by A. W. Hart
“Want to take the shotgun to the blacksmith and get the barrel shortened?” Reno asked.
“Yep, but you killed the best one. Best when he was sober and not beating the dickens out of somebody. But we have a couple left to choose from.”
“Good, George. Let’s do it, and you can pack the street cleaner on the rest of our ‘drop in and show the badge’ tour,” Reno said.
George grinned and put his coat on. He picked up the shotgun, and they walked out of the office and down the street.
Taking close to two feet off the long barrels took about a minute with the gun uncapped for safety. George paid the blacksmith two bits and asked for a receipt to turn in later.
As they patrolled and did business checks, both deputies noticed the higher degree respect accorded George while he was toting the shotgun. Neither mentioned it, but both were pleased.
“George, we patrol this street because this where most of the trouble is. I was wondering, though, where are the Hays City boundaries? I don’t mind saddling Jack and riding around a bit.”
“It’s pretty wide, though there ain’t much between the boundary and the area we patrol. A couple houses, a granary. It has a tall elevator. There’s not much more. I never rode around there. The judge told me once that since he’s a county circuit judge, his swearing-in is good for the whole of Ellis County from an authority standpoint,” George said.
“So, about like a county deputy sheriff?” Reno asked.
“Yep, except we don’t report to the sheriff. Just my boss. And yours too, of course.”
“Are there any markers identifying the town limits?” Reno asked.
“Some white corner markers put there by the surveyor. Since the town is pretty new, they are still visible. If you follow Main Street out to Big Creek, you’ll see one. The boundary ain’t real regular, but if you start there and ride in a circle around the town, you’ll pretty much have our primary jurisdiction.”
“I might ride it. I know Sara and Apache would like to go for a little ride, too,” Reno said.
He went back to the hotel, tapped on the door, and identified himself. Sara told him to come in.
She was dressed and gunned up.
“How about a ride around the approximate boundaries of the town? I bet Jack and Grace would like a ride, too,” Reno said.
Sara grabbed her coat and put it on, which was answer enough.
They walked between buildings to the stable. The hand brought out their horses, and they saddled up and put the Winchesters in the saddle scabbards.
The two walked the buckskin and the black down Main to its end. After a few minutes, Reno spotted the marker. They did a broad circle around the town, stopping and saying hi at several businesses and wherever they saw a homeowner out and about doing chores.
“So, let me get this straight in my mind,” Sara began. “Being an officer of the law means you walk or ride around, bored to death most of the time, and are pumped up and fighting for your life the rest?”
“I believe you’ve summed it up fairly,” Reno agreed.
“Think this is what you want to do when you become a big boy?”
“Mebbe. How about you?”
“I was thinking about opening a brothel or becoming a dancer in a girlie review.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, not falling for it this time. She was probably kidding. He thought so, anyway.
“I’m sure not going to be a ranch wife with a passel of snotty-nosed brats. Or a seamstress. I can’t sew anyway. Or a schoolmarm like your Miss Bernard. She just had to look after somebody else’s snotty-nosed brats.”
“Sara, I seem to remember you might have been one,” Reno said.
She studiously ignored him.
“Do you think I’d be a good dancer? You being the expert and all?”
“I don’t know. Only thing I ever saw you do was the Virginia Reel. You were a little jerky and awkward, I thought,” Reno said, tempting fate.
She punched him in his left bicep almost hard enough to unseat him from Jack.
“Assaulting an officer of the law is probably a felony,” he told her.
He was shocked at the language of her reply and could not respond to the request.
“Guess I won’t be dancing for you anytime soon, George Washington Bass.”
He just rubbed his sore arm and rode on in silence. He was sullen, Sara was tickled, and Apache was ecstatic. All in all, it had been a mixed ride.
They put the horses away and took the rifles back to the room. Heading down the street, Sara stopped at Moses & Bloomfield’s to search for a book, and Reno continued on to the marshal’s office.
They sat around and talked, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. George said he was getting tired of his bad cooking, and Reno invited him to join him and Sara for dinner at the café. He accepted, and they patrolled their way down to the hotel, George still carrying the shotgun.
Since the bounty hunters were used to trail fare of biscuits, bacon, and coffee, Sara and Reno did not tire of the limited menu at the café. It offered beef, chicken, and pork on a regular basis, with bison steaks frequently. All three ordered bison tonight.
Their dinner was pleasant. Neither twin ever stayed mad, sad, or in any way upset very long. George was just happy to have some company and better food than he fixed.
Customers greeted the three. Everyone knew and liked George Ringo, and the twins had provided enough action in the streets since their arrival that almost everyone had seen some of it, if not all.
As usual, Apache waited patiently outside the café door. He knew his good behavior would be rewarded. The chopped bison steak tonight would be beyond his canine dreams.
Early in the evening, a brawl started at Paddy’s Bar. The noise attracted the three as they left the café. Apache remained to finish his bison.
Sara took up her usual bar position just outside the swinging doors. George went in, shotgun first, and Reno followed.
Six drunks were punching and kicking in the middle of the floor. One was already unconscious on the bar. So far, no guns or knives were obvious, but the lawmen knew conditions could change in a second. And usually did.
George asked the bartender, “What’s upstairs right above the bar?”
“Just storage,” the bartender responded.
“Anybody up there now?” Reno asked.
“Nope. I’m the only one with a key.”
Reno caught Sara’s attention and nodded, indicating that what was going to happen was planned.
He winked at George and looked at the shotgun and the ceiling.
George let go a deafening blast from the shortened ten-gauge. Pieces of the ceiling came down on top of the bar.
Everyone in Paddy’s froze instantly.
“You. Fighters. Shake hands. The fight is over. Everybody won. Don’t make me point this thing your way. You saw what it did to the ceiling. Fighters, come over to the bar and pay Paddy for your damage, including repairing the ceiling. You caused that, too.”
George finished speaking and swung the muzzle around the room. Drunks shrank away from the over three-quarter-inch muzzle. Six men, sobered by fear, walked up and started handing coins and bills to Paddy.
“Don’t make me come back,” George yelled, and the two lawmen walked out the door. Sara patted George on the back.
“Nice job, Deputy,” she said.
“Sure was, George,” Reno added. George’s badge had grown shinier tonight. People would be looking at him differently from here on out.
They continued walking patrol, and Apache caught up, still licking his chops.
Things stayed quiet for several hours until a small-caliber shot was heard and a man wearing nothing but a faded union suit came running out of Em’s Brothel. His rear flap was fulfilling its name, flapping in the breeze as he ran barefoot through the mud. He jumped on an ugly brown gelding with a Roman nose and rode out of Hays City, hell-bent for leather.
“Well, certainly a sight to be
hold,” Sara observed as the three humans and the dog ran to the door of Em’s.
Reno went in first, gun drawn. Nobody was in the parlor.
“Marshals. Anybody here?” he yelled.
“Upstairs. I need help.” He thought it was the older madam, who was probably Em.
“We’re coming up. If anybody has a gun out, put it away.” They all sprinted up the steps.
Em was bending over the girl Reno had seen on his other visit. Her dress, or chemise as it was, had been ripped off, and she had blood all over. Reno bent over her, looking for wounds.
“Where is she hurt?” he asked.
“He beat her up. Her head’s injured. Either he hit her with something hard, or she fell. I think she’s dead.”
Reno felt her neck for a pulse. There was one; she was just breathing shallowly.
“George, will you go get the doc?” Reno asked, and George Ringo ran off.
“Are you Em?” he asked the lady with the heavy make-up and now an orange wig.
She nodded.
“Sara, we are going to need some clean linens and hot water. Will you go with Em and help her get those together as soon as you can? And Em. Are there other girls working tonight?”
“Yes, I have four on. The johns scattered as soon as the shot went off.”
“Who fired it?” he asked.
“I did,” Em said.
“Hit anybody?” She shook her head and pointed to a small hole in a picture of a nude woman on the wall.
“Okay, go with Sara and get the water and cloths.”
Reno gently rolled the young woman onto her side. He eased the blood-matted hair apart and saw a gash. It was swollen around the cut and still bleeding, as head wounds were wont to do.
He heard somebody running up the steps.
“Just me,” Sara called.
She handed him a handful of linen napkins, all clean and spotlessly white.
“Thought you might need these before the water boiled,” she said. He nodded and folded one into a square pad, then placed the pad against the wound, pressed it down, and held it there. When it became soaked with blood, Sara handed him a second pad she had folded, and he replaced the first one.
“I think the bleeding is slowing,” he said.
“Should we cover her up?” Sara asked.
“How soon is the hot water coming?” Reno asked in return.
“Shortly.”
“Let’s wait and use the water and some of these cloths to clean her up, then cover her. Wonder where the doctor is?” he asked.
The next running up the steps was George.
“Doc’s off on the prairie delivering a breech birth baby. It’s up to us to handle this,” he reported.
“I think we have it under control,” Sara answered.
Em puffed up the steps with some water. It was steaming but not boiling.
“Sara, you want to wet some of these cloths and wipe her off?” he asked.
“I’ll just wet the cloths. You are doing just fine, Reno,” she replied.
“Em, this bed is covered with blood. Do you have a bed with clean linens on it?”
“Yes, there’s a room we don’t use much, ‘cause it’s up some steep steps on the third floor. I put clean sheets on the bed yesterday.”
“What’s her name?”
“Augusta,” Em answered. Sara shrugged and rolled her eyes at Reno—just like Lord Byron’s half-sister. She handed him hot, wet cloths and he sponged Augusta off, removing all the blood and assuring himself there were no more injuries. He had already identified a busted lip and some bruises from the beating the man gave her.
“I think Augusta is coming to. Lead the way, and I will carry her up.”
He scooped the small soiled dove into his arms and followed Em up the steps. Sara, Apache, and George followed him.
He placed her on the bed, again on her side to monitor the wound, and gently covered her with the top sheet.
“I figure she’ll need some water and tea when she can handle it. To make up for all the liquids she leaked out,” Em said.
Reno nodded.
George, who had watched but not said much, spoke up.
“Em, who beat her up? Was it the fool in the faded union suit we saw running barefoot out the door and getting on an ugly horse and riding away?”
“Naw. The fella with the ugly Roma nosed horse was Hiram. He was with Mildred. It was Ben Lincoln what did this,” the madam said.
Reno turned to George with a questioning look on his face. George shrugged, obviously was not familiar with Lincoln. He turned back to Em.
“We will need a description of Ben Lincoln and anything you can tell us about where we might find him,” Reno said to her.
“You goin’ after him for beating up a whore?” she asked incredulously.
“We are going after him for almost killing a young woman. The law does not specify anything about the occupation of victims, ma’am.” Reno said curtly.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.
“Where does he work?” he asked.
“He works out at the grain elevator outside town. Ben is about forty and your height, but about fifty pounds heavier. He has red hair and a bushy beard. Carries a big knife, but I ain’t seen him pack a gun. Most of our customers don’t.”
“Any other of your girls been with him?” George asked. Reno nodded, supporting the other deputy for a good question.
“Gladys has. Want me to get her?” Em asked.
“Please,” George said.
Augusta continued to stir but was not fully conscious yet.
Gladys came in. She was older than Augusta, somewhere between twenty and mid-forties. It was impossible to tell. Life had been tough on her, and she showed it. She had on a thin shift that left nothing to the imagination.
Sara studied her and her brother, saying nothing.
“Miss Gladys,” Reno began, “I am Deputy Reno Bass, and this is Deputy George Ringo. The lady is my sister, who was with us when we heard the shot here. I would like to ask you about the suspect, Ben Lincoln. Do you know if he carries a gun?”
“Never seen him with one. Just a knife he keeps in his boot.”
“Which boot, left or right?” Reno asked.
“Left inside,” she said.
“Has he ever beaten you?”
“Every time. He likes to be rough.”
“I understand he works at the grain elevator?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Reno continued.
“Him and another guy live in a shack within sight of the elevator, I think. He bragged one time about having his own place. I asked him about it. When his mouth is moving, his fists usually ain’t,” she said, eyes darting among the five other people in the tiny room.
“Aggie gonna be okay?” she asked.
“Yes, I think so,” Reno said.
“George, do you have any more questions?”
The other man shook his head.
“Sara?”
“How long have you been in this line of work, Gladys?” Sara asked.
“Almost ten years. I was fifteen when my husband up and left me. Wasn’t nothing else I could do. Shopkeeps’ wives work in the shops, so tough finding jobs there. I cain’t sew. Didn’t have no money. Miss Em took me in and helped me. I’d have starved or been murdered on the street otherwise.”
“Thank you, Gladys. Good luck to you,” Sara said.
Reno turned to George.
“Judge still in town?”
“No, he left a few hours ago. Said he’d see me in a week.”
“What do we do about a warrant in a case like this?” Reno asked.
“He told them and me to bring the person in and hold them until he got back under something called ‘extenuating circumstances.’ He said it wasn’t one hundred percent legal according to the law, but close enough for justice.”
“You got a horse?” Reno asked.
“Yep.”
> “Want to get him and meet me by the marshal’s office in thirty minutes?”
“Sounds good,” George said.
“George?”
“Yeah, Reno.”
“Bring your shotgun.”
Thirty minutes later, the same crew rode hard to the granary or grain elevator. They spotted the shack behind it and to the right. Smoke was coming from a metal chimney. There were two horses in a makeshift corral.
Sara went around back on foot with a Winchester carbine.
When she’d had enough time to get in position, George called in his loudest voice, “In the shack. Ben Lincoln, this is the marshal’s office. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands high.”
The two deputies were close to the door, so they heard scrambling and bumping around inside. It sounded like a window opening.
The next noise was the crack of a rifle. Reno recognized Sara’s Winchester.
“You okay back there?” he yelled.
“Yep. Some fat boy stuck his ample butt out the window, so I sent him a message to get back in and come out the front door,” she said.
Two men in their union suits came out the front, hands raised high. From the description at the brothel, the front one was Lincoln. The rear one was Sara’s window friend.
“The boy there could have killed me,” the one in back said as Sara in Stetson, duster, and pants walked around the shack toward them.
“Yeah, she sure could have if she wanted to. No doubt about it, you’d be dead as a doornail if she had wanted you to be. The rifle shot was just a little love note from my sister to you,” Reno said.
“Sister? He ain’t no girl, shooting like a man and dressed in pants.”
“You’re right. She’s not a girl. She’s a lady.”
The Beautiful Angel of Death took off her Stetson and shook the long strawberry blonde hair down to beyond her shoulders. She tossed her hair and smiled sweetly at the two idiots with their mouths hanging open.
“Ben Lincoln, you are under arrest for assaulting one Augusta Mathers at Em’s Brothel earlier tonight,” George said.
“You, sir, are not under arrest yet, so to stay un-arrested, go saddle your buddy Ben’s horse for him to ride to jail,” Reno instructed the other one.
George went into the shack and chose the smaller pair of work pants hanging over a chair and the accompanying pair of boots. He brought them out. Lincoln put them on, and the two deputies put the nippers on him. The other man saddled Lincoln’s horse as directed and brought it around under Sara’s watchful eye.