I was done for the day, and headed for Belle’s boardinghouse where I had a room. Room wasn’t the word for it. It was a cot with two feet of space beside it. Home for a lawman who was about to get axed.
I dodged puddles. Step in one and I’d land in China. I walked past the hotel and discovered the lobby had some people in it. There was Ike Berg, with his star still on his lapel even if this wasn’t his county, and Madame Gildersleeve, owner of this here troupe, and her male companion, of whatever species I didn’t know. They were sitting there enjoying the evening, jabbering away. I peered at them through the window and there they were, polite talk deep into the evening.
For some reason, I decided to check on Critter over at Turk’s Livery Barn. Critter and I understood each other, at least some of the time. I liked to talk to Critter about women. He was a gelding so all he could do is nod and whicker, but that was his bad luck, not mine. Turk’s was a little out of the way, but I had the yen. There are times when a man needs to talk to his horse, and this was one.
Turk’s livery stretched back from the street, with the barn in front and a large paddock and wagon yard behind. I’d kept Critter there ever since they made me sheriff. He sure wasn’t the prettiest horse in the world, with his roman nose, wild eyes, ewe neck, and slab-sided croup. But he and I had a working arrangement. He would obey half the time, and I would keep quiet about it the other half.
It sure was quiet. Not a lamp lit in there. Turk was over at the Sampling Room, sampling the showgirls. The barn door was open, so I plunged into the inky dark, knowing that Critter would be three stalls down on the left. So I worked along to his stall and opened the gate and edged in. Behind me the open double doors of the barn let in a little moonlight.
“Where are you?” I asked.
A horse in the next stall shifted its feet, and I could see it peering over the planks.
Critter wasn’t there. The stall was empty. Rank, fresh manure squished under my boots.
I must have gotten into the wrong stall, so I backed out and tried the next, and almost got kicked by a big draft horse I thought might be hauling one of those show wagons.
“You sure ain’t Critter,” I said.
The horse responded by pinning me to the wall until I thought my ribs would crack. But I got out of there, checked the other stalls, and finally realized Turk must have put Critter outside, maybe because of the draft horses that had clopped into Doubtful. So I eased out the back, past all them wagons and buggies and carriages, and into an open pen, where at least some moonlight could steer me to him.
Only thing was, Critter wasn’t there.
“Where are you, you rank outlaw,” I said.
But those three horses back there weren’t Critter.
My horse had vanished. Maybe borrowed. Maybe worse.
I was mad, so I hiked back to the Sampling Room and found Turk, who was fingering his beard and patting the arm of a showgirl and drinking schnapps all at the same time.
“Where’s Critter?”
“What are you talking about, Sheriff?”
“Critter’s gone. You lend him to someone?”
“Critter’s in his stall.”
“No, and he’s not in any other and he’s not out back.”
“I guess someone took him, Sheriff.”
“You gonna help me find him?”
“Maybe he got out. Try in the morning. He’s probably wandering free somewhere. People go in there and let horses loose and I don’t know anything about it.”
“You let people in there?”
“Cool down, Pickens. He’ll show up tomorrow.”
“Turk, you leave this here lady and come with me and get my horse.”
Turk yawned. “He’ll show up. I think I’m going to bed.”
“Where are the roustabouts bunking?” I asked.
“What roustabouts?”
“With the show.”
“Not in my hayloft,” Turk said.
The action at the Sampling Room was winding down, and half the town of Doubtful had gone to bed.
“You’re gonna find Critter or buy me a horse, if you’re still alive when I’m done with you.”
Turk laughed. The showgirl ran a hand along his leg.
I got out of there, and hiked through the moonlight. Back at the livery barn I tried every stall again, checked the pen, wandered the open country back of there, and yelled at Critter to find me. But he was plumb gone, and it wasn’t no accident.
Someone took him.
I just plain hated that.
I knew what I’d do in the morning. Find out where those roustabouts were bedding, and rattle their teeth until I found out which one of them stole my horse.
I hiked over to the sheriff office. Burtell was in there, snoozing in the office swivel chair. He’s my oldest deputy, with a lot of gray thatch on his face.
“Someone stole Critter,” I snapped.
Burtell woke up with a start, eyed me, and slowly got it into his thick head that the sheriff of Puma County was yelling at him.
“Why weren’t you out doing rounds?” I asked. “You could have stopped it. We got a town full of strangers and you’re parked in that chair.”
Burtell yawned, looked annoyed, and then woke up the rest of the way.
“First you get held up, and then your horse gets took,” he said. “Ain’t any other sheriff in Wyoming gets robbed and rustled in a few days. I guess someone’s wanting your job.”
“No, it was one of them show people around here.”
“Go to bed, Cotton. Critter ain’t worth getting into a conniption about. Whoever stole that horse done you a favor, if you ask me.”
“He’s my horse, and I’m going to find him, and I’m going to hang the horse thief.”
“I’ll come watch,” Burtell said.
“Put it in the log,” I said. The office had a log with the complaint and the time of the complaint.
“Ah, just go to bed. I’ll find Critter and put him back in his stall.” Burtell said.
“You’d better, or you’re out the door,” I said.
Burtell stood, looking a little ornery. “Cotton, damn it, tomorrow someone’s gonna come in here and complain that he’s got a horse in his back yard eating all his carrots and radishes. And Rusty or someone will go over there and put a halter on Critter and lead him back to his stall. So go to bed.”
“Critter wouldn’t do that.” But then I had second thoughts. “Maybe he would. Maybe I’ll sell him for dogfood.”
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