The big gundown (5 page)

“Take it easy, Sheriff.” The Kid had spotted the badge pinned to the shotgunner’s vest right away. “The shooting’s over.”

“Damn right it’s over. If there’s any more guns goin’ off, it’s gonna be this greener o’ mine! I said show me your hands!”

The Kid slid his Colt back in its holster. He didn’t like pouching the iron without reloading it first, but under the circumstances he supposed it was the best thing to do.

“I’m not going to drop these pups,” he told the lawman. “I can’t very well shoot anybody with them, though, so I reckon you’ll have to be satisfied with one empty hand.”

The sheriff stepped out farther onto the loading dock. “Don’t you go gettin’ smart with me, boy. You’re gonna march right down to my jail. I’m lock-in’ you up.”

A tall, thick-bodied, balding man in an apron followed him onto the dock. “Why would you do that, Stewart?” he asked. “We both saw what happened. The stranger killed Paxton and Rawley in self-defense.”

“I don’t abide killin’s!” the sheriff snapped. “I’m puttin’ this fella behind bars until there’s an inquest.”

“Yeah, well, you know what the coroner’s jury is going to say. I’ll testify that Paxton and Rawley drew first, and that the stranger was just defending himself. You’ll be wasting your time and the county’s money locking him up.”

Sheriff Stewart turned his head to glare at the store owner. The Kid figured that’s who the man in the apron was. Stewart said, “I don’t like anybody tellin’ me how to do my job. You may be the mayor of Bisbee, Carmichael, but I work for the county, not the town!”

“I know that,” Carmichael said, “and I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job. I’m just saying that it’s pointless to put this man in jail tonight and turn him loose tomorrow.” He glanced at the bodies of the two dead gunmen. “Besides, nobody’s going to lose any sleep over those two. They were born troublemakers.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” Stewart admitted grudgingly. He looked at The Kid again. “You plannin’ on ridin’ out of town tonight?”

“No. I’ll be here for a day or two, at least.”

“You’ll be here until after the inquest tomorrow, that’s for damn sure. I want your word on it.”

“You’ve got it,” The Kid said.

The sheriff finally lowered his scattergun, and once the twin barrels were pointed toward the ground, he eased the hammers back down. He was on the short side, a middle-aged man with a brushy mustache and what seemed to be a perpetual glare. He gave The Kid a curt nod and said, “I’ll fetch the undertaker. Don’t give him any more work while you’re in Bisbee, if you know what’s good for you.”

If The Kid knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t be in Bisbee on the trail of a gang of vicious, murdering sons of bitches armed with a damned cannon, of all things, but he didn’t explain any of that to Sheriff Stewart. Instead he just returned the lawman’s nod.

The store owner, Carmichael, motioned to The Kid as Stewart headed up the street with the greener tucked under his arm. “Come on in. I’d like to talk to you.”

The Kid had been headed into the general store anyway, so he followed the proprietor inside. A few customers were clustered just inside the entrance, peering out curiously.

“It’s all over, folks,” Carmichael told them. “You can go on about your business now, especially if your business is buying merchandise from me.” He grinned.

The little knot of people dispersed. Carmichael gestured for The Kid to follow him toward the back of the store, where there was a long counter. Carmichael went behind it and pointed to a stool in front of it.

“Have a seat, Mister…?”

“Morgan,” The Kid supplied, without adding the rest of it. He held on to the pups.

“You can set ’em down if you want. I don’t think they’ll get into too much trouble.”

“That’s all right. They’re pretty hungry. They might start looking for something to eat.”

“Well, we can take care of that. Got some beef scraps they can have. Are they big enough to eat something like that?”

“I don’t know. They’re not really my pups. I sort of…inherited them. I’m looking for a good home for them, as well as some information.”

“About dogs?”

“About a man,” The Kid said. “Colonel Gideon Black.”

A scowl appeared on Carmichael’s normally friendly face. “I know the name. Don’t really know the man, though. Don’t want to, either.”

“Why not?”

Carmichael hesitated. “I don’t want to say anything against the man, in case he’s your friend.”

“He’s not,” The Kid assured the storekeeper. “I never met the man.” Technically, that was true, although he had laid eyes on the colonel once. “I promised some people I’d look him up, and I was told that he’s been here in Bisbee lately.”

“That’s true. He’s been in and out of town several times in recent weeks. I don’t really know the man myself, so I shouldn’t make any judgments as to his character. I’m just going by the company he keeps.”

“Bad company, huh?” The Kid asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Carmichael nodded toward the street. “Those two gunnies you just tangled with out there…”

“Colonel Black’s men?” The Kid asked, somewhat surprised.

“Not really. They wanted to be, but I reckon Black turned them down. They didn’t ride out with him the last time he left. Plenty of other hard cases did, though. That’s why I don’t care much for the colonel. He’s surrounded himself with gunmen. Outlaws and hired killers, if you ask me.”

The Kid nodded. So far, Carmichael hadn’t really told him anything that he didn’t already know, except that Paxton and Rawley had been would-be members of the colonel’s gang, and that Black had found them wanting for some reason.

They hadn’t been fast enough and tough enough, more than likely, and Black had sensed that somehow. The Kid hadn’t had much trouble disposing of them. Black’s men had to have more bark on them than those two.

“You think he’s liable to take offense at what happened to Rawley and Paxton?” The Kid asked.

“I don’t know. Like I said, they didn’t actually ride with him. They’re the reason I wanted to talk to you, though.”

“What about?” The Kid asked warily.

Carmichael placed his hands flat on the counter. “There’s getting to be more and more of that sort of men around here. Bisbee’s always been a pretty rugged place, but it’s getting worse. The county sheriff has always handled law and order here in town, too, but the town council and I have been thinking that it’s time to hire a city marshal. To be blunt, I’d like to offer you the job, Mr. Morgan.”

The proposition took The Kid by surprise. “You just met me. You don’t really know anything about me.”

“I know you’re mighty slick on the draw, and you didn’t even think about backing down when those two started to ride you. That’s the sort of man we need to keep the peace here in Bisbee.”

The Kid’s first impulse was to laugh. Pinning on a lawman’s badge was just about the last thing he ever wanted to do. Wearing a badge meant wearing a cloak of responsibility and respectability, too. He didn’t want to be tied down, and he didn’t want anybody looking to him to solve their problems. Whenever he stepped in and took a hand in something, he did so because it was his own choice, not because it was his duty.

He settled for shaking his head and saying, “Sorry, Mayor. I’m not looking for a job right now. Not that kind, anyway.”

Carmichael’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right, you said you were planning to look up Colonel Black. I reckon maybe I misjudged you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Maybe you did.” The Kid paused. “But I’m still looking for a good home for these pups.”

“Well…I might be able to help you out there. It so happens I’ve got an eight-year-old grandson here in town, and I think he’d love to have a couple of fine little pups like these.”

“He’ll take good care of them?”

“I’ll see to it.” Carmichael held out his hands, and The Kid gave him the puppies. The storekeeper shook his head. “No offense, Mr. Morgan, but I never figured a man who can handle himself in a gunfight the way you did out there would be so worried about a couple of pups.”

“Like I said, I inherited them from somebody special. I want them to have a good life.”

“They will. You’ve got my word on it.”

The Kid nodded and started to turn away. “I’ll probably be back before I leave town to stock up on some supplies.”

“You’ll be welcome. And Mr. Morgan…?”

The Kid looked at him.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Carmichael said, “but if you’re bound and determined to meet up with Colonel Black, he spends a lot of time at a place called Augustine’s when he’s in town. It’s a couple of blocks up on the right.”

The Kid nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Maybe I’m hoping that when the colonel finds out you killed Rawley and Paxton, he’ll try to even the score for them.”

A cold smile tugged at The Kid’s mouth. “You’re thinking that he’ll kill me?”

“Or you’ll kill him.” Carmichael shrugged. “Either way, I think Bisbee might be better off.”

“You could be right,” The Kid said.

The Kid scratched the pups behind the ears by way of farewell, then left Carmichael’s store and headed up the street, leading the buckskin. It didn’t take him long to spot Augustine’s. The place was big and brightly lit, obviously one of the leading saloons in Bisbee. In a mining town like this, where there were probably more saloons than all the other businesses put together, that was saying something.

After looping the buckskin’s reins around a crowded hitch rail in front of Augustine’s, The Kid stepped onto the boardwalk and pushed through the batwings. Not surprisingly, it was loud and smoky inside the saloon. Chandeliers made from wagon wheels hung from the ceiling, each with half a dozen oil lamps mounted on it casting a harsh glare over the big room. The long hardwood bar ran down the right side. Poker, faro, and roulette were set up on the left. The area in between was filled with tables and chairs where miners with grimy faces and hands and equally grim clothes sat and drank so they wouldn’t think about the tedious, dangerous life they led underground. At the far end of the room, a staircase with an ornately carved banister led up to the second floor with its balcony that overhung the bar. As The Kid paused just inside the saloon’s entrance, he watched two whores in gaudy, spangled dresses leading customers upstairs, while a miner came down the stairs with a big grin on his face and fewer coins in his pocket.

The Kid had seen dozens of saloons like this, although to be fair about it, Augustine’s was one of the biggest and best-furnished he had run across since he started drifting. Of course, it couldn’t hold a candle to some of the establishments he had patronized in Boston, New York, Chicago, Denver, and San Francisco, back when he hadn’t cared who knew that he was a rich man.

He was still a rich man, but he didn’t flaunt his wealth now. Just like his father, the money was important to him only because it allowed him to keep drifting without having to worry about how he was going to pay for his next meal or the supplies to carry him over the next hill.

He spotted an empty place at the bar and started toward it. It had been a long, terrible day, and he intended to chase away not only his thirst but also some of his weariness with a mug of what a sign over the bar proclaimed to be ice-cold beer.

Before he could reach the bar, though, a man ran into his shoulder with a heavy jolt. The Kid had to take a quick step to the side to keep his balance and not fall down.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” the man growled. He was a miner, a tall man whose shirt bulged from the massive, slab-like muscles on his arms and shoulders, muscles that had developed from years of working with a pick and shovel.

“Maybe you’re the one who should watch your step, mister.”

The words came out of The Kid’s mouth before he could stop them, but even if he had thought about it, he would have spoken up anyway. He had learned from Frank Morgan and from life itself not to go looking for trouble, but not to back down from it, either. The Kid came by that honestly.

The miner stopped and swung around to glower darkly at him. “What the hell did you just say to me?” he demanded. He had a faint accent that marked him as being English. A Cornishman, maybe, The Kid judged. He had been to England several times, but he was far from an expert on the accents of people who hailed from that island nation.

“I said you should watch your step.” The Kid nodded toward the bar. “And while we were talking, someone else got that empty spot we were both after.”

He had guessed that was the miner’s goal, and the way the man’s head jerked toward the bar confirmed it. “Blast it!” the man said. “If you hadn’t run into me, you American lout, I’d be there drinkin’ now.”

The Kid didn’t care for that “American lout” comment. After all, the miner was over here working in an American mine, being paid American wages. If he didn’t care for the country and its citizens, he could always go back where he came from.

But The Kid wasn’t going to start a fight. He started to step around the miner. “There’s room for all of us.”

The man’s hand came down hard on his shoulder. “No, there ain’t,” he said as he hauled The Kid around and swung a mallet-like fist at his head.

The miner’s problem was that all those muscles might give him incredible strength, but they also slowed him down. The crowd around the two men suddenly began to clear as the saloon’s customers scrambled to get out of the way. The Kid weaved to the side and let the big fist sail harmlessly past his ear.

He stepped in and hooked a right into the miner’s belly. That was usually where the soft spot was on big galoots like him.

In this case, though, it was like punching a brick wall. The Kid almost yelped from the pain that shot through his knuckles as he drove them into iron-hard stomach muscles.

The miner just grinned at him, grabbed him by both shoulders, and flung him hard against the bar.

The edge of the hardwood caught The Kid in the back, forcing him to bend over backwards. The impact against the bar knocked the breath out of him, and he was stunned and gasping for a second. That gave the miner time to lace his fingers together and lunge at The Kid, bringing both hands up and swinging them like a club at the young gunfighter’s head.

The Kid recovered just in time to roll away from what would have been a devastating blow. The miner’s fists crashed down on the hardwood. The Kid pushed away from the bar and threw a punch of his own. It caught the miner on the ear and stung. The man howled furiously.

It never occurred to The Kid to draw his Colt. The miner was unarmed. He was also just as tall as The Kid, and was heavier and had a longer reach, giving him the advantage. The man waded in, swinging wild punches.

The Kid was able to block some of the blows, but some of them got through and rocked him. Luckily, the punches that landed were all to his body. If any of the miner’s head shots had connected, in all likelihood the fight would have been over. As it was, The Kid was pinned back against the bar. He was vaguely aware that everyone in the saloon was shouting. They were probably yelling encouragement to his opponent, since the other miners would know him and The Kid was a stranger.

As he tried to slide along the bar and shift position, his left leg suddenly threatened to buckle. He had worked hard and then ridden a long way, and it had been less than a week since he’d been shot.

The Kid had seen the heavy, lace-up work boots the miner wore. He knew that if he went down, it was entirely possible the man would stomp him to death.

The little lurch he’d made when his leg twinged had caused one of the miner’s punches to miss. The man was close, his breath hot in The Kid’s face. The Kid lifted his right fist in a vicious uppercut that landed cleanly under the miner’s chin. It might not have done too much damage if the tip of the man’s tongue hadn’t been protruding between his front teeth at that instant.

But as it was, those teeth came together sharply, and blood spurted as they bit completely through the tongue, severing about a quarter of an inch from the tip. The miner staggered back, roaring in pain as blood bubbled over his lips from the mutilated tongue.

The Kid went after him, not giving the miner a chance to recover. He swung a left and a right and another left to the man’s jaw, rocking his head back and forth with each punch. A stiff right jab landed on the miner’s mouth. The Kid kicked him in the knee, and as the miner started to bend over, The Kid bulled into him, driving him backward. The miner lost his balance and fell, landing on his back on a table that collapsed under him, its legs splintering. He crashed to the floor in a welter of debris and lay there stunned with his bloody tongue sticking out of his mouth.

Chest heaving, The Kid looked around. All he saw were unfriendly faces. He had been right in his guess about the shouts. The sentiment in the saloon was definitely against him. Angry, dirty-faced men began to sidle toward him. His hand moved toward his gun. There was no way he could fight more than a dozen miners, especially as beat up as he already was.

“That’ll be enough, gentlemen!”

The deep, powerful voice cut through the angry muttering that filled the room. A stocky, heavy-jawed man in a dark suit came along the bar. The miners stepped back to let him by, even though he was unarmed and smaller than most of them. Judging by the man’s expensive clothes and the air of command about him, The Kid pegged him as the owner of the saloon. As such, the miners wouldn’t want to cross him, even though he was interfering with their fun.

“Next round is on the house,” the man announced, confirming The Kid’s hunch that he was the owner.

That offer was enough to defuse the situation. The miners dragged their fallen comrade into a corner and propped him up at a table. One of them reached down and picked up something from the floor, regarding it intently for a moment before he flicked it into a spittoon. The Kid knew that the item was the bitten-off tip of the miner’s tongue. Oh, well, the hombre didn’t have any use for it anymore.

“I’m Charles Augustine,” the man announced as he stood in front of The Kid. “Why don’t you come with me? I’d like to buy you a drink.”

The Kid looked around until he spotted his hat lying on the floor. He picked it up, brushed off the sawdust, punched it back into shape, and settled it on his head.

“That’s liable to get you in bad with this bunch.”

Charles Augustine smiled. “You think I’m worried about that? I have the coldest beer, the finest whiskey, and the prettiest whores in Bisbee. As long as those three things are true, those miners don’t care what I do.”

The Kid knew that was probably true. He followed Augustine through the surly crowd. No one tried to stop them or even slow them down. Augustine led him through a door at the end of the bar, along a short hallway, and through another door into an opulently furnished office dominated by a big desk and a square, massive safe. Augustine went to a small bar in the corner and picked up a crystal decanter half filled with amber liquid.

“Brandy all right?”

“Fine,” The Kid said. He had come into the saloon to get a beer and maybe find out something about Colonel Gideon Black, and instead his temper and some bad luck had gotten him into a brawl. He would settle for brandy instead of the beer, but he still hoped for some information about the man he was looking for.

Augustine poured brandy into a couple of snifters and brought them over to The Kid, who took one of them. Augustine clinked the glasses together and said, “To the best fight I’ve seen in here in, oh, at least a week.”

The Kid sipped the brandy. It was like liquid fire and kindled a welcome blaze in his belly. “You have a lot of fights in here?”

“I don’t discourage them. I always collect damages, from the mining companies if not from the miners themselves. They like to blow off steam when they come to town. A little fracas every now and then is good for business.”

The Kid nodded and took another sip of the brandy. He noticed Augustine studying him with a canny expression but didn’t really think anything about it until the saloon owner said, “You’re not who you’re pretending to be.”