Wyoming Slaughter (8 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Wyoming Slaughter
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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
The weather turned mild December 31, which annoyed me. I figured that bitter weather would make for a peaceable New Year's Eve and the start of the big dry in Puma County. If it was twenty below, law enforcement would be a lot simpler. But no, I was betrayed by a south wind, which raised the temperature into the forties.
I had a bum job that morning. The county supervisors had printed up a mess of flyers about the new law, and Amos Grosbeak had told me to post one on every road leading into Doubtful and then hand one out to each place in town that served booze. That was worse than going to the dentist.
I had been to the dentist once, and the dentist, Willis Hogbranch, had poked around and then told me my mouth was odd; I had no wisdom teeth. “That's what my ma always told me,” I had replied. “But you can pull some others if you want. I got through fifth grade with them.”
“If your wisdom teeth ever come in, you come see me,” Hogbranch said. “I want to record it for posterity.”
But I never got wisdom teeth, and now I had an armload of flyers to put up or hand out. I got a hammer and tacks, and put up a few on fence posts around the edges of Doubtful. I figured the first cowboy to ride in would rip down the sign. But if that's what the supervisors wanted, I'd do the job.
Next I headed for Saloon Row. It was still morning, and I wasn't sure how many flyers I could hand out when most of the places were locked up. But Sammy Upward was in the Last Chance, so I handed one to Sammy, who was restocking his bar.
Sammy spread it on the counter, read it, and then ripped it up. He didn't quit until he had ripped it into little pieces, and then he took the pieces, put them in an ashtray, and burned them.
“We've been friends, Cotton, but I'm warning you: don't come in here this evening, and don't shut me down. That law's going to be a dead letter real fast.”
“I do what I got to do, Sammy.”
Upward turned his back on me and continued unloading bottles.
It sure wasn't going to be easy, passing them flyers out. And that was just for starters on this fateful day. I decided to cut through the alley to the bordellos. They were always open, and I could pass out the flyers over there. The bordellos sure looked quiet, with the sun warming their front porches, and all those busy gals snoring away after a hard night. It looked as peaceful as a Sunday school picnic there, but by afternoon things would be a lot different. Even on a cold day, there would be ladies sitting in the windows, smiling at fellers.
I thought maybe I would start with the smallest place first. That was Serena Sopworth's house down on the end of the line. It actually was a fine clapboard house, elegant by Puma County standards, with a big porch as well as four bedrooms, a parlor, a kitchen, and a well-stocked bar with a mahogany backbar. Serena was an Englishwoman from Manchester, and I liked the way she talked. She charged plenty, had pretty girls, and her clients were mostly Puma's businessmen. Cowboys couldn't afford Serena's wares, and she didn't really want cowboys in her comfortable place. There were even lace doilies on her armchairs.
Serena was the youngest of the madams on the line, and I figured she had yet to reach thirty. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but she had a slim, imperial body that plenty of men noticed.
I rapped a couple of times and a man in a black suit opened up for me.
“I need to talk to Serena,” I said.
“Of course, Sheriff,” the man said, waving me into the well-appointed parlor.
It took a few minutes, and when the lady appeared, she was wearing a gold robe, and her chestnut hair was tumbled about her neck. She sure looked just as pretty that way as she did all gussied up.
“I'm delivering these here flyers, Serena. They're written notice that you got to shut down the bar at midnight.”
“Oh, let's see,” she said. “Would you mind reading it to me? I don't have my spectacles.”
“Ah, it just shuts down the bar is all.”
“Well, you read it anyway.”
“Ah, you can go ahead and read it when you get your specs.”
“No, I'll have my man come in and read it.”
The man in the suit materialized mysteriously, and Serena handed him the sheet.
“Notice. Be it enacted by the supervisors of Puma County that on the first day of January, 1883, it shall be illegal to possess, buy, sell, distribute, or manufacture spiritous liquors, wines, beer, or any other liquid or solid that contains grain alcohol.
“Be it further enacted, that all places of sale and distribution for such proscribed goods shall cease commerce, and as of January one, all licenses to engage in that commerce shall become invalid.
“Be it further enacted that the fine for any of the above infractions shall be up to five hundred dollars and three months in jail, and further offenses may be punished with fines up to one thousand dollars and a year in jail.”
The man handed the sheet back to Serena and vanished into the rear of the place.
“There sure are a mess of fancy words in there,” I said. “My tongue just don't wrap around some of them proper. Now you take that word
proscribed
. It's real hard to separate it from
prescribed
. And I don't get the difference between
infraction
and
infection
, but maybe you can help me get her squared away in my head.”
“That's what I love about you, Cotton.”
“Well, just because I get tongue-tied doesn't mean you got to love me, Serena.”
“But I do, Cotton, even if you don't know the first thing about women.”
“I keep hearing that. Mrs. Twining, she says I haven't got to first grade when it comes to women.”
“Well, she's right, Cotton. You have a lot to learn. But that's what I love about you. You're such a fine, handsome man, so full of beans. If I can borrow a term from the Americans, you're a fine old fart.”
“Oh, you can borrow it, all right, and I can cut loose any time if it needs proving.”
“Really? You can do it at will?”
“Absolutely. I'll let one rip.”
I cut loose with a long one that sounded like a railroad engine hissing steam.
“Oh, my, Sheriff,” she said. ‘I've never heard the like. You're a great improvement on British men.”
“It's the only talent I've got,” I said. “I can win any contest in any saloon in Doubtful. I did one for six seconds once. Word sure got around Doubtful. There's no one in town can match that. That was like rolling thunder. It made me famous. Well, I gotta go hand out flyers.”
“Please don't go, Sheriff. I'd love to have you stay. If you've got a few minutes, you could make me very happy.”
“With more toots?”
“I know the secret of life. A tooting man is good in the sack. It never fails. In my trade, you learn a few things.”
“Serena, I don't know nothing about women.”
“I'll teach you, sweetheart.”
“Some other time, okay?”
She looked kind of pouty. “I don't know how you got into office, Cotton Pickens.”
“Fast with a gun,” I said.
“And slow with everything else,” she replied.
I nodded and slid out just when she was about to plant a wet kiss on my aching lips. But I escaped into the pleasant sunlight and headed toward the rest of the bordellos, where I had no trouble handing out the flyers. It was plain that the madams were going to comply with the new law. They said they'd shut down their bars and pack up the bottles at five minutes before midnight, then steer their customers upstairs. They didn't like shutting down, but that wasn't their main business, so they could live with it. But they sure were nervous about what those female voters would require next. The whole world was changing fast.
I thought of Serena Sopworth and wished I hadn't been so hasty. She was the only woman I'd met who didn't mind if I gassed the whole room. That was worth a lot. Maybe I should marry her. I'd greet her with a wall-banger every time.
The afternoon was bright, and I thought most of those saloons would be open and I could unload my flyers. I pretty well knew what would happen, but I had a job to do and I would do it. I tried Mrs. Gladstone's Sampling Room first, knowing they'd be civil before tearing up the flyer. I saw Cronk, the tinhorn, manning his green baize table at the rear and then found Mrs. Gladstone herself supervising the restocking of the bar.
“Howdy, ma'am. I've got a flyer for you. Supervisors want it passed around.”
She eyed me. “I'm busy. Read it to me while I get these bottles up.”
“It just says what's legal and what's not beginning at midnight, ma'am.”
“And what's the fines?”
“Five hundred and three months first offense. A thousand and a year after that.”
She pulled two more bottles out of a case and settled them on the backbar.
“I should go into the cathouse business,” she said, and returned to work.
“I'll leave it right here, ma'am.”
I put the flyer on the bar and walked out, knowing there were some in there who were watching my every step.
I headed for McGivers and found a new barkeep in there, a man I'd never seen in town. This one had jet hair combed straight back and had big hands on a skinny body. The bar was well stocked. The place had an overhead light well that threw sunlight into the room, which made it a lot more cheerful than most saloons. The man wiped his hands on a bright white apron and waited.
“I'm Pickens, sheriff here. You new?” I asked.
“I'm Addison McGivers, nephew of McGivers himself.”
“Well, you won't be employed for long,” I said. “This here place has to shut its doors at midnight.”
“Who says?”
“County supervisors passed a law. Here she be,” I said, laying the flyer on the bar top.
“Read it to me, Pickens.”
“Ah, you just get someone else to do that. I gotta make the rounds.”
“What you're saying is, you can't.”
“I can read her all right, except for a few words. But I ain't got time for messing around. This is the big night. I've got to get all my troops lined up.”
Nephew McGivers smiled, wiped those knobby hands on his apron, and plucked up the flyer.
“Pretty stiff fines, Sheriff.”
“That's what happens when women get the vote,” I said.
“Amen to that. Now are you coming around at midnight? I need to know.”
“I got to shut down Saloon Row when the new law starts up, Addison.”
“Call me Mr. McGivers. I save my first name for friends.”
“I'll call you Nephew. Yes, I'm coming, and I'm going to do what the law requires of me.”
“You're likely to get hurt.”
“I guess I knew that when I pinned on the badge.”
McGivers smiled suddenly. “You go ahead and do your job, Sheriff. I don't blame you. I blame the supervisors and their law. There's some around the row that blame you. They say you should just look some other direction, keep a blind eye on this place. What they're saying is, you should just be a toad and ignore your duty. I'm not one of them. You go ahead and do your duty, and we'll go ahead and try to throw that new law into the creek, drown it like a sack full of kittens.”
“I'll be alone, except for my deputy. I haven't got any surprises for you. I haven't sworn a posse and don't plan on it. My first task is to keep the peace. Anyone breaks it, he'll get a trip to my jail.”
McGivers smiled crookedly. “Good luck, Cotton Pickens.”
“It won't be luck. It'll be people around here with common sense who won't let this thing blow up.”
“Speaking of that, we hear there's some powdermen floating around.”
“There are, and they've disappeared. They have six cases of DuPont hidden somewhere.”
“Sounds like an exciting evening, Sheriff.”
“I'da preferred a real cold spell, but it's not in the cards,” I said.
“You mind telling what those circus wagons are for?”
“Some home-grown vigilantes brought them, and I've been looking for them.”
“Little portable jails.”
“It sure is getting interesting around here. You see an armed man anywhere, let me know, all right?”
“Maybe,” said McGivers. “Maybe not.”
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
Doubtful felt like a powder keg with a lit fuse. I prowled restlessly, looking for trouble, trying to find those two powdermen, hunting for the vigilantes I knew were filtering through town. But I saw no armed men on the streets. When the saloons opened, I plunged into each, looking for sidearms, but I simply saw nothing menacing. The cowboys from surrounding ranches were riding in, and the hitch rails were already full of broncs bearing several brands. The early-bird cowboys were already tossing down redeye and would probably be inert, sleeping it off in Turk's hayloft before midnight even rolled around.
But I was as itchy as chickenpox and didn't trust the peace for one instant. Finally I headed back to my office, wishing I had been able to thwart the trouble I knew was coming. But who was there to arrest? The ranch hands were settled back. The various outfits all had their favorite saloons, and that was good because it meant less brawling. But you never knew when some snockered cowboys might decide to visit the saloon next door to show that other outfit a thing or two.
“Any trouble?” Rusty asked.
“There ain't nothing but trouble out there.”
“How many fistfights? How many murders?”
“Oh, go to hell, Rusty.”
“I don't see you collaring anyone.”
“It's only four in the afternoon. See if I'm collaring anyone around eleven.”
“If they all ride in, we'll have about three hundred drunken cowboys on hand,” Rusty said. “That should make the night entertaining.”
“You'll stay here and handle the traffic, and I'll go out. I figure nothing much will happen until ten or eleven. And then, who knows?”
“You sure you don't want a posse?”
“No, they'd have guns, and I won't have it. No guns. This is a tinderbox. My business is keeping the peace. And that means keeping drunks from going for guns.”
“You'll carry, though.”
“No, Rusty, I'm going out with a badge and that's it. This ain't a night for guns.”
“Seems a little crazy to me. You'll want all the powder you can get before the night's over. You can bet that every saddlebag on every horse has got some sort of gun in it.”
“And that's where they'll stay if we use our heads.”
“You should carry a scattergun, anyway.”
“It'd just start wars, Rusty. No guns. And that includes me.”
“How you gonna drag a drunk into those cells without one?”
“I'll manage.”
Rusty sure looked worried. He was bursting with objections, but I just glared at him. I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing. A part of me wanted to carry a shotgun and a brace of revolvers. Another part of me said that there'd be some new graves out in the cemetery if I did that.
I headed back out on the streets late in the afternoon as the winter sun was sinking. It sure seemed quiet enough. The hard drinkers were already guzzling, but I saw no bunches of rowdies collecting in front of saloons looking for wild times. The mild air helped. It was above freezing, and everyone was happy. The horses were yawning, dozing at the rails, sometimes with a leg cocked.
Maybe, just maybe, the night would go peacefully. But I sure had an itch that was beyond scratching. I walked the alleys behind the saloons, watched boozy cowboys head for the stinking pisspots, eyed the cathouses slumbering in the winter's light, and finally watched the sun drop below the mountains and bathe the world in a final purple light.
So far, none of them vigilantes were floating around, which was good. It got dark fast, just a few days after the winter solstice, and by five it was full night. I prowled, ready to spring on trouble. But there was none.
I got to disbelieving my own senses. Three hundred drinking cowboys just didn't add up to no trouble. And they were still coming in. I watched big bunches of them ride up, hunt for hitch rail space, and sometimes make do with other arrangements. One outfit strung up a picket rope between two buildings and hooked their critters to it. It sure was getting crowded in Doubtful, but that was fine. The merchants would put some cash into their tills. And still there was no trouble at all. You'd think they were all serving sarsaparilla.
By eleven, the drunks were falling from the bar stools. Just about when I was ready to drag some of them to jail, their pals would escort the wobbly-legged ones to their ponies, hoist them up, settle them in the saddle, hand them the reins, and slap the horses. The barn-sour beasts would head home, with the loaded cowboy reeling like a dying top onboard but managing to hang on from sheer instinct.
“Guess that takes care of that,” one of the ranch hands said, eyeing me. “Saves you a trip uptown.”
“I guess it does,” I said. “And there's no way that feller's gonna freeze up with that much booze in him.”
Between eleven and midnight that was becoming routine. All I had to do was stand around while the cowboys loaded other limp cowboys onto their nags and sent them into the night.
But at eleven thirty there was a fistfight at McGivers; two real mean drunks were flailing each other while the crowd watched silently. Usually the crowd howled and encouraged, but this time no one was doing that. They were too intent on downing the last redeye they'd see for a long, long time.
I stepped in and separated the two. They were both too loaded to resist, though one bounced a fist off of my cheek, which bruised me some.
“Taking you in,” I said. But neither of the pugilists rose, and it became plain that they couldn't rise and that walking uptown was not in the cards. And it wasn't worth it.
“Stretch 'em out on the planks and let 'em cool down,” I said. “And when they cool down, put them on their nags. I want them outa here.”
Some of the cowboys seemed happy to oblige. They hauled the carcasses outside, onto the plank sidewalks, and laid them down side by side. Both had bloody noses and one had a split lip, and the other was missing a piece of earlobe. Both had sore knuckles. They lay on their backs, staring up at the night sky, enjoying the ribald comments of the crowd.
Several cowboys from rival ranches hung around insulting the hapless warriors, which was fine. The bloodied men sprawled on the boards had earned it. Most everyone headed back inside for a final drink, and the barkeeps were pouring doubles even before being asked.
Time sure was running short. I peered around, hunting for trouble, hunting for those vigilantes, but I didn't see an armed man on Saloon Row. I wondered whether to get Rusty so the two of us could control the mob. But I decided against it. I wanted Rusty back at the jail. It got to be ten minutes to midnight, the brink of the new year, the beginning of prohibition in Puma County, and still nothing happened. I had it figured now. All them drinkers and saloonkeepers, they would do nothing at all. Let the good times roll.
But then about two minutes ahead of the hour, according to my pocket watch, a platoon of men, all in dark clothing, flowed like India ink into the district, each armed with a shotgun and revolver. Where the hell they came from I couldn't imagine. I headed toward the bunch, but even as I approached the platoon fell apart, two men posting themselves at each saloon, shotguns at the ready. It was an army maneuver, plotted out in advance. And suddenly there was a hell of a silence on the street and a dampening of sound in the bright-lit saloons.
I hastened to the ones nearest me.
“Come along now. There's a law against carrying arms in Doubtful,” I said. “You head for the jailhouse. Either that or surrender those guns. Right now. On the ground.”
They ignored me.
The others ignored me. I felt strong hands clasp me from behind.
“Don't resist, Sheriff. There's a ticket to hell waiting for you if you do.”
It sure was getting quiet in all the saloons. A few men peered through the glass into the dark street.
“Is it midnight yet?” one of the dark-clad men asked.
Another, his face shadowed, pulled out the watch and tilted it toward the light spilling from the saloon. “Exactly,” the man said. “Happy New Year.”
“You're resisting arrest,” I said, feeling like I was addressing a fence post.
“You stay out of it, and you might live,” the shadowed man said. “We're just helping you enforce the law, Sheriff. Call us a posse. Call us friends. Call us the strong arm of the law.”
“I'll call you men in big trouble,” I said.
Then another strange thing happened. Some guys with megaphones showed up. They opened each saloon door, lifted their megaphones, and addressed the revelers. But it was so quiet in the saloons that they didn't need megaphones at all.
“Head for the alley, watch the fireworks,” the ones with the megaphones were yelling. “See the biggest show in town.”
No one in the saloons moved. They stood at the bar, drinks in hand. They sat at the tables, drinks in front of them. The barkeeps stared, uncertain about it all.
“Watch the outhouse fly,” yelled one with a megaphone. “And then watch the saloons fly.”
That didn't make sense, but I couldn't do much about it, not with cold steel pressing in my back and two or three men pinning my arms. Finally, slowly, a few men headed for the rear alley, then more, and finally a hundred, from all the saloons lining the alley behind Wyoming Street. The men in black pushed me down a gap between saloons to let me see whatever was coming.
They sure were quiet. This was the quietest New Year's Eve ever seen in Doubtful.
“As the outhouse goes, so goes the saloons,” said one guy with a megaphone.
A light flared near the biggest outhouse back there, a four-holer behind the Last Chance. Then a sizzle, sparks, a moving flame, eating its way through snow and muck, heading straight for the outhouse.
And then
kaboom
. A blinding flash, ear-splitting noise, white light, the outhouse rising into the night, falling into a thousand bits, stuff splattering everyone around. I got hit with some of that crap, and it didn't smell good. It dripped down my cheek and fell off my hands.
The shattered outhouse rose high and tumbled back to earth, even as the roar quieted down.
“Holy crap!” someone yelled.
The powdermen had been busy after all.
“Now, get out of the saloons. They're all ready to blow,” yelled one guy with a megaphone.
“Jaysas,” said a cowboy. He raced toward Wyoming Street to collect his ringy horse and get out. Then others were following. Soon it turned into a rout, those remaining in the saloons busting through the door to get out, running for their panicky horses, running as fast as their wobbly legs and booze-soaked lungs could take them. They climbed awkwardly into the stirrups and kicked their steeds away. The men in black didn't stop them; they waved the cowboys on until there were only the echoes of hoofbeats in the night.
That was the durndest thing. One minute three hundred cowboys were ringing in New Year's Eve; a few minutes later the whole lot were collecting their horses and getting the hell out of Doubtful. It hardly took five minutes. Horses with riders on them vanished into the night.
“All right, you barkeeps, you get out, any still inside the saloons,” the megaphone man yelled. “And don't try to be a hero. There's DuPont under every saloon, ready to blow.”
One by one the reluctant barkeeps filed out of their saloons, some rubbing their hands on their bar aprons, most of them looking weary and defeated. The saloons looked forlorn, lamps guttering in the flow of cold air. Half-emptied glasses everywhere, a strange sadness issuing from them.
“Everyone out?”
“No, there's one in McGivers.”
The shadowed men peered inside, and I did, too. Young Addison McGivers stood defiantly behind the bar, his arms folded, his white apron bright in the lamplight, unbudging.
“You, get out. The fuse gets lit at the count of three. One . . . two . . . three . . .”
A light flared around the back, on the alley. The fuse caught and hissed. McGivers saw the spitting sparks snake toward his uncle's saloon and bolted, making the street just as the saloon lifted bodily into the night sky and settled down in ruins. The explosion echoed through all of Doubtful, an odd, hollow thunder. The percussion slapped me hard. The tired old saloon settled back on its lot, a pile of rubble, dark in the night. McGivers stood in the street, tears in his eyes. It was over. Swiftly, the men in black pulled out hatchets and swept into each saloon, smashed bottles, crushed glass, chopped open casks and kegs, raided storerooms. In only a few minutes there was no spiritous drink left anywhere on Saloon Row. Prohibition had arrived right on schedule. The inkblot platoon slipped silently into the night, taking their wagons with them, and at the last they freed me.
“You see?” said one shadowed man. “We did it all for you. And not a life lost.”

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