Payback at Big Silver (16 page)

“Why, thank you, darling Rita,” Rudabaugh said politely, taking the hat. “Even though everything here is free for me, being the manager and all, I want you to know that I'm going to tell Edsel Centrila what a wonderful gal you are.” He grinned and bit down on his fresh cigar. The dove only gave a half curtsy and walked away down the long hallway.

Down in the saloon Rudabaugh's table by the window sat empty with a deck of cards half-scattered across it. The saloon was still busy, but less than it had been earlier in the day. Afternoon sunlight streaked in long from the west in the waning heat of evening. Rudabaugh met Delbert Swank as Swank turned away from the empty table and saw him coming down the stairs.

“Yeah, what is it, Delbert?” Rudabaugh said, tired of waiting for Stone to get drunk enough to kill quietly.

“Boyle says to tell you another empty bottle just flew out the door,” Swank said. His words ended as he fought back a beer belch.

“Jesus, it's about time,” said Rudabaugh. “I was about ready to say just charge the place—shoot him full of holes in broad daylight.”

“Sounds good to me,” Swank said with a slight beer slur in his voice. He started to turn toward the door. Rudabaugh grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Whoa, hold on,” said Rudabaugh. “I said I was
about to say it
, but I
didn't
say it, did I?”

Swank gave a bleary-eyed grin.

“No, you did not,” he said.

“Tell Boyle I said stay with it a little while longer,” said Rudabaugh. “I think Edsel will get a kick out of us killing Stone this way.”

Swank gazed over at the stairs and up to the second-floor landing.

“Is Harper still up there cooling his jangles?” he asked with a half chuckle.

“No, him and Ferry and Bartow rode off a while ago,” said Rudabaugh. He reflected for a second and said, “I still don't understand how Stone could have recognized him riding in that time of morning.”

Swank gave his beer-smeared grin.

“Good thing you convinced Stone that he
didn't
see him,” he said.

“Yeah, I did good,” Rudabaugh said, blowing out stream of cigar smoke. Then he straightened and said in a no-nonsense tone, “You men aren't getting drunk, are you?”

“On
beer
?” said Swank. “Phew, whoever heard of that?”

“Good,” said Rudabaugh. “Get back out there, keep me informed. Soon as it's good and dark, we're done with Stone for once and for all.”

The evening had darkened to a shadowy purple; the street had emptied of the day's traffic and trade. Lantern light spilled out the open front doors of the Silver Palace where Dolan and Boyle sat watching Delbert Swank walk toward them from the direction of the darkened sheriff's office. A row of empty beer mugs stood along the bottom of the front wall of the saloon beside empty chairs, the men having abandoned the chairs and moved down to sprawl on the edge of the dirty plank boardwalk. Laughter and piano music resounded.

“What'd you learn?” Boyle asked Swank as he walked back to them with his slight limp. “Why's it so dark? Is he too drunk to light up a lamp?”

“I don't know, maybe,” said Swank.

“Is he passed out?” Garby Dolan asked, his sharpened boot knife standing beside him stuck into the boardwalk beside a half-full mug of beer.

“Naw, he's not passed out,” Swank said. “The drunken fool is singing—talking to himself too.” He stopped and took his mug of beer when Boyle held it up to him. “You ain't going to believe this, but his gun belt's lying out front in the dirt by the hitch rail! I saw him throw it, gun and all!”

That caught Dolan and Boyle by surprise. They fell silent for a second. Finally Boyle cleared his throat and spoke as if in wonderment.

“You mean, the sheriff's gun belt is . . . ?” His words trailed in disbelief.

“Lying in the dirt out front,” Swank said, finishing his words for him. “That's right,” he added, shaking his head with a beer-induced laugh. “I never seen nothing like it.”

“Neither have I,” said Boyle. “It makes no sense.” He stood and dusted the seat of his trousers.

“No human being can drink two bottles of rye and still be up and around singing out loud!” Dolan said. He pulled his knife from the boardwalk and stood up beside Boyle. The three looked down the empty street. Even in the moonlit darkness they saw the door open at the sheriff's office. They saw the third empty bottle fly out and crash in the dirt against one of the other empties.

“All right, I've had enough of this,” Boyle growled. “We're going in guns blazing—killing this old peckerwood.”

“But I already sharpened this pigsticker real good,” said Dolan.

“Tough knuckles,” said Boyle. “You can cut him some when we're finished. Let's go!” He hiked up his gun belt and started walking.

“What about telling Rudabaugh?” said Swank.

“Last beers I went in and got, he was headed up the stairs again,” said Dolan, catching up to Boyle, walking alongside him.

“Jesus,
again
?” said Swank. “He must be part jackrabbit.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Boyle. “You feel like interrupting him, go ahead. Not me.”

They walked to the alleyway alongside the sheriff's office and stepped off the street. With their guns drawn they lined along the wall and listened intently for any sound inside.

“Why's it dark in there?” Boyle whispered to Swank.

“He's probably thinks he sounds better in the dark,” Swank said with a beer chuckle. “Look, there's his gun belt, like I told you.” He gestured toward the holstered gun lying in the dirt beneath the hitch rail out front.

Boyle looked at the gun in the dirt, then turned his gaze back at Swank and Dolan.

“I don't hear no singing going on,” he said in a suspicious whisper.

“I don't hear
nothing
at all,” Dolan put in, also in a whisper.

“Maybe he's drunk his fool self to death and saved us the trouble,” Swank said. He stifled a little beer laugh.

“That's
real
funny, Delbert,” Boyle said with sarcasm. He jerked his head toward the darkened office. “Get your laughing ass up to the front window and see what he's doing. I'm getting sick of all this.”

“I don't like doing this,” Swank said, peeping around the front corner of the building.

“Nobody cares what you like or don't like,” said Boyle. “Get moving. We've got you covered.”

Dolan and Boyles loomed at the corner of the building while Swank eased up onto the boardwalk and crept to the small window beside the front door. He crouched and looked inside under the bottom edge of a short curtain, then turned and slipped back to the alley.

“Well?” Boyle asked. “What's he doing?”

“Nothing,” Swank whispered. “The fool is just sitting in the dark at his desk, with his head bowed.”

“Sitting with his head bowed . . . ?” Boyle said, contemplating the matter.

“Yep,” said Swank, “with his head bowed. So, he's either praying or he's knocked-out drunk. Take your pick,” he concluded.

“We've spent too long on this fool. Let's get this done,” said Boyle, running a hand across his dry lips, “I've got a beer waiting.”

The three rushed around the corner of the building and stormed the office, guns drawn, cocked and ready, Dolan with his big knife also in hand. Boyle shouldered the door open as he twisted the handle and lunged inside, Dolan and Swank behind him, but spreading out once inside the door. They stood crouched, their guns out at arm's length pointed at the slump-shouldered character seated behind the desk.

“Wake up and die,
Sheriff
!” shouted Boyle. He aimed at the top of the sheriff's hat crown, Stone's head bowed toward them.

But the still figure at the desk didn't so much as stir at the sound of the loud voice. Boyle gave the other two a quick nervous glance. They stepped forward as one in the purple darkness.

“What's wrong with him?” Boyle asked.

“How the hell do I—” Swank's voice stopped. The three heard the floor creak behind them. They spun toward the sound in time to see the black hatless silhouette in the open doorway. Before they could shoot, they saw the small office light up in a flash of blue-orange explosions as both of the sheriff's shotgun barrels fired at once.

One blast sent Boyle and Swank flying backward over the desk, knocking out the chair that the sheriff had draped his hat and duster over. The other blast bounced Dolan off the bars of a cell and launched him forward, his face and chest filled with buckshot and iron scraps. He staggered dead on his feet. His upper half crashed through the front window and hung there. Boyle lay dead on the other side of Stone's deck. Swank, badly wounded, dragged himself frantically toward the open door.

“Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” he screamed.

Too late. . . .

Stone had tossed the shotgun aside and drawn his Colt from his waist. He cocked it at Swank as the dying man made it half out the open door. Along the dark street, lamps had come on in windows and doorways. Drinkers stepped out of the saloon onto the boardwalk and the street. All over the waking town, faces looked toward the sheriff's office in dread. They flinched as three revolver shots exploded, causing more blue-orange flashes from the open door of the small darkened office.

“Poor fool's drunk, shooting up the town again,” Bernard Aires said under his breath. He turned and shook his head and walked back inside his house at the far end of the street. From the open front window above the Silver Palace, Silas Rudabaugh leaned out and craned his neck to see what was going on. All he could see was a drift of burnt powder looming in the purple darkness above Stone's office. On the street below, townsmen moved toward the office with caution.

“Three dead, Rudabaugh,” Stone's voice called out. “Come on down here. Make it an even number.”

Three dead? Jesus!

Rudabaugh quickly did the math. If there were three dead, he was the only one left here. He saw the townsmen dash for cover as the sheriff hollered out the invitation.
Huh-uh
, this was no place to be right now, he told himself. Damn Harper and the other two for riding back out to the hideout. Damn Boyle for making a move without telling him first. Rudabaugh jerked his head back inside the window and started snatching his clothes from a chair where he'd laid them.

“What's going on? What was the shooting?” the English dove, Rita Spool asked, sitting up in the bed with a sheet pulled across her breasts.

“Nothing's going on—what shooting?” Rudabaugh said in a hurry, yanking his trousers up, stuffing his shirt down into the waist.

“I heard shooting,” Rita said firmly, not to be put off.

“Okay, the sheriff shot some fellows, it sounds like—”

“Rudabaugh . . . ,” the sheriff's voice called out again. “Don't be shy. I'll do all the work.”

“That son of a bitch,” Rudabaugh growled, yanking on one boot, then another. He stamped them into place and threw on his dusty black linen suit coat.

“He's talking to you, isn't he, then?” Rita said, cocking her head curiously.

“Yeah, sort of,” said Rudabaugh. He grabbed his gun belt hanging on the bedpost. He started to swing it around his waist, then changed his mind and threw it up onto his shoulder. “Look, I've got to—got some business to take care of.”

“Are you going down there like he said?” she asked.

“Probably, maybe, I haven't decided yet,” he said, grabbing his hat. He stopped and took a deep breath. “Don't ask so damn many questions. I'll be back real soon.”

“I can hardly wait,” Rita said, sounding a little insincere. She'd spent most of the afternoon with him—hadn't made a dime for herself. The house charged for her services and paid her half—in Rudabaugh's case it was half of
nothing
, so far.

“Neither can I,” Rudabaugh said on his way out the door.

Bounding down the stairs and toward the rear door, he looked over at the two bartenders who stared at him from behind the empty bar, the customers having left to investigate the shooting.

“Look after this place until I get back, Phil,” he shouted, crossing the floor. “You're both doing a fine job.” He slung the rear door open, looked back and added, “Keep up the good work.”

The good work . . . ?

The head bartender, Phillip Jones, and his younger brother, Ellis, looked at each other.

“I've never seen a man fall apart so fast,” Phil said. As he spoke he took out a pencil stub and pocket notebook. “He's like a kid turned loose in a candy store.” He scribbled something into the notebook and closed it and put it in his hip pocket.

“We need to get our own place,” said Ellis. “That's all there is to it.”

•   •   •

Mae Rose had heard the gunshots as she tied her two carpetbags together and threw them up over the rump of the big speckled gray, a rented horse she'd arranged for earlier with the livery hostler. The shotgun and following pistol explosions caused her to hurry. Stone had told her to keep going and not look back—all right, she would do just that.

She'd rented the horse earlier from the livery hostler and paid extra to have it returned to Big Silver when the opportunity presented itself. She had changed out of her brothel attire and put on some no-nonsense trail clothes. She carried a .36 caliber Navy Colt shoved down in her waist that Stone had given her for protection a year ago. The trail to Secondary was known as nothing more than barren sand, rock and dry washes, but she wasn't taking a chance on coming across a stray panther or a wolf in the moonlit night.

She hurriedly tied the bags down with some short lengths of rope and had started to lead the horse from the barn when she halted, seeing Silas Rudabaugh run in through the open doors.

“Everything's all right, miss,” he said, seeing the frightened look on her face. He held up a hand as if it would reassure her. “Some trouble on the street. Nothing to worry about.” He took hold of the gray's bridle and held on to it.

“Turn loose of my horse,” Mae Rose said flatly. She jerked on the horse's reins, but Rudabaugh held firm. She thought about the Colt shoved down in her waist, but she decided against grabbing for it. If she pulled it she knew she'd have to use it, and this wasn't the time or place.

“Hey, you're one of our Silver Palace gals,” Rudabaugh said, finally recognizing her in the faded trail clothes. “Where are you going?” He looked suspicious of her.

“Back to Denver City,” Mae Rose said. “My mother is ill. I'll be gone a month, maybe longer.”

“Yeah?” said Rudabaugh. “I've never met a dove yet who really had a mother—least not one aboveground.” He nodded at the bulging carpetbags. “Looks like you're taking everything you own.”

“Maybe I am, what of it?” said Mae Rose. “Turn loose of my horse.”

“Huh-uh, not just yet,” said Rudabaugh. “You're not leaving here until I see that your account is settled. Can't have you running off owing the Palace money, can we?”

“I don't owe the Palace anything,” Mae Rose said. “My account was clear when Edsel Centrila bought the place—go check for yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” said Rudabaugh. He added with a stiff grin, “In my own sweet time.” He stepped in closer and said, “You're one of the couple of gals I haven't managed to get
well acquainted
with the past couple of days.”