Winchester 1886 (14 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

The marshal's words ran through Jimmy Mann's head again.
Got one
? Jimmy had not killed The Tonk. The half-breed had been shot dead by his pard, his boss—the man whose life he had saved.

Jimmy nodded. That had to be how things had played out—which meant Danny Waco had only Gil Millican riding with him.

For now.

As Shirley Sweet stepped into the hotel room with a platter of food and coffee, Jimmy stared at his heavily bandaged hands.

 

 

 

On that November morning, Peggy Crabbe woke to find the pitchfork leaning against the dirt wall. Satan himself had left it there before daybreak. He'd walked out of the soddy wearing his winter coat and carrying the shotgun.

Cold and tired, she sat up in her bed, watching the dirt tumble down the quilt and fall to the floor. The door pattered with the howling wind, and, despite the fire burning—the Devil, always adept at building fires, must have stoked it before he left—she saw her breath. The temperature must have dropped forty degrees since yesterday, and it had been cold yesterday.

Funny, she never thought hell would be so cold.

When she found enough resolve to face another lifeless day, she pushed off the dirty quilt, swung her feet to the cold dirt floor, and looked again at the pitchfork. It had turned again into the rifle, that big Winchester that fired those big cartridges.

For one moment, as she made herself stand, made herself walk to the fireplace where the coffeepot rested on a hearthstone, Peggy Crabbe had a lucid moment. She even felt sane. And she thought,
Could I take that rifle, put the barrel under my chin, and somehow pull the trigger?

It sounded so easy, but she knew she would never have the courage to do such a thing. Not yet anyway. Not until she killed Satan.

With
—the thought made her stop as she bent down to pick up the coffeepot.
Kill the Devil with his own pitchfork.

When she straightened, she looked at the rifle, which again had become a pitchfork. The tines beckoned her like a finger, coaxing. She could even hear the angel's voice, telling her how easy it is to kill Lucifer, to save the world, to save all of those souls—even her own—simply by killing this evil, evil monster. It would be so easy. So simple. And then, as the extreme sacrifice, once the Devil was dead, once she had shot him and cut off his head, she could sacrifice herself. Put the rifle barrel under her chin, lean back, reach down, and push down on the trigger.

And walk the Streets of Gold.

It felt heavy. Weighed much more than she had expected. She lifted the Winchester '86, surprised at how cold the barrel felt. Even in the freezing soddy, the rifle was cold. Being the pitchfork of the Devil, Peggy had expected it to be hot to the touch. Even the walnut stock and forestock chilled her.

She moved back to the bed, sat on it, resting the Winchester on her lap. Her fingers slipped inside the lever, and she tried slowly to move the lever, yet found she lacked the strength. She pulled her hand out of the lever, gripped it with her fingers, and jerked the lever away from her. Even that was difficult, but she heard the clicks, heard the demons screaming, and felt something pop against her.

The big .50-caliber cartridge lay between her legs, and she picked it up—the brass also felt frigid—studied it, then let it fall onto the dirt at her feet.

Pushing the lever down felt much, much easier. When the lever lay back in its normal position, all the screaming stopped. She looked at the gun, brown and black and gold. And silver. The firing pin, or whatever it was, waiting for the cocked hammer to strike.

It had no smell, this rifle, this pitchfork. This tool of Satan. She let go of it, and looked at it, marveling at it. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the fire crackled. She examined the fireplace, feeling the shroud of coldness blanket her until she shivered. She knew. She should go to the fireplace, stoke it, toss on some of the logs the Devil had left to keep her warm. Yet that was just a trick of his. To make her leave the pitchfork, his tool, on the bed. Then he could return, and take the rifle. Use it to kill her. To take her soul.

She would not give him the chance, and in an hour or so, the fire died.

Crabbe had warned her. Told her she must never let the fire go out. Said something about a hard winter coming, a big freeze—early, but deadly—and one did not want to let the sod house get cold. That, he had told her, was how folks died. Died . . . froze to death . . . in their own homes, even though a soddy could be downright comfortable in the hardest of winters, and cool in the hottest of summers.

She did not believe him, of course. She had not been comfortable since she had left La Crosse.

Peggy remained on the bed. She forgot about the fire, forgot about the freezing temperature. She looked at the pitchfork in her lap, watched it change again into a Winchester. When she touched it again, it no longer felt cold.

The hammer remained cocked. She saw the scars on the wood, the big dent in the walnut just underneath the rear sight, the smudges and fingerprints on the iron, steel, whatever they made guns out of.

Her right hand fell onto the stock, moved forward, and her fingers slid inside the guard, her thumb found the hammer. Her left hand found the forestock, and she tried to lift the rifle.

The Devil was strong. Fighting her. Making it hard to raise the Winchester, but she had the Lord on her side, and the strength of the Apostles, of John the Baptist, of the saints, and even the sinners who wanted to escape from purgatory, from perdition, from all the levels of hell. The rifle came up, shaking, but up.

Pressing her left elbow against her chest, she managed to keep the Winchester balanced, level—more or less—and she slipped the stock against her right shoulder.

Outside, the wind blew.

The demons howled.

Dirt fell onto her hair from the roof, onto the unmade bed she sat on. The door rattled. She could not hear the mules but knew they must be moaning, kicking impatiently, waiting for her to break the ice in the trough so they could drink, waiting for her to feed them.

Feed them?
When the mules ate better than she did?

The candles her husband, Lucifer, had lighted before he had left that morning, had blown out, or gone out, and the soddy turned dark. She could see only the light of day shining through the cracks in the door, the cracks in the ceiling, the holes in the wall.

For all of eternity, Peggy waited. She refused to obey the demons screaming at her to put the rifle against her head, to end her own life. She refused to go to sleep, to answer nature's call, even to throw the quilt over her shoulders.

She sat on the bed, kept the rifle pointed at the creaking, moving door, and waited. Her fingers grew numb, the rifle seemed to add weight, but all of that merely made her focus her resolve. She knew what she had to do, and knew that great would be her reward in heaven.

Sometime later—how much later she could not fathom—she heard Lucifer's return. He cursed over the wind. Stamped his boots. Yelled at her. Asked if she were all right. She saw the door moving, a movement that could not be caused by the wind, and Peggy Crabbe pulled the trigger.

The report deafened her, like all the souls trapped in the hereafter screaming, and she had not prepared herself for the Winchester's kick. That crescent-shaped stock seemed to break her shoulder in two, and as she fell backward, her hand slipped from the lever, and the barrel came up, slamming hard against her face. The sight ripped into the bridge of her nose, and she felt the cartilage give way—then she was somersaulting over the bed.

Something slammed against what passed as a bedpost. The rifle. Or was it a pitchfork again? Peggy didn't know, but she no longer held the Winchester. She landed on the sod floor and felt more dust fall into her eyes. Her nose was busted. A knot formed on her forehead. Her shoulder throbbed. Her fingers on her right hand ached. Her wrist felt as though someone had tried to rip off her hand.

Peggy tasted blood.

She smelled the brimstone of Hades.

And outside, she heard the Devil's curses.

She had not killed him after all. Lucifer would surely kill her.

 

 

A patch of ice saved Matt Crabbe from getting his head blown off. Trying to force open the door to the sod house, he slipped—just as a bullet blew a hole through the wooden door and warmed his right ear—and landed hard on the frozen ground.

His ears rang. He rolled over, cursing, coming up, and pressing his back against the sod wall. Both legs and his left elbow ached. He grabbed the shotgun and pulled it close.

From inside their home, the big Winchester '86 roared again, and another chunk of wood flew a good rod from the soddy before disappearing in the snow.

He knew it was his rifle—well, the rifle the soldier boys had given him. He cursed himself for leaving it behind. He should not have brought the shotgun, but, by jacks, he hadn't thought some scoundrel would go into his home.

Then . . . the thought struck him. What had that ruffian done with Miss Peggy?

“Who are you?” he yelled. “What've you done with my wife?”

No answer.

He feared for his bride, maybe trapped inside with some scalawag. Maybe . . . maybe . . . He shuddered at the thought.

“I got a shotgun, a rifle, and two Colt's revolvers!” he lied. “And if you don't haul your sorry carcass out of my home, I'm gonna kill you deader than a doorknob.”

He came up, moving toward the door, thumbing back both barrels on the shotgun. Silently, he cursed his luck. He had loaded the shotgun with birdshot. Strong enough to bring down quail, maybe a duck or two—if he had found them.

Crabbe thought of something else. When he had left that morning before daylight, it was cold. It had not warmed any. The clouds had continued to dump snow and ice for three or four hours, and the temperature continued to plummet. He had acted like some greenhorn settler, not considering a winter storm. Had not prepared for this, though his Mackinaw and gloves kept frostbite at bay. For now. But not for much longer.

If he did not get inside that cabin, he was dead. “You best come out of there!” he yelled.

A few moments later, the wind died down and the ringing left his ears just long enough for him to hear “Go away.”

That was no scoundrel. No thief or vagabond.

“Please . . . go . . . away.”

He mouthed her name.
Peggy
. It was his wife who had fired two shots through the door. He yelled, “Miss Peggy . . . it's me . . . your . . . husband!” He breathed hard, seeing his icy breath.

“No,” she called out. “You're the devil!”

For weeks, Crabbe had tried to convince himself that Peggy was fine. Newlywed jitters and all. Nothing to worry about. She'd been through a lot, after what had happened at Monument Rocks. But she would bounce right back. She had to. Those faraway looks in her eyes, the vacant stares, and the crazy-woman talk was nothing. She was a schoolteacher, by grab, and . . . and . . . and . . .

He cursed himself for a fool.

“Miss Peggy,” he called out. “It's me, Matt.” He set the shotgun down, stock in the small snowdrift next to the soddy, barrel leaning against the frozen wall. He inched his way to the door, took in a deep breath, and pushed it open. “It's me. See.”

He saw all right. He saw the Winchester aimed, saw his wife holding the big rifle, and he swore he even saw the muzzle flash. She was bleeding. Her nose busted. He saw that, too, and felt the bullet rip between his right arm and his side. The kick of the big gun knocked her backward. He saw all that while he cursed and jumped to the side, slipping again in the snow. His head hit hard, but luckily the snow pile was softer.

He came up, shaking out the cobwebs, refusing to believe the thought that flashed through his mind. Pulled himself up to his knees, moving with the wind, feeling the snow on his back and neck.

Inside, he saw his wife, saw her on her knees. Fear masked his face. His throat contracted.

She had the Winchester butted on the sod floor, had the barrel under her chin, and she was reaching for the trigger.

Matt Crabbe came up. He wanted to yell, but didn't have the voice or the courage. He moved through the doorway and leaped over the end of his wife's bed. His outstretched right hand grabbed the Winchester's burning hot barrel just as the rifle boomed again, and he landed on the floor, hand burning, and pain shooting through his shoulder. He couldn't hear anything but the ringing in his ears that felt as if it would never cease. He smelled the gun smoke, the urine, and the foul odor of this ugly, horrible home he had built for his wife.

He cursed himself for stupidity. He had brought her, the woman he loved, to this hellhole. He had driven her mad.

And maybe, he thought, as he lifted himself up, he had damned himself for all of eternity.

Maybe, he had driven sweet Miss Peggy into taking her own life.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

 

Bundled up against the cold, Shirley Sweet stood at the Union Pacific depot when the westbound pulled into town. As was his style, Colonel Tom C. Curtis stepped off the train, bowing as he removed his oversized Stetson—and the wig almost came off with it—with those extravagantly beaded gloves.

Shirley was already smiling, but she was thinking,
How did I ever manage to hitch my future to this scalawag and fraud?

Marshal Theodore Munroe was also at the depot, and he intercepted the good colonel before Shirley Sweet had a chance to move. “You can put that hat back on, Mr. Curtis, because you won't have time to hang it in Ogallala.”

“Why, my good man—” Curtis began in his booming voice.

“You're not ‘good-manning' me, Curtis. You're not kissing any babies. You're not running out of any hotel leaving a bill it would take me four months to pay off. And you sure aren't setting up your stupid show in my town.” Munroe reached into his pocket. “I even bought you a ticket. West. Get back on board, Curtis.” He shoved the ticket into the colonel's big hat still in the faker's hand and stepped back. He opened his black coat, revealing the big Schofield in its holster.

Of course,
Shirley thought,
the good marshal didn't act this brave when Danny Waco was in town.

The engine hissed, squeaked, and belched smoke while porters helped arriving passengers with their grips and trunks. Loved ones greeted each other. Others bid friends and family farewell.

When the commotion diminished, and carriages and farm wagons took passengers to hotels, homes, or saloons, Colonel Tom C. Curtis finally found his voice. It went from thunderous orator to demurred jailbird. “Is it all right, Marshal . . . if I have a few words with my associate yonder?”

Munroe chanced a look at Shirley. His face registered surprise.

“You know this fool, Miss Sweet?” the lawman asked.

“Unfortunately,” she said.

Munroe shook his head. “Train leaves in fifteen minutes, Curtis. If you're not on it, twenty minutes from now you'll wish you were.” The lawman walked away, but did manage to tip his hat as he passed her.

“How was the jail in North Platte?” Shirley asked Curtis as he dragged his feet, defeated, in her direction.

He pasted on that fake smile of his underneath a walrus mustache. The mustache was real. The goatee was glued on. “I have struck worse. And I have spent time in better. How things been here?”

She shrugged. He would ask her for money. Yeah, she knew Tom C. Curtis better than the quirks of her firearms.

But the faux colonel studied the ticket. “This'll get me to Julesburg, Colorado.” He sounded disappointed.

“Did you expect the marshal to splurge and send you to San Francisco?”

Sticking the ticket in his coat pocket, and putting the hat back atop his wigged head, he shook his head in disgust. “You do enjoy your jokes at my expense, don't you?”

“At my expense,” she corrected. “When's the last time you paid me one quarter of that thousand-a-month you promised me eight years ago?”

“Well . . .” He turned, looking past the depot at the gray sky and the rolling plains that stretched along the South Platte River. “Julesburg.”

“Want to set up there?” Shirley asked.

“Nah. We were there three years back. Remember?”

Of course she remembered. It was mighty hard to forget that tar and those feathers. A couple patches on her thighs still bore scars.

“Besides,” the colonel said, “I've got us booked up around Fort Meade. Thought we might winter there.”

“Where's Meade?” Shirley asked.

“South Dakota.”

“Winter . . . in South Dakota?”

“Deadwood ain't far from there.” He faced her again. “How's your poker and faro?”

She had to laugh, shaking her head. “Where are the boys?”

“On their way with the wagons. Had to sell one of them. To pay the fine.”

“Had to sell a wagon? Or one of the boys?”

“Don't be smart. They should be here in a few days. Providing that the weather holds.” Curtis stamped his feet, then looked at her with those boyish, pleading, Mama-loving eyes. “You want to buy a ticket? Come with me to Julesburg?”

Her head shook. “I think I'd better stay here. So the boys will know where to go. We'll meet you at Meade.”

“Town's called Sturgis. Used to be known as Scooptown, because folks scooped up their pay from the fort. This winter, we'll scoop up a ton of money.” He said it as if he truly believed it, causing Shirley to shake her head in wonder. “Reckon I'll see you there.”

“Safe travels,” she told him. “Don't get tarred and feathered . . . again.”

Curtis shook his head. “I bet that blowhard of a lawman sent me there a-purpose. Knowed what they done to me back in '91.”

She kept quiet.
Me?
They had tarred and feathered the whole troupe.

He started back toward the train, even made it a good rod, before he stopped, turned, and came back to her. “You wouldn't happen to have . . . say . . . twenty dollars or so I could borrow, would you, Shirley?”

 

 

 

She came to her knees, smelling the pungent odor of sulfur, thinking she was in hell, and raced through the open door. Once she stepped outside for the first time that day, the bitter cold snapped her thinking, and she slipped on that icy spot, falling to her knees, landing in the snow.

“Miss Peggy!” a voice called, and she recognized it as that of her husband.

She pushed herself up, staring at the whiteness, the purity of heaven, and the tears began to fall, burning her cheeks. “My God. My God . . . my God . . . my God . . .”

Peggy shook her head, heard the snow crunching and the heaving of a man's lungs, and smelled that sour odor of Matt Crabbe. He sank beside her in the snow.

She looked up at the heavens, feeling the snow stinging her face, and then felt her husband grab her, pull her to her feet. “I must have lost my mind,” she said, bawling on his shoulder.

Odd. She no longer minded his smell, or the cold, or that dark hole in the earth that they had called their home.

“It's all right, Miss Peggy.” He spoke in a quiet whisper. His hands, rough, callused, but certainly not cloven hoofs, felt gentle. She cried even harder.

She had tried to murder her husband.

She had tried to kill herself.

Somehow, she had even thought that this gentle, kind man was Satan, that he had tried to lead her to the eternal pit.

It wasn't his fault that their homestead had failed. What had she done to help? Sit in bed? Read Jane Austen or Honoré de Balzac? Mope around the place? Pity herself?

Yet her husband was telling her, “It's my fault, Miss Peggy. I knowed how you was feelin'. Knowed you didn't like it here. When I couldn't find no game, nothin' fit to eat, I shoulda packed us all up and left this awful place.”

Peggy made herself move off her husband's shoulder. She didn't feel cold, though it had to be pushing single digits out there. A mule snorted, and she laughed. He was probably cursing her. She hadn't fed them, and they had not had any water. Wiping her nose, she looked into her husband's eyes. They were so gentle. Full of love.

For her.

“You probably want to have our marriage annulled,” she told him. “I wouldn't blame you. Being married to a lunatic.”

“You don't say that, Miss Peggy . . .” he told her, speaking forcefully. “Don't say that at all, Miss Peggy.”

Her smile grew, and she put her hands on his broad shoulders. “Not Miss. Please . . . call me Peggy.”

She kissed Matt Crabbe. She knew she had made the right choice in picking her husband. They would leave this place, this pit of despair, and they would try to start over. If that proved possible, if her mind recovered, if her husband did not abandon her as he should. But he wouldn't. Matt Crabbe would start over, too. Most likely, he would leave that awful rifle behind.

She had almost killed him with that Winchester. Had almost killed herself. Let it rot. Let it be buried in the soddy that had, for a while at least . . . along with that wind that didn't seem to be blowing so bitterly hard anymore . . . driven her insane.

 

 

 

The doc, a portly man with a patch over his left eye and a wicked-looking scar that ran crookedly from the bottom of that brown leather oval all the way to his chin, managed to pluck the stitches from both of Jimmy Mann's hands. Didn't even hurt too much.

By December, Jimmy was sick of Ogallala, sick of Nebraska, sick of the cold, sick of just about everything—except Shirley Sweet.

Doc Gurney was one thing, but Shirley made a mighty fine nurse. She had sent the rest of her Wild West show northwest to Fort Meade, giving the boys and a decrepit old bear instructions to tell Colonel Curtis that she'd be there when she felt like it. And she had nursed Jimmy back to health.

A few days after the solstice, the skies cleared and morning dawned cold but passable. She took him to the outskirts of town and set empty whiskey bottles on posts. “Reckon you can shoot?”

Jimmy looked at the scars on his hands, flexed his fingers. The left hand remained numb, without any feeling. Doc Gurney had said he'd likely never have much feeling in that hand, but he wasn't crippled. Jimmy didn't mind the severed nerves. In fact, he kind of liked that lack of feeling. It matched the rest of his mood. “Let's see.”

She went to one of her long trunks in the back of the livery wagon they'd rented and opened it. Out came a Winchester in practically mint condition. “Here.”

When Jimmy took the rifle she offered, he smelled the oil, the grease. Doubted if the weapon had ever been fired more than a handful of times. He studied the rifle, instantly feeling the pain, the sadness, and wished the rest of his body could be like his left hand, without any feeling.

“It's an '86,” he told Shirley.

“Uh-huh,” she said as she brought out her Rolling Block. “Short rifle. Twenty-four-inch barrel. Shoots .45-70 gov'ment.” She opened the grip she had also brought, tossing him a box of shells.

He caught the cartridge box in his right hand, rested them on the gate of the wagon, and looked again at the rifle.

The stock was walnut with a satin finish, deep grains, gorgeous, a work of art—like Shirley Sweet. The grip was straight, the crescent butt plate steel. He knew the front sight, its brass bead made by Marble Arms, and he pushed up the rear sight.

“Lot of gun,” he said, his words ringing hollow. He saw his brother, lying dead in an express car in the Cherokee Nation. He saw his nephew at home in Texas, waiting for the present Jimmy had promised him.

He dammed those feelings, opened the box, and withdrew a long cartridge, which he fed through the loading gate. In an easy motion, he jacked the round into the chamber, brought the weapon up, bracing the butt against his shoulder. Sighting on the farthest bottle, he pulled the trigger.

“Jiminy!” Shirley blinked away her surprise. “You don't waste no time now, do you?”

Smelling the pungent odor of gun smoke, he cocked the rifle, lowered the hammer, sat on the wagon, and began feeding eight shells into the Winchester. When that was done, he levered the carbine, lowered the hammer again, and put in a ninth shell.

“This is just target shootin', honey,” Shirley said.

He didn't listen. Nine shots later, he reloaded the Winchester and walked to those posts, taking with him a sack of whiskey and beer bottles. He moved with a purpose, brushing off the busted glass, replacing the targets—Jimmy had not missed one—and returning to the wagon.

The horse snorted, uneasy, unnerved by the gunfire, but the brake was set, and Jimmy had placed rocks in front of the wheels as added insurance to keep the rented livery Percheron from running back to town.

“Do I get to shoot?” Shirley asked.

He shrugged. “Go ahead.” He sat again on the wagon, staring at his hands.

“They hurt any?” she asked him.

Jimmy shook his head. His shoulder didn't hurt, either, and it had been a long time since he had fired a rifle.

“I got three Winchesters, this Rolling Block, a Savage, two shotguns, and a Creedmoor,” Shirley told him. “But I shoot targets.”

She aimed, fired, and busted the top off one bottle. Reloaded. Shot again, hitting the glass again, but not dead center. Just nicking off another chunk of glass. Three shots later, there wasn't enough to shoot at.

“That's what folks pay to see,” she told him, walking to the wagon. Sitting next to him, she brought out some cleaning supplies and began working on the target rifle. “Small caliber, I can do them kinds of things.”

“Usually, I don't shoot at bottles.”

“Yeah.” She slammed an oily batch down the barrel with a ramrod. “Your targets shoot back. That's how come you got laid up these past few weeks with them ripped up hands of yours.”

“You've been a good friend,” he told her, adding, “Shirley.”

“Got a soft spot for untamed souls and fools.”

“Which am I?”

She smiled and fished a fresh cartridge from her vest pocket. “I ain't rightly sure.”

“Danny Waco killed my brother.” He hadn't told her that, merely that he was a lawman chasing a train robber. Jimmy wasn't even sure he had meant to tell her, but the words had shot from his mouth, and he couldn't take them back. “Murdered him.” He looked at his hands. “Blew his head off . . . for no good reason.”