Wyoming Slaughter (6 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
“This sure is entertaining,” I said.
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This sure was getting bigger by the hour. It was looking like war. At the stroke of midnight, New Year's Eve, the population of Doubtful would be reduced by about eighty percent, especially of women with shotguns waded into it. It was going to keep the grave diggers real busy. It was a good thing it was winter, because it would take a month to get all those bodies planted. They could be safely frozen in the meantime.
But that was speculation. I spent the next day shoveling out the sheriff office, which was inundated by a new storm that seemed to unload snow until the town slowed to a crawl. I hoped it would blizzard New Year's Eve and save the town from certain doom.
“You want to shovel for a while, Rusty?” I asked after putting in a good lick.
“I have a sore back, and the county's not paying me for that,” Rusty said.
“We've got to keep the steps clear so we can get all the drunks into jail,” I said. “We can't have them breaking their bones around here.”
“They're going to be too loaded to know the difference. You could bring the whole lot in on toboggans,” Rusty said.
I figured there'd be no one arriving in town that snowy day, but I was wrong. A company of men along with three or four big gold-gilded wagons came rolling in, snow-caked, cold, frostbitten, and steaming the air.
I stepped outside, trying to fathom what that was all about. There were about twenty of the toughest hombres I'd ever seen, men with big walrus mustaches, bright red noses, long dark coats, square-toed boots, and a variety of caps that were mostly made of animal pelts. The horses looked worn; they had dragged those wagons through some tough drifts. A few men were carrying long guns, but whatever the rest were carrying was hidden under those big black coats.
The odd thing was the four wagons, which looked like they came from a circus. In fact, they were circus wagons, gilded and gaudy. One was a sleeper wagon, and three were rolling cages with iron bars. These were empty. The only time I had seen wagons like that, there were lions and tigers in them. It was so cold and blowing that not even the gaudy parade drew a crowd. Mostly people stayed inside, huddled around their stoves. But here was a company of men and wagons that defied explanation. They weren't doing anything illegal, and I figured I'd get the skinny of it pretty quick.
It didn't take long until the whole outfit was parked outside the sheriff office on Courthouse Square, and that's when one of the frostbit men finally detached himself, tipped a hat to me, and walked into the warm office.
“Goose Cannon here, out of Cheyenne,” he said. “You the sheriff?”
“I am. Cotton Pickens.”
“Good. We're here to help out. I didn't know if we'd make it in time, but we did. We got hired by the Women's Temperance Union to help you shut down all them saloons at one minute after midnight.”
“Hired?”
“Yeah, they wired us for help. We're willing to work for anyone, long as we're well paid. We got us some of the best artillerists this side of Possum Creek. We butcher first and buy our hunting license later. The ladies said you'd deputize us, just to keep it all on the up and up. We'll just bust in, right after midnight, and shoot out the lights.”
“Cannon, that's not what we've got cooking here, but thanks for the help.”
“Don't thank me, thank the women. It don't matter whether you pin badges on us. At one minute after midnight, we're going to shut down Doubtful like it's never been shut down before.”
“You're not going to do that, and you'll keep those guns off your persons. That's a city ordinance.”
“Well, friend, your city ordinance is going to get itself ignored for a while,” Cannon said. “See those circus wagons? We brought our own cozy little jails along. We heard you got just two dinky cells, which ain't enough to keep a few old souses safe, much less most of the rannigans off the ranches. So we brought our own, and we're going to fill 'em fast, and we'll let them freeze their asses in the cold until they repent, and then maybe we'll let them go.”
“Sorry, Cannon, that's not how it's going to work, and if you pull some deal like that, you'll end up in those cages yourself.”
“Them women, they knew you'd be on the wrong side, so they just said ignore Pickens; the head lady, she's married to the county supervisor, and that's all we need. You stay outa trouble, boy.”
This sure was a pickle. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere by arguing, not with twenty killers with more balls than a pawnshop, their hands not far from whatever lay on their waists under the buffalo coats and black slickers.
“Suit yourself. You can probably board those horses at Turk's Livery Barn, and maybe he'll let you sleep in the hayloft.”
Cannon smiled. “I knew you'd be sensible.” He turned to his bunch. “Follow the plan,” he said.
“What plan?”
“Oh, relax, Sheriff. We got it all worked out. These wagons are going over to Saloon Row right now and are gonna be parked real conspicuous near all those houses of perdition. People are going to ask about them, and they're going to learn that the tiger and lion wagons are real good at caging drunks and rebels on New Year's Eve. That'll wet their britches for them. You're going to have the most peaceable New Year's Eve in the long, illustrious, shining history of Doubtful.”
The company of toughs immediately started the frosted horses toward Saloon Row, black shadows in swirling snow.
“Who's got the key to them cages?” I asked.
“I do. I alone have the keys. I will play God on New Year's Eve, choosing who I send to hell. We're going to clean up this problem so fast it'll run like crap through a duck. Pickens, you got nothing to worry about. Them cowboys are no match for this outfit. A few minutes after midnight, the drunks will be caged, the booze in every bar poured out or shot out, the saloons locked tight, the new law enforced, and you can go to your little trundle bed and snore away the rest of the night.” Cannon smiled. “Don't say we never did anything for you. We've solved every problem that's been eating out your gizzard.”
“You heeled?”
“We're all heeled. You open our coats and you see a regular hardware store.”
“I guess you better come with me, Cannon. We'll go over to my office.”
“What for?”
I beckoned and Cannon followed, curious about what was up. The heat struck us as we entered, which was good. I liked that. I wanted heat. I took off my coat. Cannon stayed buttoned up.
“We'll pack them cells, boyo,” Cannon said.
Cannon headed that way, through the jail door, and studied the cells. “They'll do,” he said.
“We've got a law here. No guns inside of the town limits. You going to comply? You and your outfit?”
“That'd be like going naked in freezing weather, Pickens.”
“There's pegs on the wall there. Good place for you and your outfit to hang up the guns. When you leave town, you can pick them up.”
“Pickens, we come to help out. What's in your head except bone?”
“I got a law that needs some attention. Tell you what, Cannon. You and me, we'll go out and tell those gents with you to bring in the hardware. That's what the rule is. It'll be safe here.”
I picked up a scattergun I had lying behind my desk.
Cannon saw how it was. His greatcoat hung heavily over his own artillery. “I never forget,” he said.
“Good. I guess you'll need to undo that coat one button at a time, while I stand behind you, and I guess you'll unbuckle your gun belt, and I guess you'll slowly let her drop, and turn around slowly with your hands high so I can see what else you've got. Then you'll head for one of them cells, you get your pick, and I'll write out a ticket, and maybe you can talk to Lawyer Stokesâhe's the only one we got hereâinto defending you.”
“You want to know what's gonna happen, Pickens? Those dudes out there, when they get wind of where I'm parked, they'll tear this jailhouse to bits, and maybe you'll be lucky to get your ass into the woods before they do.”
“Sounds like a threat to me, Cannon. My finger's itchy.”
“Hell, Sheriff, my fists are itchier. Tell you what, Sheriff. If I give you my word that I'll bring the boys in, and we'll hang our hardware there until needed, would that do?”
“No. That âuntil needed' part don't fly, Cannon. Until you're fixing to leave town. Then you get it back.”
“Fine way to treat friends, Pickens.”
“You gonna give me your word? And you gonna keep your outfit legal?”
“Wait until them Temperance women hear about this! Pickens, there's no worse terror walking the earth than a Temperance woman. They scare the hell out of me, and they'll turn you into beeswax if they choose.”
“You gonna give me your word?”
That room sure turned quiet. The bore of my pump shotgun never wavered.
“I can't speak for them others,” Cannon said. “There's some that got born sucking on a gun barrel. There's some that consider their hardware their real, true private parts.”
“You'll bring 'em in here and see to it that they hang their hardware on those pegs, and you see to it that they don't go out and buy more, and you see to it that you keep your word. If I need armed men on New Year's Eve, I'll decide. Maybe I'll ask you to arm. Maybe I'll even swear you as a posse. But that's my decision, not yours. If I let you walk out of here, do you agree to it?”
“You got me between a rock and a hard place, Pickens. Them women . . . they're expecting us to do our job. We don't get paid until we do it.”
I shrugged. “Well, go pick yourself a cell, Cannon.”
“I want to think about it.”
“This is double-aught buckshot, Cannon. That greatcoat won't stop it.”
Cannon sighed, stared, and finally whined a little. “I thought we'd be tight as ticks. We came to help out, and now this.”
I waggled the shotgun.
“Oh, all right, dammit. I'll agree.”
“You go write that down in the daybook. Put a date to it, December 29, and you agree to leave your arms here in the jailhouse and you're going to make all the rest of your outfit bring theirs in right now. And sign it.”
Goose Cannon twitched and headed for the daybook, where there was a nib pen and ink bottle awaiting him. “You mind if I just put an X in there?” he asked.
“Why an X?”
“I can't think of all them letters and how to push them into a line.”
“You're a man I understand,” I said. “I got to shape them all up myself. But no, an X won't do. You'll write the thing down. Or we can wait until my deputy, Rusty, comes in, and he'll do it and witness your signature.”
“Well, crappola,” Cannon said. He dipped the nib into the inkpot and began his task in block letters.
“How do you make a small A?” he asked.
“Just make it smaller than a tall A,” I said. “Ain't any need for a college education here.”
Cannon sweated and licked and blotted, and then shoved the log to me. It sure was a mess. But it did say, in crude print, that Cannon would leave his guns there and get the rest hung there real quick. He signed it with an X.
“That'll do, Cannon. This here's a quiet town, and you keep it that way.”
Goose Cannon nodded, hung his matched revolvers on a peg, and fled. I thought the man was as slippery as a greased pig. Now I'd see if Cannon intended to keep the rest of his agreement and bring in the rest of those sidearms. It sure would be entertainingâif it happened.
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Goose Cannon didn't return. He didn't bring his men in. No one showed up with a wheelbarrow full of gun belts and revolvers and rifles. I waited around, growing more and more morose. Rusty, damn him, was getting smirky over in his corner. The winter sun began to plummet, and still Cannon stayed away.
“You got took, Cotton.”
“Looks like I did.”
“You shoulda known better. Man like Cannon, you can't trust him as far as the outhouse.”
“I did what I thought was best.”
“Yeah, you trust people too much. You figure some skunk like that's really okay inside, and he'll not lie to you. Sometimes I wonder about you, Cotton.”
“You picking on me?”
“Yep. You got hardwood between the ears sometimes.”
“My ma used to say I made up for it.”
“Well, you've got a gun ordinance and twenty armed men out there. And getting 'em in and their guns hung up, man, you've got a problem, Cotton. Too bad you didn't just lock the man up and hide the key.”
“Yeah, too bad,” I said. I wished Rusty would shut the hell up.
“We're peace officers,” Rusty said, and that somehow tickled him, and he started wheezing his pleasure at the thought.
“If you don't like it, you go out and round up those dudes and bring them inâall twenty.”
“You're the sheriff; me, I just mop out the jail. You're the one that's got the balls.”
Rusty was enjoying himself.
It didn't seem so funny to me. “I'm supposed to be tougher and harder than the rest. I'm supposed to make those toughs think twice, or maybe shake in their boots. I don't know why I'm supposed to; people just think that way. But this isn't a dime novel. This is real life. I'm no different from anyone else, Rusty. I just try to work things out, keep the town peaceful, keep people from being shot. I don't know how to be twice as tough as anyone else around here. If that's what it takes, then I'll give the job to you.”
“I don't want it.”
“I trust a man to keep his word, and you tell me it was a mistake and I'm dumb.”
Rusty turned silent.
“And if I threw Goose Cannon in the lockup, and his men started a war to get him out, you'd still be telling me I was dumb.”
Rusty clamped his lips shut, like he had vowed to keep them sewn up tight.
“And if I lose a fight now and then, you'll tell me I'm not fit, and you'll get a new sheriff,” I said.
Rusty industriously picked his nose.
I thought I'd go patrol. I would rather face the bitter weather than Rusty's cheery hostility. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, slid into a greatcoat, grabbed a sawed-off shotgun, and plunged into the cruel air. I headed into Wyoming Street, aware that the weather had chased sensible inside. If this evening was like any other this cold, I'd likely end up persuading the drunks to get out of the gutter before they froze to death. Drunks and cold weather seemed to go hand in hand. Usually, I corralled them all before their veins froze, but once I had failed to see a drunk lying in an alley. He didn't make it. He was so stiff the funeral parlor couldn't get him into a casket without a week of thawing. Maybe the cold weather was good. If it lasted through New Year's, there'd hardly be anyone braving it. Icy air would be more of a peacemaker than the Peacemaker holstered at my side.
There sure wasn't anyone wandering around. But then at Saloon Row I did see something a little odd. There was a pack train standing there. Five mules, all laden with stuff. Three of them carried wooden boxes, two to the mule, labeled
DUPONT HERCULES.
The other two mules carried other stuff, wrapped in canvas and tied down tight. I sure didn't know what was going on, but someone would. The mules were coated with a rime of frost and had icicles dangling from their muzzles. They were connected nose to tail by stiff lines. I dipped into the shelter of a recessed saloon door and waited, feeling my toes and ears getting frostbit.
DUPONT HERCULES.
The other two mules carried other stuff, wrapped in canvas and tied down tight. I sure didn't know what was going on, but someone would. The mules were coated with a rime of frost and had icicles dangling from their muzzles. They were connected nose to tail by stiff lines. I dipped into the shelter of a recessed saloon door and waited, feeling my toes and ears getting frostbit.
The waiting paid off when two gents in buckskins showed up. Both had coon-tail hats and big cloth overcoats. They looked as frostbit as the mules, and they looked around, as if to see whether anyone was out in the twilight.
“You fellers need anything?” I asked.
They eyed me, eyed my sawed-off shotgun, and got the general idea I was a lawman even if the badge was buried somewhere under layers of wool.
“Nah, we're just casing them saloons.”
“You mind telling me what's up?”
“You the sheriff?”
“Yes, Cotton Pickens.”
“Well, that's fine. We're on our way to do a little chore, and we stopped here to have a look at your town.”
“What little chore?”
These fellers were so frosted up and hatted down I could hardly tell one from the other, but they sure interested me.
“Oh, just a little task is all. Nothing for you to worry about, Sheriff. We'll just leave town and keep on agoin'. Now me and my friend, we're drinking men, so we stopped for a snort. We're about ready to vamoose.”
“You got names?”
“Oh, sure, I'm Ezra Panhandle, and this here's Scuffy Scruggs.”
“And what do you do?”
“We're powdermen.”
“What's that?”
“We work in the mines. We drill into the face, load a charge into each hole, usually a stick of Du Pont with a cap, and run some Bickford fuse out of there. We get them all timed to go off at the same moment, and when it blows, the muckers have more ore to shovel.”
“What are you doing in Doubtful?”
“Oh, just for a little while, Sheriff. We're here peaceable.”
“Powdermen? That's what you've got on the mules?”
“Oh, we always carry. If we didn't carry, we'd feel as naked as a shootist without his gun.”
“Could that stuff go off?”
“Sure could. If the stuff on them mules were to blow, there'd be no more Doubtful.”
“And you carry it around town? You think maybe you'd better get out of here?”
“Aw, it's tough to set it off. It's not like nitro. This stuff is safe. Maybe a stray bullet might set it off, but nothing else, especially in this cold. It's so cold here that this stuff is half dead.”
“A stray bullet. Along Saloon Row. Fellers, you bring that mule train over to Courthouse Square, and you and me are gonna have a little talk. You'd better tell me why you're here, who brought you here, and what you're planning to do.”
“Naw, we're on our way,” said Scruggs.
“I think you'd better walk in front of me and head for Courthouse Square. I think maybe we'll put all that explosive in a safe place.”
“It's safe enough. And you don't have a powder magazine in Doubtful,” Panhandle said.
“Tell you what. We'll get out of town right away. You can watch us go,” Scruggs said.
“No, I think maybe we'll have a little fireside talk.”
They shrugged, collected a lead line, and tugged the mules into the wind. The mules didn't like it, humped their backs, and made the DuPont cases dance on their backbones. But after a while, we all arrived at the square, and Scruggs tied up the mule outfit.
The powdermen headed inside, with me following, waving my sawed-off shotgun a little to hurry things along.
They stomped snow off and pulled hats from heads. It was the first real look that I got of the pair. Scruggs was short and thick; Panhandle skinny and bearded, with itchy fingers that kept flexing.
“Rusty, this here is Scuffy Scruggs and Ezra Panhandle. They're powdermen from the mines. They've got a mess of powder tied outside.”
“What do you mean, powder?” Rusty asked.
“Six crates of DuPont Hercules dynamite, and all the fixings.”
“Jaysas, I'm outa here.”
“Couldn't be safer,” Scruggs said. “It's just nitro and clay, formed into sticks. That's what dynamite is. You'd have trouble blowing up a house fly with it.”
“They won't tell me why they're here,” I said.
That stopped Rusty in his tracks. “They won't say?”
“Oh, it's not your business, long as we don't violate the law,” Panhandle said.
“I think it's our business,” I said. I waved them toward some wooden chairs. “Why were you on Saloon Row with that stuff?”
“We're just a couple of wayfarers, lost in the cold,” Panhandle said.
“You're a smartass. What were you there for?”
“To take a leak. There's an outhouse behind every saloon.”
“Where were you headed? What's the powder for?”
“You sure are a nosy one, Sheriff.”
That sort of fencing went on for several more minutes. It was plain that the powdermen weren't going to talk, and plain that I had no reason to hold them, and plain that they weren't going anywhere else. They'd come to Doubtful with the powder.
“All right, I'm escorting you out of town. We're going to move that powder far from here. Then you're free to return. Turk's Livery can care for the mules if you want.”
“We ain't separating ourselves from our powder. What right have you?” Scruggs said.
“Public safety. That's right enough. You coming or do we do it ourselves?”
That galvanized them. In short order, they headed into the blowing cold, with me right at their side. They chose a creek bank out a way and unloaded the dynamite in an obscure area concealed by shrubbery.
“If this gets stole, I'm suing you,” Scruggs said.
“That's better than blowing up Doubtful,” I replied.
I steered them toward Turk's Livery Barn and let them go with a warning. “I don't want to see you around here tomorrow. Got that?”
“We're free men; we'll go where we want,” Scruggs retorted.
I hastened back to the office, fearing that I'd frostbit my ears. The warmth was never so welcome. I hung up my greatcoat and warmed my hands in front of the cast-iron stove.
“What do you make of it?” I asked Rusty.
“If they were casing Saloon Row, maybe they were hired to blow up Saloon Row.”
“They sort of showed up from behind the buildings when I was looking for them.”
“Outhouses, like they say.”
“Maybe. But if you was thinking of blowing up a building with that stuff, I guess you'd not want to do it on Wyoming Street, in front of everyone.”
“Cotton, why is it that once in a while you make sense?”
“Rusty, my friend, your shift is about to get harder. We're going out.”
“On a night like this?”
“Yep, colder than a frosted pump handle. You and me, we're heading for Saloon Row, and we're going to look for those powdermen and keep an eye on them. We're going to find them, and sort of ignore them, but keeping a sharp eye. I want to know why they're in town and what they're up to, and that means spoiling all the fun in a mess of saloons.”
“There ain't a barkeep in Doubtful likes us hanging around his place,” Rusty said.
“You take the north side and I'll take the south side.”
“You mean I got to go out in this?”
“Yep.”
“But I didn't put on my long johns.”
“Now you're stuck.”
“Are you going to carry?”
“No, but I'll keep my billy club under my coat.”
“I'll freeze my toes,” Rusty said.
“Serves you right.”
With that, we bundled up and braved the merciless cold. I checked shop windows along the way, but Doubtful was hunkered down, waiting for spring, and so were the burglars, holdup men, purse snatchers, vagrants, and ladies of the night.
I had chosen the south side so I could visit with Sammy Upward in the Last Chance, one of the few saloon men who was semifriendly with me. And that's where I headed first. Sammy usually knew a few things.
The Last Chance was plenty warm and well populated with the usual ranch crowd. Sammy knew how to do business on a winter's night: generous shots and plenty of heat from the glowing stove.
I waited at the far end of the bar until Sammy slipped over to me.
“You know anything about two powdermen in town?”
“I heard about 'em. One's skinny, the other's short and thick?”
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